Page 88

Literally, a shower and rest. I’ve managed everything else. But on a deeper level, I need to stare into Poet Whitlock’s ocean-blue eyes and know the man who shared my bed last night is okay. “Where have you been?”

That blue gaze flickers with the shadows I thought had come from the clouds. Not guilt, but as his gaze drifts to the horizon for the briefest moment before finding mine again, I sense a reluctance I have seen before in other men. Forced vagueness I am prepared for when he finally speaks. “It’s been a strange day.”

“I can see that.”

“Yeah?”

I hum an affirmative—Poet’s hand is already on my chest. I wait for him to say more. Or less. For him to say anything. When he doesn’t, a heavy sigh breaches my lungs, one that rattles us both as the silence persists, and I think of River. Of Rubi. Of men I love and trust, even though I know there are many things they have never told me. Our friendship has always come with an understanding I’ll look the other way when they need me to.

I’ve never resented that.

Never wished they were different.

But with Poet…

My stomach is already sore from chasing stability all night, but it twists as I imagine a future of blank pages, of leaving every time a conversation like this takes a loaded turn, as though my body rejects the mere thought of it.

“Poet.” I say his name at the low register he can almost hear. “I do not want half of you.”

His expression stills. His fingers, though, they curl into my bare chest. Like he’s trying to hold on.

To me.

To my heart.

As if he knows better than I do how close I am to letting him all the way in or pushing him away.

Does he even want me like that?

I feel like he might, and that’s why this conversation matters. Because there was an innocence behind the storm in his eyes last night and this is different. This is turbulence I can’t weather unless I know the truth of it.

So I give him a truth of my own. “I already have too many friends who can’t show me all they are. I love them, and I trust them with my life, but I’ve known for a long time I can’t do that again with anyone else. And you…” His tanned cheek calls to me. I stroke it with my thumb. “You are not like anyone else to me.”

Poet leans into my touch, gaze searching mine. For a moment, I think it might be his only answer. Then he exhales as though he’s been holding his breath all night long. “You’re not like anyone else to me either, and not knowing what that means is driving me crazy.”

“We can figure that out. We have time, Po. But I need you to understand what I am saying to you about secrets and half-truths.”

“Oscar, I do understand.” Poet lets his hand slide from my chest. “But if I tell you this, it makes it real, and I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Safe, I hope.”

Poet nods, but a vibration at my wrist draws his gaze from mine.

“It is telling me to change the sensor,” I say.

He frowns. “Now?”

“Soon.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Did you shut my chickens away tonight?”

It’s not the question I expect. But the answer has been on my mind every hour since I bolted the door on the coop so newly built the scent of fresh-cut wood haunted me all the way to the Sirona. “Yes.”

“Why?”