Page 19 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
But enough for Aaron to feel it. Not in his mouth. In his chest. In that fragile, too-quiet place inside him where need and fear blurred together.
Aaron sighed into it. Let it hold him for a second longer. Then whispered, “Fuck, you’re good at this.”
Kenny smiled, ghosting his forehead to Aaron’s, stroking his thumb along the side of his neck. “Sit. Let me feed you.”
And when Kenny placed the plate in front of him with the shakshuka still steaming, flatbread charred right, all the irritation drained from his body as if someone had pulled the plug.
Not someone.Kenny.
“It’s disgusting how well you know me.” He tore into the bread and scooped it into the bowl.
“Thank you.”
Aaron ate. He swore. He declared, “I hate you,” through a mouthful of roasted pepper and yolk.
Kenny didn’t eat, though. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, one ankle casually hooked over the other, fixing his gaze on Aaron.
Not watching.Reading.
Aaron knew the difference. He’d been on the receiving end of that look more times than he could count. Analytical. Quiet. Precise. Not invasive…measuring. Weighing his emotional temperature. Deciding if now was the moment to speak, or if he needed more food, more softness, more time.
Aaron wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, swallowed. “What is it?”
Because they both knew there was something. There always was.
Kenny chewed on his lip. Then, “I had a call.”
“If it’s terminal, can we have sex first?”
Kenny raised an eyebrow. Held his gaze.
God, he looked serious. Still. Focused.
And fucking hot.
Aaron squirmed. Tore more bread. Dipped it. Bit it. “Okay. Not dying. No sex. Honestly, hard to care what else there is after that.”
“It was from the police.”
Aaron froze mid-chew. “I didn’t do it.”
Kenny tilted his neck.
“I mean it.” Aaron threw his hands in the air. “If this is about that car in the Co-op car park, it wasbarelyon the line. Technically, I didn’t even hit it. Just… nudged it with intent.”
Kenny sighed. “It’s not about the car.”
“Thank fuck. Do you know how much wing mirrors cost on your luxury fucking vehicle?”
“It’s a ten-year-old Discovery, Aaron. Not a Porsche.”
“Still bleeds me dry every time I drive it.”
Kenny narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Aaron shook his head, shovelling in some food. “I told you, I can’t reverse park. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for over my shoulder.”
“How on earth did you pass your test?”
