Chapter 1: A Different Kind of Touch
Luke wiped his hands on the damp towel, leaving streaks of gray. He turned. Tommy was still hovering just inside the door, his smile like something he’d put on with his jacket. The apology was already there, in the slope of his shoulders, in the way he wouldn’t quite meet Luke’s eyes.
Without a word, Luke crossed the room. The floorboards were cool under his socks. He stopped in front of Tommy, catching the sharp, expensive scent of his cologne cutting through the studio’s earthy breath. He reached up, the clay still faint under his nails, and cupped Tommy’s face. His stubble was coarse against Luke’s palms.
He kissed him. Slowly. Not a hello kiss, but something deeper, a deliberate pouring-out. He tried to press everything into it—the quiet waiting, the warmth of the kiln, the shape of a future he could so clearly see on a shelf just waiting to be glazed. His lips were soft, insistent. I am here, the kiss said. We are here.
Tommy melted into it. His hands came up to Luke’s waist, pulling him closer. His mouth opened, a familiar sigh escaping into Luke’s.
“Hey,” Tommy whispered, his voice rough.
“Hey yourself. You’re late.”
“Client call ran long. You know how it is.” Tommy pulled back, forcing a brighter tone. He shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of Luke’s reading chair. “What’re you making?”
“A bowl. It was a bowl.” Luke watched him move through the space. Tommy was too big for the studio, his energy buzzing against the serene pots. He ran a hand through his bleached hair, leaving it tousled. He looked like a photo from a lifestyle blog standing in all this honest mess.
“Nice. It’s nice in here. Smells like… progress.” Tommy grinned, the charming one that crinkled the corners of his kind eyes. He picked up a small, twisted figurine Luke had been experimenting with. “This new?”
“Just playing. Doesn’t need to be anything.”
“I like it. It’s got… angst.”
Luke snorted. “It’s got a cracked base is what it’s got.” He moved to the sink, washing the clay from his hands properly. “You eaten?”
“I could eat.”
“I’ve got the stuff for pasta. That garlic mushroom thing you like.”
“Perfect.” Tommy’s smile this time reached his eyes, and for a moment, the distance closed. He came up behind Luke, wrapping his arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. He was warm. Solid. “Sorry I was late.”
“S’okay.” Luke leaned back into him, feeling the beat of Tommy’s heart against his spine. This was it. This was the good piece. The quiet domesticity they’d built, two years of shared meals and easy touches.
While Luke cooked, Tommy lounged on the worn sofa, scrolling on his phone, laughing softly at something. He offered snippets, a story about a crazy coworker, a meme. His commentary was sharp, witty. Luke listened, stirring the creamy sauce, feeling a swell of affection so intense it ached. This brilliant, beautiful man was in his kitchen. Chose to be here.
They ate at the small wooden table, knees almost touching. The pasta was good, garlicky and rich. Tommy devoured his, offering genuine praise. They talked about Luke’s upcoming craft fair, Tommy’s frustrating project manager.
Later, after the dishes were stacked, Tommy led him to the bed. It was the same as always. Familiar hands, familiar sounds. Tommy’s breath hot against his neck. It was grounding, a ritual of connection. Luke lost himself in the physicality of it, in the sweat and the weight and the pleasure.
Tommy’s breathing evened out into sleep. Luke lay perfectly still, not wanting to wake him. He focused on the warmth, the steady heartbeat against his back. He catalogued the evidence of their life: Tommy’s favorite beer in the fridge, the extra toothbrush, the stupid knitted pillow he’d made that one weekend Tommy decided to pick up a new hobby, left behind like a promise.