Page 13 of Imperfect Cadence

6. “Ultraviolet”

Grayson

Waking up with my face nestled between Colt’s collar and jaw sparked an involuntary grin. His woodsy, vanilla scent enveloped me, prompting a reflexive tightening of my arms around his petite frame. Last night came back in fragments, accompanied by a blend of relief, anticipation, and a subtle undercurrent of anxiety.

Acknowledging my burgeoning feelings for Colt had been liberating, but I was acutely aware of the need to navigate this new stage of our relationship with care. Colt was too important to fuck this up, meaning I had to reign in my enthusiasm. From the hints I had gathered about Colt’s past, trust was clearly a precious commodity for him. Despite his tentative agreement to give me a chance, I couldn’t ignore the way he had radiated discomfort when we spoke—an unease likely rooted in a history of others manipulating him for their own gain. Colt, perhaps, assumed that I, too, had ulterior motives. That I only wanted to fuck him and would use whatever pretty words necessary to reel him in.

As much as desperation to kiss him had surged within me last night, I exercised restraint. Physical touch may be my primary love language, but it was evident that Colt’s affections were communicated differently. To prove the sincerity of my feelings, I needed to learn what gestures would genuinely make him feel loved. Determined to win over Colt—I wanted to woo the shit out of this man—I decided that it was necessary for us to take things slowly.

Colton, in my estimation, deserved nothing short of the world and I wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Figuring there was no time like the present, I reluctantly disentangled my legs from his and carefully extricated myself from the bed, mindful of avoiding the squeaky center spring.

Stumbling semi-conscious to the kitchen, I automatically switched on the coffee pot before rummaging through the fridge. The resulting grimace that contorted my face spoke volumes; the contents within hardly lent themselves to the creation of a romantic breakfast in bed. Instead, I found the neatly arranged Tupperware containers bearing the remnants of Colt’s bolognese from yesterday, and it brought a smile to my face.

Exhaling a sigh, I doctored a coffee loaded with copious amounts of sugar and creamer, mirroring his preferences that I’d noted the previous morning. I hastily scrawled a note for Colton and left it on the bedside table in the guest room where Colt still slept, blissfully unaware.

Hoping he’d remain asleep, I quickly ducked over to my elderly neighbor’s house. Brenda embodied the grandmotherly figure I’d yearned for since my own grandma passed. An indomitable force, she insisted on lavishing me with meals at every turn, justifying it with absence of her own family to spoil. Yet, stubborn as an ox, for some reason Brenda resisted my attempts to reciprocate her kindness, whether it be shoveling her pathways or chauffeuring her to appointments. I’d had to put my foot down, asserting that family had to be a two way street.

Returning thirty minutes later, I arranged a plate stacked high with waffles and grabbed a bottle of maple syrup from the pantry, presenting them on a little folding tray with all the finesse my sausage-like fingers could muster. I added the final flourish, a single pink rose, which I might have borrowed from Brenda’s kitchen vase. Gingerly balancing the tray, I retraced my steps back to the guest room, determined to surprise Colt with breakfast.

When I opened the door and noticed the bare sheets, my heart sank with disappointment. Logically I knew this was a likely outcome, considering the recent upheavals in Colt’s life. It seemed he felt the need to be alone right now, although that knowledge didn’t negate my feelings on the subject.

I then shifted my attention to the empty mug left on the side table. Upon closer inspection, Colt had added his own line on the note.

Went for a walk to think things through. I promise I’ll come back - Colt

P.S Thanks for the coffee

Every instinct urged me to run after him, fearing he might talk himself out of giving our relationship a chance. However, I kept repeating the word that must become my mantra for the next few weeks—restraint. All feelings might be valid but it didn’t always mean you should act on those feelings. Pressuring him would only drive a wedge between us. I wanted to respect his wishes to be left alone. Even when it felt difficult, I refused to impose my will on him to ensure he never felt compelled to act a certain way just to please me.

