Page 40 of Hard Check
“I’ll be around,” he said, giving in to the need to be closer to Dawson. This felt like a tipping point between them, and Leo wanted to offer him whatever reassurance he needed to know that Leo would still make time for whatever this was between them. “Practices are here. Home games are here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Dawson’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to the floor for half a second before coming back.
“I know,” Dawson said.
The timer had twelve minutes left. Leo could see it on the microwave clock he’d been using as a backup since the oven timer didn’t work. He was going to make the most of that time, but first he needed to lighten the mood.
“So,” Leo said. “Almost a week on the road. You going to miss me?”
“I’ll manage.”
“That’s not a no.”
Dawson looked at him. Didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The answer was in the way he hadn’t moved from that counter since he’d leaned against it, the way his eyes lifting, almost meeting Leo’s gaze before they dropped again. It was like Dawson was scared of what Leo might see if he made eye contact.
“It’s okay to admit you’re going to miss me,” Leo said, quieter now. “Would it help if I said I’m going to miss the hell out of you?”
Dawson’s throat moved.
Leo crossed the gap. One step, then another, close enough to see the pulse in Dawson’s throat, and Dawson was already setting his bottle down. Leo put his palm on Dawson’s jaw and kissed him.
Dawson’s mouth opened under his. Not hesitant, not the off-aim correction of that first time outside Maria’s. This was Dawson kissing back with full intent, one hand finding Leo’s hip, the other braced on the counter behind him. Leo pressed in. Dawson tasted like beer and something warm underneath.
Dawson’s grip tightened on his hip. Pulled him closer. Leo went, chest flush against Dawson’s, the counter’s edge digging into Dawson’s lower back, and neither of them adjusted. Leo’s fingers slid from Dawson’s jaw to his neck, finding the short hair at the nape, and Dawson made a sound—low, caught in his throat—and Leo swallowed it.
The kiss went deeper. Dawson’s other palm left the counter and found Leo’s waist, both on him now, pulling him in like he’d made a decision and wasn’t interested in taking it back. Leo’s back hit the edge of the stove. He didn’t care. Dawson’s mouth moved to his jaw, his neck, the spot below his ear where Leo’s blood was hammering, and Leo tipped his head back and gripped the front of Dawson’s flannel and held on.
“Dawson.” It came out scraped.
Dawson didn’t stop. His mouth dragged down Leo’s throat, and his hips pressed forward. Leo felt him hard against his thigh, and his brain whited out. He rolled his hips back without thinking, just instinct, and Dawson’s breath punched out of him. Dawson’s grip on his waist tightened and pulled, grinding themtogether through denim and joggers. Leo’s hand fisted in the flannel, and he made a sound that would have embarrassed him if he’d had any blood left in his brain.
Dawson did it again. Slower. Deliberate. His forehead dropped against Leo’s, breath ragged, and Leo matched the rhythm, feeling Dawson shudder against him.
Then Dawson went still. Every muscle locked. His hands were shaking on Leo’s waist, his breath coming in harsh pulls, and Leo could feel what it cost him to stop.
Leo kissed him once more. Soft. Closed-mouth, his palm on the side of Dawson’s neck, and he felt Dawson lean into it, the whole weight of him pressing forward for one second before he caught himself.
Leo stepped back. His ears were ringing, his hands wouldn’t stay still, and the gap between them felt wrong. He turned to the stove and checked the rice because he needed something to do.
“Rice is done.” His voice was almost steady.
Dawson picked up his bottle. Drank the rest of it in one long pull. Set it down and ran both palms over his face.
Leo pulled the chicken from the oven and let it rest. Dawson set the table without being asked, opening two wrong cabinets before he found the plates. Leo spooned rice onto the plates, carved the chicken, and piled mango salsa on top. He sat across from Dawson, and Dawson took his first bite and closed his eyes.
“Good?” Leo tried for smug and landed somewhere closer to pleased.
“Yeah.” Dawson opened his eyes. “That’s really freaking good.”
They ate. The conversation came back in pieces: the Duluth road trip, a radiator Dawson had pulled that afternoon, the old woman at the grocery store who’d called Leohockey boyand told him he was short. Dawson almost laughed at that, a sound he covered with his bottle, and Leo filed it away.
After dinner, Dawson helped him wash up. Side by side at the sink, Leo washing, Dawson drying, elbows bumping in the tight space. It was such an ordinary moment Leo hadn’t expected to hit him like this, the sudden, sharp picture of what it would be like to have this every night. To cook for someone who showed up with beer, took his boots off at the door, and dried plates without being asked. He wanted it badly enough that it scared him, and he didn’t know if Dawson could ever let himself want it too.
Dawson hung the towel back on the oven handle. He looked at Leo, and Leo looked back. The kitchen was small and warm, and they were standing too close again.
Dawson kissed him first this time. Slow, unhurried, one hand settling on Leo’s hip like it belonged there. Leo leaned into it and let himself have it for a few seconds—Dawson’s mouth, the soap-and-water warmth of his hands, the quiet of the apartment around them. Dawson’s fingers hooked into his waistband and tugged. Leo’s stomach dropped, and his whole body said yes.
He pulled back.
