Page 55 of Bi-Partisan

He laughs and sits next to me, his neck brushing my forearm. “That’s his favorite blanket,” he says, which explains the pulled threads. “Are you cold? I can turn the AC down. I usually like to keep it cold so I can still wear sweaters, but—”

“No, I’m fine with a blanket. It’s cozy,” I say, smiling as Joseph settles on my lap.

Adrian smiles back and scoots a little closer, which gives me the courage to drape my arm around his shoulder and pull him in.

Chapter 18

Adrian

Song: Constant Knot – City & Color

Ten o’clock creeps up a lot faster than I’d like it to. I didn’t expect to lose track of the passing time like I did, but I’ve been so relaxed tucked under Jamie’s arm. I can’t even remember the last time I cuddled with someone (not Casey or Sophie) without sex immediately preceding it. I think I kind of love it, though. It makes me feel safe, cared for, which I desperately needed after my day at work.

I surprised myself when Jamie was the first call I made when I got home today. But ever since Casey told me to “shoot my shot”, I’ve started letting him in more. At pride last month, I barely hesitated to reciprocate his affection while we were in public. I find myself reaching for my phone to tell him little things about my day a lot more frequently. And when I had to tell that poor girl that there wasn’t much else we could do for her oldest companion, the only person I wanted to seek comfort in was Jamie.

Of course, I chickened out the moment he answered the phone, all happy to finally have an evening off after working so hard the past month and a half. But in typical Jamie fashion, he showed up at my door with lasagna and wine, ready to try to make my day better. It’s something a real boyfriend would do, not a fake one. Although, I have to admit this is starting to feel less and less fake by the day.

The credits roll on the fourth episode of The West Wing we’ve watched, and he presses pause to prevent it from auto-playing the next one. Reluctantly, I extricate myself from under his arm.

He yawns and stretches a little. “I should probably get going,” he says, although it sounds like that’s the last thing he wants to do, if I’m not reading into it.

But I nod anyway and stand to walk him to the door. Instead of bending to slip on his shoes, he reaches forward and grabs my hand.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks.

I do my best to smile. “Yeah, I’m already feeling better. Thank you.”

“Of course.” He squeezes my hand for a brief moment, then goes to pull away, presumably to put his shoes on so he can leave.

Except I don’t want him to leave. I didn’t want him to leave the last time we were standing here by my door, either. Or the time before that, if I’m being truly honest with myself. I just convinced myself of the opposite because it was the safer option. I’ve lived my life picking the safer option, avoiding things that could hurt me—people that could hurt me—and pretending I’m happier that way. But I’m not. So screw it, why shouldn’t I just let myself have this?

I tighten my grasp on his hand and croak out a quiet, “Stay.”

He looks at me, his usually emotionally-transparent face unreadable.

“I don’t want you to go,” I say with more conviction. Then I take a deep breath and take a step closer. “Stay the night. Please.”

His breath catches. “Are you sure?”

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you,” I say, barely above a whisper.

A ghost of a smile passes over his lips. “I’m tired of pretending, too.”

“So you’ll stay the night?” I ask, needing the clarification.

His hand cups my cheek. “I’ll stay for however long you want me to, sweetheart.”

Of course, just when I thought I’d gotten at least semi-immune to the effect “darlin’” had on me, he breaks out a new pet name. One that makes me a little weak in the knees, and all I can do is lean in and kiss him. It reminds me of our first kiss, gentle and slow. Except this time, there’s a familiarity to it, and not just because we’ve done this before. I’ve had my fair share of recurring hook-ups and friends with benefits, where the newness fades into familiarity with the other person’s body. This is different. I know Jamie’s mind and he knows mine.

With a sigh, I try to deepen the kiss, taking my free hand and pressing it to the middle of his back to bring him closer. He smiles against my lips, and I think I’m a little obsessed with it. But after a few seconds, he pulls away. He studies my face for a moment, still smiling, before returning his lips to mine with renewed fervor. His hand slips into my hair, fingers tangling with the strands as he pours the last five months of tension into the kiss. His tongue flicks at the seam of my lips, coaxing me to open to him, and I follow him willingly.

A voice in the back of my mind tells me to take control, like I always do with sex. But it’s the same voice that always tells me not to let anyone get close, so I shove it down. I don’t need to take control right now. I’ve always done it in the past because it helps me maintain a sort of emotional distance during an objectively emotionally-charged act. It helps that some people like it, too—Jamie did, especially. But he also seems to want to take the lead, and I want to let him. I don’t want to put up that emotional wall between us.

His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling gently in a way that sends shivers down my spine and makes me break the kiss with a small gasp.

“Sorry, is this okay?” he asks.

I nod. More than. “Take me to bed?”

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