Dearest Milton James

by N.R. Walker

The man was damn fine, despite all the beige. Behind those glasses were pretty eyes, and his lips were a faint pink colour that looked the right amount of soft. This was going to end in disaster.

I had to get those stupid quiet-but-kinky professor vibes out of my head.

His smile produced a dimple. A fucking dimple. Okay then. Hang up my lilac boots and cover me in carnations. It’s all over for me.

Julian was smiling at me as if I was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. It did very strange swoopy things to my belly, and for some strange reason, my cheeks burned hot.

“‘What I feel for you isn’t wrong.’” I read the letter out loud, my voice soft. “‘What we are when we’re together isn’t a sin. Love isn’t a sin, Milton James. You tried to hide the shame in your eyes, but I saw it. I hated how such a thing could mar the light in your eyes.’” I sighed, my heart heavy. “Bloody hell.”

He said he liked me. In his office, that’s what he said. He said I was the sunshine he didn’t know he was missing, and that was possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

He totally had a bit of a daddy vibe, which suited me just fine. After all, I was a twenty-seven-year-old twinky man-boy that probably needed looking after more than I wanted to admit. I wanted him to look after me.

He lifted my chin and kissed me sweetly. “Don’t ever apologise for having a heart, Malachi.”