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“Are you hurt?” Marcos asks again. I look at him, willing my tired brain to focus. He’s so lovely and handsome and serious. God I love him. “Nate. Are you hurt? Or just cold?”
“If I lose a finger to hypothermia, I’m going to be so mad,” I joke. “You won’t. Are you feeling better? You’re not slurring so badly anymore.” I was slurring? “I’m actually colder now than I was before,” I admit. “Good. Your uncle told me skin-to-skin contact was the best way to warm someone up safely. He said the fact that you weren’t cold was a bad thing.”
“That damn horse came back to the barn without you. I was terrified.” “I’m sorry,” I whisper back. “And I’m sorry I missed dinner.”
I’d thought about the promise I’d made to be home in time for dinner. Yeah, the situation had been scary and my body had hurt, but the broken promise had felt worse than all the rest.
I’m desperate for the contact to continue, but I also know he’s likely well beyond his limit for the day. “Do you want me to move?” I ask him. “No.” “Are you sure? I’m warm enough.” He ducks his head and presses his face into my neck. “No,” he repeats a touch more firmly.
I wake up warm—face tucked underneath Marcos’ chin and body plastered to his. We’ve never slept this closely before, and my first instinct upon waking is to move away and give him space. Marcos doesn’t like snuggling, and he certainly isn’t going to like the way I’m sweating on him. “Nate,” he whispers, voice rough and scratchy. “Sorry,” I say automatically, but his hand smooths down my back the way I might do to a spooked horse.
“Hey, kid, how you doing?” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over a worn plaid shirt, distressed with age. Even from across the room I can catch the smell of leather, as though he just came in from treating saddles in the barn. It’s the way he’s always smelled, ever since I was a little kid following him around during chores. Thinking of it now makes me feel like I’m in danger of crying, so I clear my throat and try for another smile.
No matter how badly I felt last night, nothing hurts quite like knowing I’m the reason he looks so sad.
My shoulders slump as I think about all the pictures I had on there that are probably gone now. Pictures of Marcos bowling and feeding Tuna and riding Friday. Pictures he’d sent me last summer when we’d been texting back and forth every day. Pictures of Marcos playing baseball, crouched down with legs spread and fingers splayed in a signal to his pitcher.
“I hope Max and Luke kept all those pictures I sent them of you,” I say sadly. “I need to replace all of mine now.”
“I didn’t realize I was so dirty,” I explain. “And you’ve been snuggling my nasty-ass for the last twelve hours.” “You could have been covered in sewage, and even then someone would have needed a crowbar to pry me away from you,” he responds dryly.
“No crowbar needed. I mate for life—you’re stuck with me.”
He presses closer in his sleep, seeking out that pocket of warmth between my neck and shoulder. I don’t push him away, even though it means his skin is touching mine. He’s too warm, but tonight it’s not the irritant it usually is. Tonight, it means he’s alive.
“I don’t know, I guess that’s up to you. What do you want to do with him?” I stop walking and Tuna bumps into my back. Immediately, he tries to nibble on my shirt. “What do you mean?” “Marcos,” Nate says on a laugh, reaching out a hand to scratch Tuna’s neck and distract him. “He was your surprise! He’s yours.”
He gave me a fucking horse.
“Thank you, though. That’s…he’s a pretty incredible gift.” “Anything for my husband,” Nate says flippantly, lifting Tuna’s head and turning to keep walking.
“Can you believe it all started with a blowjob?” “Not in front of the baby,” I admonish him, Tuna snorting happily behind us as we walk along in the sun.
“I’ll bring Friday back to the pasture,” Luke adds cheerfully. His voice is barely audible over the clop of her hooves on the concrete as he leads Friday away, speaking to her as they go. “I’ll sneak you some carrots later, yeah? All the carrots you want, because you’re the best girl around.”
Luke tells us about wedding plans, with Max occasionally chiming in with a “yes, we are” or a “no, he made that up.”
We say a quick goodnight to the horses, and I smile as Marcos stops to grab a sugar cube for Tuna. He sees me watching and scowls. “He deserves a treat.” “I didn’t say anything!” I hold up my hands in surrender.
“Descansa, amor,” he says on a sigh, shifting a touch closer. Even when we’re fighting, he says the same thing every night. I wait, knowing there’s more. “Te veo al amanecer.”
