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The man standing in front of me, whom I assume is Carter Morgan III, looks like the kind of person who would rob Carter Morgan III at gunpoint.
“You want some soup or something? No offense, but you look like a corpse.” “Full offense, but you look like someone who deals weed to middle schoolers.”
LMAOO
I’ve heard it’s a violent sport, and Carter looks like he might eat nails for breakfast.
“You look twelve, or something.” “And you look like someone who breaks kneecaps for the mafia,” he retorts.
This is the room of someone allowed to be themself; mine is a room bland enough to be used for guests.
“I’m demi. Essentially, I don’t feel attracted to people sexually. Not unless we’ve—."
If I had a nickel for ever demo character rep
They are always touching each other—hugging, kissing, sitting on each other’s lap—in a way that makes me feel a little ill. I cannot imagine liking another person so much that I would do any of those things in public.
He’s me
Zeke looks nothing like these men—he looks like someone whose hand you hold while you make plans for the future. He’s not my type, and I don’t even have to ask to know I’m not his.
I don’t want to argue about money; I want to keep enjoying the day and not have him worry about how he’s going to afford it. I want to be invited to more days like this, and if I have to buy that privilege, so be it.
No offense to hockey or anything, but my interest in the sport starts and ends with you.”
He nods, happy with my validation. Whenever we make plans, he always assumes I’ll cancel; he hasn’t said it, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s continually expecting me to find something better to do. Or someone better, perhaps.
“I think I might love you,” he says, and I give a bark of startled laughter. Whacking him on the leg with the spatula, I shake my head.
I’ve never seen you warm to somebody so fast, and I’m not just saying that because he looks like an ex-con. I’m saying that as your best friend who had to work very hard to earn that title.”
“I don’t know, I just…he felt right, is all.” I blush as I say this, the tips of my ears burning. There’s no better way to explain it, though. Carter was inevitable.
When he sees me standing with his coach, his face breaks open into what I can only describe as happiness: a softening of his mouth and brow, and a widening of his eyes. He walks toward us, quickly.
“You never smile.” Setting the picture back to rights, he taps lightly on Tony’s face. “So, I’m guessing that’s a pretty big deal, judging by your tone—two queer hockey players?”
“You prefer picking people up on dating apps because then you do not have to worry about being rejected,”
He fucking READ you
I’ve never been good at navigating the world of dating. Too often, the people I become interested in don’t reciprocate or they move on long before I’m at the point where physical attraction occurs. It all seems too much. I’d never have considered Carter to even be an option.
The call is coming from inside the house
He’s never chatty, so he really must be nervous. It’s endearing and a little bit of an ego boost, knowing that I’m the reason he’s nervous.
Scary Carter Morgan III is a closet romantic—who knew?
It’s a careful, restrained bit of contact that makes my chest ache; he’s trying to be respectful of boundaries.
I sit there, proud of myself and basking in the shocked expression on Carter’s face. I’ve begun paying a little more attention to the sport now that he’s in my life, wanting to be a part of something that he so obviously loves.
He’s an excellent listener, and asks questions or lets me know when I say something he doesn’t quite understand. He doesn’t seem overly concerned that I’m more book smart than he is, almost indifferent to something that sometimes ends up being a big roadblock with others. Nobody likes feeling like they’re less intelligent than someone else.
He looks like he wants to smile so bad.
A couple times I’ve glanced over and caught him looking happier than I’ve ever seen him. Warmth pools in my stomach; I wish we were still touching.
I know he’s only joking, but I like the words he’s saying. I wonder if I need to tell him that I am off the market, for as long as he and I are dating; with or without sex. I’m a one person at a time kind of guy.
“I don’t want to date anyone else, but you. Just to make that clear.”
“Good. Because otherwise I’d have to find him and break his jaw. Defend your honor,”
“Jesus, no, I mean yes, of course I’ve liked you. What I meant is that I just realized that I like you. Like, I want to kiss you. And we should have sex, sometime.”
Slayyyy
“I wouldn’t mind if you were bad at kissing,” he muses, not letting go of my hand. “That just means we get to practice more.”
Okie
guilt and the soul crushing weight of unattainable expectations. It’s never fitting in, and feeling uncomfortable in a world you’re expected to live in. It’s the exact opposite of the love and acceptance he gets from his grandmother.
“I really like you, Carter Morgan. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anybody before.”
I like nobody as much as I like Zeke. It’s a little frightening, this depth of emotion. I am very, very conscious of the fragility of our relationship—born from proximity and barely a handful of months old. There are a lot of things I could survive losing, but Zeke Cassidy isn’t one of them.
I’ve never cared what others look like, nor have I ever felt an immediate sexual attraction to someone based on it. But Carter does experience that sort of attraction, and I know I’m not the body type he usually prefers. Just because it’s something I shouldn’t be concerned about doesn’t mean I can control the worry when it arises.
“Max, this is Zeke. He is the best thing that has ever happened to Carter.”
Lololol
Zeke loves small displays of affection: holding his hand on campus, or kissing him outside of the locker room after a game. It’s an easy desire to fulfill.
