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Does the old man have a hard-on for telling time or some shit? Because this is like crazy old cat lady shit, but with clocks.
Not to mention he is seriously hot as fuck, in an innocent, I-have-no-clue kind of way. And fuck, his eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them in my entire life. One is a shocking emerald green, sparkling with life and happiness. And the other is nearly as dark as my own, swimming in shadows and depth. They’re fucking hypnotizing.
He’s too good for me, of that I’m certain. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Regardless, I’m still going for him, even if I have to be his friend first.
You’d think four science classes would stop my crazy plan to win Lincoln Anderson over. To bring him out of his shell. Shake him up a bit. Do something a little reckless and fun. But it won’t—I’m determined. And I’m going to flip his life upside down. I think I have my first boy crush.
Is he insinuating what I think he is? No. There’s no possible way a guy like Remi could be gay. I would never be that lucky.
I bump my shoulder into his. “Nice, bro. Glad to be of service,” I say, just messing with him, knowing these photos will be of service to me later tonight.
Can your balls explode? Is that possible? There’s gotta be at least a gallon of jizz in there.
Take care of him. Don’t hurt him. This is important, and I don’t take my earlier declaration lightly. Start as friends, then make him more. Make him mine.
“You’re the boy next door?” he asks, his deep voice full of disbelief and. . . excitement? A slow grin pulls at his lips until a full-blown smile is on display. “Oh, this is fucking gold.”
Unlike me, Remi’s a gentleman and doesn’t look down. Instead,
Well, that just exceeds the balance of decency.
Or maybe he’s just repressed and mad at how hot we are.
I can’t get an erection from a simple handhold. It’s embarrassing.
His tinkling laughter is a beautiful melody I want to capture and preserve forever. Trap it in a little glass jar like the lightning bugs dancing outside.
It’s the full-circle realization that I don’t want to be friends. Or best friends. I want to be more, so much more. I’m talking life-altering, soul-consuming, the I-can’t-breath-without-you type of more.
I feel a little bad, but he asked for it that hard. And I feel less bad when he smothers his poor over-easy eggs with ketchup. That’s just wrong. And gross.
And it’s not a fear boner.
“Should we do a group hug or some shit?” I ask, only slightly joking. I’m down if they are.
“Show me everything inside your soul, Remi. Let me carry the burden with you, handle the lows and celebrate the highs. We’re a team. Can’t you see that? We’ve been a team since day one.”
I’m never letting him go. Never letting anyone else hurt him. This is forever for me.
“When I’m done, I’m gonna paint your fucking guts with my cum.”