Page 88 of Cold Comeback
"They want me to do the interview instead."
He turned to look at me. "They want you to validate their version of me."
"Yeah."
We sat together as the engine hummed softly.
"What are you going to do?" Thatcher asked.
"I don't know yet."
As I said it, something clicked into place.
"Get together tonight? When you're ready to talk it through?"
I nodded.
We sat there another moment, the weight of tomorrow's choice settling between us. Then Thatcher squeezed my shoulder and I got out, heading for my truck. I watched his taillights disappear around the corner before starting my engine.
The drive home gave me time to think, but my mind kept circling back to the same conclusion. I wasn't going to validate their narrative. Not about Thatcher or any of it.
That night, the team house was mostly empty... Pluto and Linc had gone to a Christmas market downtown. Knox was probably at a bar, complaining about the documentary to anyone who'd listen.
I ended up in my room with Thatcher, something that would have sent me into a panic spiral a month ago. Now it felt natural. Right.
"Tell me about your dad," I said as we settled on my bed, still fully clothed but close enough to touch.
Thatcher was quiet for a long moment. "He's not evil. Just... transactional. Everything's about value and return on investment. Including me."
"That's fucked up."
"It's what I know." He reached out and wove his fingers together with mine. "I spent so long trying to be worth his attention that I forgot what I wanted."
"What do you want now?"
He looked at me, and something in his expression made my breath catch. "I want to stop apologizing for existing. I want to help Bricks with his panic attacks without wondering what it does for my image. I want to make terrible paper snowflakes with seven-year-olds because it makes them laugh."
"And?"
"I want to be with you without having to explain, justify, or prove I'm worthy of it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm not broken, Gideon. I'm in love with you."
I instantly realized I'd been waiting to hear those words, hoping for them, and now that he'd said them, they were nerve-wracking.
"Thatcher—"
"I know it's scary. I know you've spent your whole life controlling everything and being Mr. Perfect for everybody. I'm not asking for that. I want you to be real."
"I love you too," I said.
The kiss that followed was different from all the others. Slower. Deliberate. Built on the foundation of truth instead of desperate need.
When Thatcher's fingers began unbuttoning my shirt, I didn't tense up or calculate how it would look. I let him undress me with the reverence of someone who'd earned the right to see my scars, my broken places, and my carefully hidden vulnerabilities.
As I pushed the fabric off my shoulders, his mouth trailed over my collarbone, stubble grazing my bare skin. His tongue was hot, insistent, and my hands went automatically to his hips, steadying myself against a building wave of desire.
He laughed, low and unguarded, and wriggled into position to lie half on top of me. "Mr. Gideon Sawyer…"
"I thought you said you hated interviews," I managed, which made him grin wider.