Our current circumstances were far from ordinary, and the awareness of our inherent power imbalance weighed heavily on me. From my limited understanding of the foster system, it occurred to me that Colt might feel the need to earn his keep wherever he found himself. The idea that his agreement to explore a romantic connection might have been influenced by his lack of alternatives, perhaps a fear of returning to life on the streets if he rejected me, left a bitter taste in my mouth. As soon as he returned from his walk, I’d set him straight. Address his concerns and assure him that he had a home here, regardless of my romantic desires. If he only wanted to be platonic roommates for the next decade, I’d learn to live with it if it ensured his happiness.

Forcing myself to respect his need for space, I retreated to the kitchen and placed Colt’s breakfast in the oven warmer. Settling down to jot my thoughts in my journal, I mulled over strategies for how to romance Colt.

My journaling habit started years ago as a means of practicing my reading and writing skills that were severely hindered by my dyslexia. My progress had been slow; it still took forever to transfer my thoughts to the page, and my spelling remained atrocious. But my reading and writing had reached a level where it wouldn’t hold me back in most scenarios. While a college degree might be out of reach, despite the couple schools interested in giving me a football scholarship, I could still compose a cover letter for future job applications without completely embarrassing myself.

Yet, the real allure of journaling, the reason I’d continued all these years, lay in its ability to help me sort my tumultuous and often scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. It provided a peace, akin to the solace I found when running, where my mind finally quieted.

With pen meeting paper, my emotions for Colt spilled onto the page. As an avid reader of romance novels, generating ideas wasn’t the hurdle. Contrary to most people's assumptions, there is a ton of remarkable modern queer literature. I often listened to audiobooks while on my runs. And sometimes, I jerked off to smut. I was a red-blooded young man after all—sue me.

The true challenge lay in the execution. Tal Bauer was one of my favorite authors, and I aimed to create as perfect a romantic gesture as the ones he crafted in his books, but I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a ballet production within a thousand miles of here. Not that Colt struck me as the ballet type. But if romance novels taught me anything, it was that gestures had to hold meaning to the person you were crushing on. No universal romantic gesture existed. What might be a swoon-worthy moment for one person could easily transform into a “get me away from this stalker with a boombox” for another.

And there it was. The spark of an idea. Ballet might not appeal to Colt, but the indie bands that frequented a popular bar in the next town over could be more his scene. Maybe I could tap into my connections, specifically my buddy who worked there, and explore the possibility of arranging a gig for Colt. Was that too intense? I might need a voice of reason to judge if I was getting ahead of myself.

Colt had a point when he mentioned we barely knew each other. While his music deserved an audience of thousands, it wasn’t my place to impose that on him without gauging his own feelings on the subject. Perhaps music served as his own personal outlet, much like my own relationship with running and journaling, but maybe he had zero desire to unveil his painful past to the rest of the world.

Doubt crept in, and I began questioning my tendency to go all out. If there was one regular comment I heard about myself, it’s that I can be too much. Well-intentioned, for sure, but I had a penchant for going over the top to show how much I cared. When a friend was unwell, most people would send a get-well-text; I’d show up at their doorstep with homemade (by Brenda, not me) soup, flowers, and a bag filled with every conceivable item from the drugstore—just in case. If I had a date on the cards, I’d skip the conventional dinner and movie route and instead research the availability of hot air balloons in the vicinity. Spoiler alert: there aren’t any around here.

Not that I was accustomed to being asked out regularly. I’d had a handful of dates with both girls and boys from school, and it was enjoyable. However, it seemed that they were all only looking for a casual arrangement and found my preference for commitment a bit stifling. More than one of them labeled me clingy.

The point was that my enthusiasm tended to run wild, and my ideas often snowballed to the point of utter ridiculousness. My friends, in their infinite wisdom, likened my personality to that of an overeager, oversized puppy that left a mess on the floor when it got too excited—cute, well-intentioned, but also a pain in the ass to clean up after.

Concerned about potentially scaring away Colt with my date ideas, I decided to seek a second opinion. I pulled up Remy’s number and hit dial.

“Sup loser,” he drawled with that unmistakable Mid-Western twang, sounding like he had just rolled out of bed.

“Love you too bestie,” I shot back.

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