Page 66 of Hard Check
Dawson came hard, his forehead dropping against Leo’s, a groan pulled from somewhere deep, and Leo held him through it, hand slowing, mouth pressing against Dawson’s jaw, his temple, the corner of his eye.
Quiet.
They lay tangled in the sheets, Leo’s face pressed against Dawson’s neck, their breathing settling into the same rhythm. The room smelled like sweat and sex and Leo’s skin, and Dawson ran his palm down Leo’s spine and felt every rib expand under his hand.
Leo wasn’t talking. Dawson pressed his mouth to Leo’s temple and kept it there.
They cleaned up after a while with a towel Leo grabbed from the bathroom. Dawson lay on his back, and Leo settled against him, head on his chest.
Leo got up at some point and came back with two plates. Chicken, rice, peppers, reheated. They ate cross-legged on thebed, shoulders bumping, and for a while, neither of them said anything, and that was fine.
“Nobody’s ever come to a game for me like that,” Leo said. He was looking at his plate, pushing rice around with his fork. “My parents were at every game growing up. Scouts, teammates’ families, sure. But nobody who was just there to watch me play, no matter the outcome.” He paused. “Early on, I had to be careful about who I was seen with. Then I got busy, and it was easier not to have someone. Less to manage.”
He glanced at Dawson. “You’re the first boyfriend who’s sat in the stands and watched me play.”
Boyfriend. Leo said it like it was already true. Dawson wanted it to be. He also knew what that word looked like outside this room, in the parking lot of The Penalty Box, at the garage, at his brother’s kitchen table.
“Boyfriend, huh?”
Leo’s fork stilled. His eyes came up, careful, reading Dawson’s face. “Too much?”
“No.” Dawson’s voice was rough. “Just new.”
Leo set his plate on the nightstand and curled back against him. Dawson’s arm went around him without thinking about it.
“Dawson?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for coming tonight. To the game.”
Dawson tightened his arm. “Go to sleep, Leo.”
Leo huffed a laugh into the pillow. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body heavy and slack, and Dawson lay behind him in the dark and listened to the building settle. A car passed outside. The fridge hummed in the kitchen. Leo’s heartbeat was steady under Dawson’s palm.
He closed his eyes and let himself believe, just for tonight, that he could have this.
Dawson openedhis eyes to a room he didn’t recognize for half a second before the weight on his chest brought everything back. Leo was on his stomach, one arm slung across Dawson’s ribs, his face pressed into the pillow, hair everywhere. The bedroom was cold, the heat having cycled off sometime in the night, and the blanket had migrated to Leo’s side.
Dawson didn’t move. Leo was warm against him, and the window was pale with early light. His truck was in the lot. Anyone driving past would see it and know whose it was.
He should panic. He waited for it, the cold surge in his gut, the scramble for clothes and keys and a story for Ethan about how he needed to get to work. It didn’t come. What came instead was Leo shifting against him, mumbling something into the pillow, and pressing closer without waking up.
Dawson exhaled. He slid out from under Leo’s arm and went to the kitchen. He found the coffee in the cabinet above the stove, the filters, the old drip machine. Started a pot. He stood at the counter in his jeans and bare feet while the coffee brewed and the apartment woke up around him.
Leo appeared in the kitchen doorway, boxer briefs pulled on, a wrinkled T-shirt he must have grabbed from the floor. Eyes half-open, hair standing in three directions.
“You’re still here,” Leo said.
“I’m still here.”
Leo leaned against the doorframe and looked at him. Dawson poured two cups of coffee and held one out. Leo took it. Their fingers overlapped on the mug, and neither of them moved to fix it.
“You make coffee and I might not let you leave.”
Dawson drank his coffee. The light from the window over the table caught the steam from their cups. Leo’s foot pressed against his in front of the counter. Dawson pressed back.
Leo refilled his mug and leaned against the counter, close enough that their arms touched. Morning light on his face, pillow crease still pressed into his cheek, and he looked at Dawson like this was easy. Like Dawson standing barefoot in his kitchen was just how mornings worked now.
