It had been so long.

And Shaw was tired of waiting.

The walk to the living room was short. In the doorway, Shaw paused, his heart pounding so hard that he could feel the pulse in his armpits, in his groin. The only light came from the street, coating everything in a silver nimbus: the stand lamps he’d rescued from Goodwill, his parents’ old couch, the slope of Matty’s shoulders, his neck, the unruly lick of hair that should have been blond but was bleached of color in the street light. Matty was sitting, facing the doorway. Matty was waiting.

Shaw crossed the room. Matty drew back. Shaw hooked the coffee table with his heel. Matty drew his knees against his chest. Shaw swung the coffee table, and its legs skittered on bare wood, and Matty flinched like Shaw had landed a slap. Shaw took one step. And then another. His bare feet found popcorn that had hidden under the coffee table from the last time North had made him watch all four Lethal Weapon movies in one weekend. Then his knees bumped against the couch, and Matty was a tight bundle between Shaw’s legs.

Shaw shifted forward, straddling Matty, the old couch sagging under his weight. Then he took Matty’s face in both hands. He could still see tear tracks on Matty’s face like lunar oceans. He kissed Matty and tasted salt.

After a moment, Matty kissed back.

“I’ve never.” Shaw didn’t let the sentence hang. He didn’t punctuate it. He just let those two words spill out, and it was like some part of him had been bound tightly for too many years and could now move freely.

For a moment, surprise etched itself into Matty’s features, and then something else, a vicious happiness that pooled in the shadows under Matty’s eyes before evaporating. He put his hands on Shaw’s hips, his fingers soft as they teased along the waistband of Shaw’s pants.

Reaching forward, Shaw caught the cardigan and turned Matty out of it. Then he ran his hands down the misbuttoned shirt. It was high-quality cotton, but right then it felt rough enough to start a fire under Shaw’s fingers. He could feel the outline of Matty’s slim chest—not the rippling physique of Jadon Reck, not North’s chiseled mass, but a toned boyishness that made Shaw bite his lip.

Wordlessly, Matty caught Shaw’s fingers and guided them to the buttons. “I’m sorry,” Shaw whispered, and Matty laughed. Shaw worked the buttons, tried to free them. He got one. And then another. And then he got to the first one that had been done up wrong, and the shirt was pulled too far askew, and he whispered, “I’m sorry,” and Matty’s laugh was just a whisper too, and finally that button popped free and then Shaw was on to the next one, and this one snagged and refused to budge, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.” His lips were buzzing like he’d been bee-stung.

Matty wrapped his shaking hand in both of his own and said, “Why are you sorry?”