Page 22 of New Year in Kentbury
My.
Paul.
As I linger near the entrance, my heart beats with an eagerness I haven't felt in years. Not even before when wewere together, hiding from everyone. This, what I’m feeling is different and I like it. There’s something refreshing about going all the way out for someone to show them you care. The resort bustles with the energy of ski season, yet I willingly risk any inconvenience to its patrons for this chance—this one night to show Paul what he means to me.
The doors swing open, and my heart clenches, the sensation raw and consuming, like a tidal wave crashing over me. Paul steps inside, his presence understated yet magnetic. His eyes sweep the room with quiet deliberation, his gaze briefly lingering on the golden lights overhead and the flickering candles, before settling on me.
He’s wearing a simple sweater and dark jeans, but somehow, he manages to make it look effortlessly good. The soft glow of the lights catches in his hair, creating a halo-like effect that does nothing to temper the way my body reacts to him.
My cock twitches at the sight of him, unbidden and unapologetic. Damn it. Not now, I tell myself, reining in the pull of desire that stirs low and hot. But it’s impossible not to notice the way the sweater hugs his chest or how those jeans frame his legs. It takes every ounce of control not to let my thoughts drift further.
Because tonight isn’t about that.
Not yet.
He walks toward me, and I meet him halfway, each step laden with meaning. “Thank you for coming," I say, there’s a mix of relief and reverence in my voice.
The urge to reach for him—to pull him into a hug or brush my lips against his—flares within me, sharp and undeniable. But I reign it in. He’s here, and that’s enough. For now.
“This is fancy. Are you expecting more guests?” His tone carries a hint of skepticism as his gaze takes in the elaborate decor.
“No,” I reply, my voice steady but soft. “This is for you. Just you.”
I gesture toward the table, and we walk together. The moment we sit, it feels as though the rest of the world has melted away, leaving just the two of us surrounded by flickering light and a quiet, intimate elegance.
As we take our seats, the rest of the world fades. Tonight, it's just Paul and me.
A server approaches, their movements polished and professional. “Good evening. May I start you with some water while you look over the wine selection?”
I glance at Paul, who gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. There’s something in the way his gaze softens that fills me with a flicker of hope. “Yes, thank you. And bring the Château Margaux 2005,” I say to the server, my voice calm, though the anticipation simmering beneath it feels anything but.
The server nods, pouring water into the crystal glasses with practiced precision before slipping away to fetch the wine. The delicate clink of glass meeting wood is the only sound that lingers between us for a moment.
“Thank you again for coming,” I say, my words quieter now, infused with something heavier than gratitude.
Paul leans back in his chair, his lips quirking into a faint, teasing smile. “It was that or having you show up at the bakery during the holiday rush.” He pauses, letting his joke settle before adding, “You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”
His humor breaks the tension, but only for a beat. Then his smile falters, replaced by an expression I don’t see often—a rare vulnerability. “I’m kidding. I mean it. I just . . . I don’t know how to go from here, Damian. I can’t go back?—”
“No one’s asking you to go back anywhere.” My voice is steady, but there’s an urgency in it, a need to make him see. “I want us to move forward. To start something new. That’s all I’masking for—a relationship that’s healthy, open. Not hiding, not apologizing for who we are.”
Paul’s gaze sharpens on me, his brow furrowing, but I press on.
“For years, I was afraid. Afraid no one would accept me, afraid of what I might lose. And I’ve been working through that—working on myself. I’ve had to confront the fact that I never let myself grieve my mother. Not really. I never allowed myself to miss her because I was too busy with everyone’s feelings and needs.”
Paul doesn’t interrupt, but his hand twitches like he wants to reach for me.
“My father and I, we’ve been doing therapy. Together,” I continue, my voice thickening slightly. “He now understands that unintentionally, he let the weight of his grief fall on me. He was too sad to realize I was still a kid, still figuring out how to carry my own pain. So instead of crying for her, I tried to fix everyone else’s hearts.”
I exhale slowly, the admission pulling something from deep inside me. “That’s what made me think I had to be perfect. That if I wasn’t perfect—if I wasn’t the one holding everything together—I was failing. And I thought perfect meant following the rules. Society’s rules. My family’s rules. All of it. The worst part is I fabricated all that in my head. Mom would’ve loved me no matter what, my family would’ve accepted me . . . I just created my own reality.”
Paul’s frown deepens, and he sighs before reaching across the table to take my hand in his. The warmth of his touch brands me, searing through the distance I’ve felt between us.
“You poor man,” he murmurs, his voice rough but tender.
“Excuse me?” I blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or bristle.
Paul holds my gaze as his thumb brushes over my knuckles. “I mean it. I never thought about it like that. When I came out—when the town knew—I was angry at you. So angry. I couldn’t understand how you could think these people would hate you when they’ve been so accepting of me. But I never stopped to think about what you’d been through. What you lost.”
