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by
N.R. Walker
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December 10 - December 13, 2023
Yes, cry. A thirty-one-year-old man can cry; shove your toxic masculinity in your cakehole and stop judging me.
Then something big and dark and remarkably bear-shaped tapped on my driver’s window and scared the ever-loving shite out of me so bad, I let out a high-pitched scream of terror, and I swear to God, I almost peed a little.
A man put his hands up, terrified and a little hysterical. “I’m too pretty to be bear poo!”
“Are you a serial killer? I really hope you’re not a serial killer, though to be honest, I’d probably just roll with it at this point.”
He was taller than my five ten by a good few inches. He had blue eyes, sandy brown hair, short and kinda messy from his beanie. He had big hands, working hands, rough and strong. He wore a blue flannel shirt and long work pants with heavy boots. He had a lumberjack vibe going on, and not some faux look the city boys tried to aim for. He was the real deal.
Plus, how would I overpower anyone so I could actually kill them? I have the upper body strength of wet paper.”
“Could-haves and should-haves are the hardest parts of hindsight.” I met his eyes and gave a nod. “They sure are. Sorry for making you dredge up all this stuff. I’m still trying to get used to it. I half expect the phone to ring any minute and to hear his voice.” “And you will for a while.” “Does it get any easier?” He didn’t answer for a bit. “Not really. You just learn how to live with it.”
“I like him. He’s such a nice guy. He’s genuine. Do you know how hard it is to find that in a guy?” She raised her hand. “I’m a heterosexual woman. So yes, I do know how hard that is.”
Be careful, John, lest you suffer vertigo from the dizzying heights of your moral ground.’”
I chuckled and tilted his chin up just a fraction, and with my heart thumping and my belly in knots, with the barest of touches, feather-light and whisper-soft, I pressed my lips to his.
You know those movie kisses that never happen in real life? The ones that make you hold your breath and turn your knees to jelly and your insides go all warm and gooey? I can now confirm they do indeed happen in real life.
How do you have your eggs?” “Um, in a Cadbury’s chocolate Easter egg basket, if I’m being totally honest.”
“Hamish, just go with it. If it lasts a week or a year or if it’s forever, don’t waste happiness. Life’s too fucking short.”
“If you don’t kiss under mistletoe, a Christmas angel dies rather horrifically. I don’t make the rules, Hamish.”
He put the last plate on the counter while I wiped down the sink, and when I was done, he handed me the tea towel to dry my hands. Then he took it from me, real slow like, and stepped in closer, pushing me gently back against the sink. “This okay?” he murmured against my lips.
He put his finger to my chin and tilted my face up for a quick, soft kiss.
“But I think I do know you. Not overly well, admittedly, and I’m sure you have some lurking behavioural traits that might possibly drive me mad, which is not a bad thing because just you wait to find out mine. But I know you saved me, and you looked after me. I know how you get sad when you talk about your dad, and I know you mumble in your sleep, and you love your family business, and you’re part of a community that you call home. You know where you belong in this world, and I envy that. I know you’re one of the most genuine and sweetest guys I’ve ever met. And I know I want to see you again.
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He laughed, low and rumbly, so I pulled him by his shirt so I could kiss him again, and he laid me down on that bed and made short, short work of me. Before long, he was on top of me, inside me, thrusting deep and sure, kissing me, holding me. I felt every shudder of his restraint, every murmur of lips at my throat, my ear. Every pulse, every heartbeat. I felt it all.
“You knew what?” “That I want to make this work. That I need you in my life. That I’m falling in love with you.”
