Meaning right the fuck here.

I force those thoughts away as James walks into the room and up to the couch where I’m sprawled out. He pushes my legs out of the way so he can sit down, as he normally does. A simple and thoroughly uninteresting action, yet the feel of his hand lingers on the skin of my calf, even through the material of my pants.

My stomach is churning as I pull my knees to my chest, leaning back on the couch and pretending to watch the movie, though my peripheral stays on him. He brings a bottle of beer to his lips and takes a long gulp, mesmerizing me with the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, sheeted in two-day-old stubble.

My mouth begins to water, and I close my eyes, tight. This can’t be happening. Still.

Jesus Christ, what more do I have to do? I’ve tried it all; prayers, distractions of all shapes and sizes… I even bought some crystals and herbs online, hoping to use them to ward off my impure thoughts. Nothing fucking works.

I’m still hopelessly infatuated with my own goddamn guardian, and it’s sick.

Inconvenient and so damn wrong.

What is wrong with me? Am I some kind of pervert?

I came to terms with my sexuality pretty early on. By the time I was twelve, I already knew I liked boys not girls, and it’s never been something I’ve struggled with. Sure, I don’t broadcast my sexuality to the world, but that’s because I don’t broadcast anything. I like keeping to myself. I have friends, and they know I’m gay. I came out to James when I was fourteen, and he didn’t even bat an eye. He just told me that he loves and accepts me no matter what.

Why in the fucking world that made me swoon, I have no clue.

And from the moment I came into my own as a teen, growing slowly from a boy into a man, the only person I’ve managed to develop feelings for is the one I can’t have.

The one I won’t have. Ever.

It sucks balls. And not in the good way.

The movie keeps playing, into the next one, and James orders us pizza. It arrives quick enough and we eat. I indulge in my cake pop afterward while James finishes his second beer, quietly asking me to grab him another one. Taking the empty bottle from him, I jump up and race to the kitchen. He’s been asking me to get him beers since I was old enough to carry them, which only serves to remind me that I’m his kid. And I always will be.

I fucking loathe how heavy that fact sits in my gut as I return to the living room with a new bottle.

Sinking onto the couch, I hold out the beer, and when he takes it, our fingers brush. Tell me why that one insignificant touch sends a rack of shivers through my lower stomach and a twitch into my crotch. I have to fight not to roll my eyes at myself.