Page 132 of The Misfit

“You’re doing that thing again,” he calls, voice echoing slightly. “That thing where you try to make patterns out of chaos. Where you try to predict instead of just feeling.” A pause, then he’s closer. “Stop thinking so hard and just chase me.”

He’s right. Again. Always. Even blindfolded, even in darkness, even playing this game of cat and mouse, I’m trying to control everything. Trying to map his movements. Trying to calculate instead of feel.

“That’s not what tonight’s about,” he murmurs, suddenly right behind me. His breath ghosts across my neck, making me shiver. “Tonight’s about trust. About letting go. About…”

He doesn’t finish, pulling away before I can turn toward his voice. But I hear what he doesn’t say. Tonight’s about us. About how far we’ve come. About everything we’ve built together.

My fingers trail along the wall, recognizing the texture of expensive wallpaper. We’re close now. Close to the pantry where everything began. Close to whatever Lee has planned. Close to …

“Remember that night?” His voice carries memories of our first meeting. “You hiding from chaos, me hiding from everything …”

The words hit like truth, like love, like everything real we’ve built together. Because we do choose each other. Every day. Every moment. Every step toward whatever waits in that pantry.

“Almost there.” I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “Almost where everything changed. Where everything began. Where everything …”

He trails off again, but I understand because I feel it, too. The significance of this place. The weight of this moment. The love building between us with every step of this careful chase.

We’re not just heading toward the pantry.

We’re heading toward our future.

We’re heading toward everything.

And I can’t wait to catch him.

His hands find me in the darkness, warm and sure against my waist. No hesitation, no careful measuring of space, no asking permission—because he doesn’t need to anymore. Because we’ve earned this trust. Because we’ve built this safety between us.

“Found you,” I whisper, though really he found me. Found all of me, even the parts I tried to hide behind gloves and counting and careful patterns.

“Always,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. His fingers trail up my sides, finding the blindfold’s edge. “Ready?”

I nod, anticipation building as he slowly removes the silk. The pantry comes into focus, and my breath catches at what he’s done with the space.

Soft lights twinkle everywhere—not harsh fluorescents that show imperfections, but gentle warmth that makes everything glow. The shelves have been cleared, clean surfaces gleaming in the low light. Everything measures perfectly, everything counts precisely, everything aligns exactly right.

“You did all this?” My voice comes out breathless, taking in every detail. The careful preparation. The perfect arrangement. The way he’s transformed our beginning into something new.

“Three times,” he confirms, his chest pressing against my back, his arms wrapping around my waist. “Cleaned everything. Counted everything. Made it perfect.” His lips find my neck, making me shiver. “For you. For us. For this moment.”

I lean back into him, trusting his strength, his stability, his love. Because that’s what this is really about—not just the physical space he’s prepared, but the emotional one he’s created. The safety he’s built. The future he’s planning.

“The first time I saw you here,” he murmurs between kisses along my shoulder, “you were counting breaths to stay calm. Wearing three pairs of gloves to feel safe. Trying so hard to control everything around you.”

“And you were drowning yourself in bourbon,” I remind him, tilting my head to give him better access. “Hiding behind chaos and rebellion and carefully constructed walls.”

“Look at us now.” His hands slide down my arms, finding my bare fingers and lacing them with his. “No gloves. No bourbon. No walls between us.”

The truth of that settles in my chest like sunshine. Because we have changed. Grown. Healed. Not intonormalpeople, but into better versions of ourselves. Versions that love each other’s differences instead of trying to fix them.

“Lee,” I start, but he turns me in his arms, pressing me gently against the pantry wall.

“You’re mine now, Salem. And I want to worship you right here where it all began.”

He moves to sink to his knees, but I stop him with a hand on his arm. “No, it’s my turn to taste you.

Lee’s eyes darken with desire as I guide him back against the opposite wall. “Your turn?” he murmurs, a hint of challenge in his voice. “You sure about that?”

I nod, trailing my fingers down his chest. “I’m sure. I want to show you how much I trust you. How much I love you.”

---