Page 90 of Afterglow
A tall redhead greets me, brown bag in hand, his serene smile splitting the constellations of freckles on his face. My heart thumps wildly at his starry-eyed gaze and the way he adjusts the travel duffle slung over the shoulder of his Regents-branded black puffer.
Snap out of it, Behraz.
It’s ridiculous. I miss that man so much, I’m hallucinating. Poor delivery guy must think I’m nuts. I blink three times, but it still looks like Fletcher.
“You okay, gorgeous?”
I gape. “Sorry?”
His smile widens, lifting a bright red blush up his cheeks. “Were you expecting someone else?” He shakes the paper bag. “Other than the guy who dropped this off.”
I break. Tears that didn’t exist a second ago pour from me in messy streaks. From exhaustion of the many long days and late nights without him to help finish crosswords or remind me to drink water or to assure me that yes, taking breaks is necessary and deserved.
“Aw, baby.” Fletcher scoops me up with one arm around my waist, and my legs hook around him. His quieting shushes and gentle kisses elicit ugly sniveling from me as he pushes through the entryway. I cling to him like an awkward spider monkey.
“How…are you here?”
“I missed you,” he explains, lowering to the vintage, rust-colored settee that came with the place. The small loveseat barely contains us, at least until the duffle strap slides down his arm and onto the floor. Fletcher kisses the ridges of my knuckles sitting on both of his shoulders. “Had two days between games and I’d rather be with you than alone in Ottawa.”
“What about?—”
He answers the question before I can get it out. “I’ll fly back in time to play Chicago on Saturday.”
“It’s too much.” My arms circle his neck, fingers burying into the lush auburn mess on his head while I pelt kisses all over that sweet, handsome face.
“It’s not. I love you.” Fletcher peers down at me through those thick lashes as if I hung every last star in the light-polluted London sky by hand. “And there’s no way I was gonna miss your birthday.”
It’s the seventh? D’oh! Only I’d be so scatter-brained as to forget my own birthday.
“I love you. And I missedyou,” I gush. “Missed how your skin tastes slightly salty from sweat.” My lips brush against his grown-out facial hair. “How your beard tickles.” My palms coast across the strong sinews of his forearms. “How you hold me.”
“Can I kiss you now, too?” Fletcher smooths a thumb over my chin before sweeping away the messy ends of my ponytail from my shoulder and cradling my jaw.
I hum and nod.
“Thank fuck.” He draws our lips together, slipping his tongue inside my mouth, intentional and savoring, only stopping to drop his head into the crook of my neck, pulling himself into me and me into him until we can’t possibly be any closer, as if he wants to climb into my skin and stay there. To be honest, I’d let him.
Three hours later, Fletcher snoozes against my belly, drawn-out breaths fanning across the bare skin. I’m lulled by the delicious weight of his naked chest across my lower torso and hips, stresses of casework all but faded. Until I remember.
“Fletcher?” I whisper, toying with the swoops of deep red waves crowning his head. “You awake?”
He confirms with a pleasured noise.
A knot of unease tightens within me, beneath the spot his head rests. “I got offered a clerkship at the ICJ.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re incredible,” Fletcher mumbles. “I’m so proud of you.”
The laugh I use to accept the compliment is dry, humorless, and I get the sense he didn’t quite process what it means. “It’s at The Hague. I’d have to live in the Netherlands for ten months.”
His eyes flash open, sable hues suddenly bright and alert. “What?”
My mouth tugs downward. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Fletcher lifts from me for a moment, then pushes an arm behind my back to roll us to our sides, crushing our fronts together.
“For wanting a career that’s keeping us apart.”
“Don’t.” He kisses my clammy forehead, then the tip of my nose. “You’ve worked so hard.” He kisses the frown, too, melting it away. “When would it start?”
