Chapter 2: Carried to Bed, Cuddled to Sleep
The grey light of a Crockett Island afternoon was fading into something softer when Riley pushed open the rectory door. He’d spent the day on the Maggie K., mending nets until his fingers were stiff and salty, the sharp tang of fish and diesel clinging to his clothes. He smelled of hard work and the open water. Home smelled of old wood, vanilla, and peace.
He toed off his boots in the entryway, the silence a welcome blanket after the engine’s roar. Then he heard it—the low, staticky murmur of an old movie. He padded into the living room.
Paul was sprawled on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, his fingers just brushing the rug. An old black-and-white detective film played on the TV, the sound turned low. His shoulder-length black hair was fanned out against a cushion, his lips slightly parted. A soft, rhythmic snore, little more than a whisper, escaped him. A thin, glistening line of drool had traced a path from his mouth down to his chin.
Riley stopped. He just watched.
This man. This soft, vulnerable, cozy man, his body relaxed in a way that spoke of absolute safety. His chest, softly rounded under a worn grey sweatshirt, rose and fell with each deep, sleeping breath. It was a picture of youthful contentment.
It was hard to believe, sometimes violently so, that this was the same man. The thrall who had spoken with a ninety-year-old’s rasp, his eyes burning with a zealot’s fire. The architect of a conversion meant to sweep an entire island into eternal, blood-drinking night. Riley had been his first target, his intended disciple. Now, he was the reason Paul got out of bed every morning. The irony wasn’t lost on him; it was a bedrock of their peace.
A chuckle, warm and private, rose in Riley’s throat. He remembered the week Paul, swamped with guilt, had tried to resign. Bev Keane, of all people, had practically packed his bags for him, gleeful at the prospect. But the islanders—the ones who’d survived, the ones who remembered both the angel and the man—had shown up. Not with pitchforks, but with casseroles and blunt appeals. You’re our priest, Father. The real one. You stay. They’d shooed him back to his post with a stubborn, forgiving kindness that had left Paul weeping in Riley’s arms that night. They saw what Riley saw: a man who was kind, good, honest, and hopelessly well-intentioned, even when he was catastrophically wrong.
Riley pulled out his phone. He zoomed in, capturing the drool, the furrowed brow of deep sleep, the complete and utter surrender. He sent it to the group chat with Erin and his mom. The caption: Guardian of the flock. He knew they’d understand the love behind the tease.
He put the phone away and approached the couch. He knelt on the rug, the rough wool against his knees. He brushed the hair from Paul’s forehead. “Hey,” he murmured. “Sleeping beauty.”
Paul’s eyes fluttered. A low, confused sound grumbled in his chest. “Mmnngh. The… the butler didn’t do it.”
“Case closed,” Riley smiled. He leaned in and kissed him, a soft press of lips that tasted of sleep and salt. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’ll wreck your back like this.”
“M’tired,” Paul slurred, his words thick and heavy. He was disoriented, still mostly in the world of dreams.
“I know.” Riley slid his arms under Paul—one under his knees, the other behind his back. He lifted him easily. Paul was solid, but Riley’s deckhand strength made it simple. Paul’s head lolled against Riley’s shoulder with a sleepy, petulant whine that went straight to Riley’s heart.
He carried him down the short hall to their bedroom, the one that always smelled of old books and the faint, clean lavender of Paul’s cologne. The bed was still unmade from the morning, sheets tangled in a warm confession. He laid Paul down, carefully peeling the sweatshirt over his head. Paul cooperated like a drowsy child, lifting his arms before letting them flop back to the mattress. Riley pulled the covers up to his chin, tucking him in.
“Sleep,” Riley whispered, brushing another kiss on his temple. “I’ll start dinner.”
He turned to go.
A hand shot out from under the covers, fingers clutching the fabric of Riley’s work shirt. The grip was surprisingly strong.
“No.” Paul’s voice was a raspy mumble, his eyes still closed. “Stay. ‘S too cold. Nap. Just… nap with me.”
He was incoherent, half-dreaming, tugging weakly at Riley’s shirt.
Riley looked down at him. At the dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, at the peaceful line of his mouth, at the beautiful, impossible man who had fought demons literal and figurative and now just wanted his partner to lie down with him. How could anyone say no to that?
“Okay,” Riley said, his voice rough. “Okay, baby. Scoot over.”
He kicked off his stiff jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He slid under the covers in his t-shirt and boxers. The sheets were cool, but Paul’s body was a furnace. As soon as Riley settled, Paul turned, instinctively burrowing into him. He slung an arm across Riley’s waist, his face pressing into the hollow of Riley’s neck with a sigh of profound satisfaction.
Riley gathered him close, one arm curving around Paul’s back, his hand splaying over the soft swell of his hip. They fit together seamlessly, a puzzle solved. In the twilight gloom of the room, their lips found each other in drowsy, half-conscious kisses. Not passionate, not demanding. Just reaffirmations. I’m here. You’re here. We’re safe.
Paul’s breathing deepened again almost immediately, his warm exhales ghosting over Riley’s collarbone. The tension of the day—the memory of Bev’s fury, the physical grind of the nets—seeped out of Riley’s muscles. He was anchored by this warmth, by this weight.
He nosed into Paul’s hair, inhaling the familiar scent. Outside, a gull cried. The detective movie’s score still played faintly from the living room. It all blurred into a distant soundtrack for their rest.
Riley held the man who had once wanted to give him eternity, and chose, instead, this single, perfect nap. He let his own eyes close. The last thing he felt was Paul’s hand, relaxing in sleep, curling into a loose fist against his chest, holding on even in dreams.