Page 90 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
“You’re practically jelly. You need rest.”
“Don’t tell me what I need.” There was no bite to it.
Kenny arched a brow. Then, calmly, confidently, he gripped Aaron’s cock.
Aaron hissed, batting him off. “Jesus. Give it a minute.”
“You need more than a minute. You need tea. Toast. Possibly a bath and an exorcism.”
“You’re such a smug bastard.”
Kenny grinned and kissed his temple. “Go lie on the sofa in your duvet burrito. I’ll bring you breakfast.”
Aaron glanced over at Chaos. “I should walk him.”
“He’s already walked.”
“Fucking hell. You really are trying to trophy top your way into my affections.”
“Thank you. Now go sit your sore arse down.”
Aaron pulled away with exaggerated effort, grabbing the duvet from the floor and shuffling towards the living room like a grumbling duchess wrapped in ten pounds of bedding. Then he paused, drifting his gaze to the table, where the photos and police files spread out.
Kenny watched the shift in him. The flicker of something quieter.
“Are there more?” Aaron asked.
“Not currently. I did a deep dive yesterday. Found a case in Glasgow. Jack sent me the file.”
“You spoke to Bellend?”
“Do you call him that in your secret WhatsApp group?”
“Yes.” Aaron cocked his head. “You jealous? You want in? Don’t panic, we don’t compare your performance. It’s mostly gifs and complaints. The only thing worthwhile that’s ever come out of that is that scone recipe.”
Kenny breathed out a smile. “Go. Duvet. Sofa. I’ll bring the tea and toast.”
“Praise kink and carbs. You really are trying to ruin me.”
“Too late.”
Kenny watched him go, slow-footed and warm, skin kissed with colour and eyes glassy withthe last vestiges of sleep and surrender. Wrecked. Ruined. Wonderfully his. But he gave Aaron a moment, enough for him to settle under the duvet on the sofa, limbs slack and weak, then wandered to the kitchen. The kettle clicked on, steam coiling up in lazy spirals as the snowstorm howled against the old sash windows. Outside, the island had vanished beneath a peaceful, glistening blanket of white.
Kenny unplugged his phone and noticed the message.
Margaret Harrow.College closed. Unsafe travel. All classes cancelled.
He smiled, a slow curl of satisfaction. It wasn’t a blizzard and perhaps back in Ryston, they’d have gritted the roads to ensure everyone got in. But he was thankful for the reprieve. No need to suit up and perform for a half-asleep classroom today all ready to start their Christmas break. The island had decided. He could stay home. Be here. So he made the tea the way Aaron liked it. Pasted a thick load of sweet strawberry jam on artisan toast, then brought it all to him and knelt beside the sofa, placing it within easy reach on the coffee table. Aaron blinked up at him, cocooned and wary.
“It’s snowing,” Kenny said.
Aaron narrowed his eyes, pulling the duvet higher. “Not falling for that again.”
Kenny chuckled. “No, really. Full storm. College is shut. I get to stay home and torment you properly.” He leaned into kiss him, then nudged the plate towards him.
Aaron wriggled up to grab the plate and Kenny sidled by his curled legs. He watched. Waited. Didn’t fill the silence. That wasn’t his method. He observed. Calibrated. Noted the slump of Aaron’s shoulders, how his hand hovered near the toast without picking it up. Eyes not glazed, but distant. Protective withdrawal.
Kenny adjusted. “You don’t have work today. I’d alreadychecked.” Of course he had. He wouldn’t have attempted last night believing Aaron had to get up and function the next day. So he’d checked their shared calendar hanging in the kitchen where Aaron had scribbled his shifts on.
