“—awesome,” Jake says after a pause, presumably finishing his sentence, but David can’t ask, because Jake’s tugging his hat off before leaning in, fingers brushing David’s jaw as he presses his mouth against David’s. David’s pulse has kicked up to hypertime, and he doesn’t know if it’s panic or not, thinks it probably is but doesn’t care. Everywhere Jake’s touching him is oversensitive, from where their knees are brushing, to his fingers over David’s racing pulse, his lips against David’s, a chaste press that he pulls back from too soon.

“Movie?” Jake mumbles, lips still brushing David’s. “Salad? I promise it’s awesome.”

David blinks his eyes open, Jake’s face, too close, swimming into his vision. He pulls back. “Do you not want—”

“Dude,” Jake says. “Yes. Totally yes. Just. Movie, dinner? If the movie’s really boring, we can make out on the couch.”

He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s just something to do if there isn’t anything better, like it won’t be the only thing David’s thinking about, sitting beside him.

“Okay,” David says hesitantly.

“Awesome,” Jake says. He’s said the word so much it’s lost all meaning. He bounces up. “You want to find something to watch?”

He hands the remote over, and David takes it, watches him retreat into the kitchen. The floor plan is open enough that David can see him clattering around, and he catches the edge of a grin before he turns the TV on.

CHAPTER NINE

Jake drives David back after dinner — which was, David will admit, surprisingly good — and a movie David doesn’t really remember the plot of, since halfway through Jake leaned into his space, and by the time the credits were rolling Jake was blanketing him with a hand wormed under his shirt, David’s mouth felt wet and used, and he was so hard in his shorts all it would have taken was a brush of Jake’s hand for David to go off.

But instead, Jake put himself to rights, settling his hat back on over hair mussed from David’s fingers, and offered to drive him back to his hotel. David didn’t protest, even though he wanted to. He couldn’t mistake the suggestion for disinterest with the way Jake was tenting his shorts, cheeks pink with a mottled blush that looked like David’s fading sunburn, his mouth as wet and used-looking as David’s felt.

David’s confused during the short ride back, worried he’s done something wrong, something to alert Jake to his level of inexperience. Jake stops off in front of the hotel. “You want me to drive you in tomorrow?” he asks.

“That’s okay,” David says. “I usually get there pretty early.”

Jake tends to be the last person to arrive, and it’s strange, because David always leaves after almost everyone’s filtered out, and Jake is always there to pick him up at the curb. David doesn’t understand him. He’s always figured if you’re the last person there you’ll be the first person to leave. It tends to be a type.