3 hours ago
The warmth of the Gift ebbed from Jensen’s fingertips as naturally as breath. He let his hand linger against Kristian’s cheek, not for himself, but to give the other man time to enjoy that moment of release before the world returned to its usual noise.
He could see the softening in Kristian’s posture, the subtle way the tension drained from his eyes. Jensen knew the effect his healing could have, and though he’d never admit it aloud, there was a small, private satisfaction in being the one to grant it. To see pain replaced by relief. To know he had been the cause.
Kristian’s hand came up, pressing Jensen’s palm more firmly to his cheek, the gesture deliberate, almost tender. A nudge of nuzzling followed, a low-voiced thank you that was as much about the moment as it was about the cure. Jensen held steady, meeting his gaze without flinching, though a knot of hesitation coiled low in his chest. And then came a half teasing, half charged invitation. Kristian’s offer was smooth, the kiss to his palm gentle. Jensen didn’t recoil, but he also didn’t lean in. That wasn’t why they were here. That wasn’t what he wanted… was it?
For the briefest moment, he let himself feel the intimacy. The connection of skin to skin, the shared quiet after something extraordinary. Then he pulled his hand back slowly, carefully, as if not to break the fragile glass of civility between them.
“Well,” he said, tone warm and composed, “it seems I’ve already kept you a while. But I’d be a poor host if I let you walk out without offering you something.” He gestured lightly toward the kitchen wall. “No alcohol, I’m afraid. But there’s tea, fresh lemonade, or water. Anything catch your fancy?”
It was the gentleman’s path, but under the steady cadence of his voice, he could still feel the tug-of-war between the side of himself that wanted to keep every encounter proper and the side that wondered, fleetingly, what might happen if he didn’t.
He could see the softening in Kristian’s posture, the subtle way the tension drained from his eyes. Jensen knew the effect his healing could have, and though he’d never admit it aloud, there was a small, private satisfaction in being the one to grant it. To see pain replaced by relief. To know he had been the cause.
Kristian’s hand came up, pressing Jensen’s palm more firmly to his cheek, the gesture deliberate, almost tender. A nudge of nuzzling followed, a low-voiced thank you that was as much about the moment as it was about the cure. Jensen held steady, meeting his gaze without flinching, though a knot of hesitation coiled low in his chest. And then came a half teasing, half charged invitation. Kristian’s offer was smooth, the kiss to his palm gentle. Jensen didn’t recoil, but he also didn’t lean in. That wasn’t why they were here. That wasn’t what he wanted… was it?
For the briefest moment, he let himself feel the intimacy. The connection of skin to skin, the shared quiet after something extraordinary. Then he pulled his hand back slowly, carefully, as if not to break the fragile glass of civility between them.
“Well,” he said, tone warm and composed, “it seems I’ve already kept you a while. But I’d be a poor host if I let you walk out without offering you something.” He gestured lightly toward the kitchen wall. “No alcohol, I’m afraid. But there’s tea, fresh lemonade, or water. Anything catch your fancy?”
It was the gentleman’s path, but under the steady cadence of his voice, he could still feel the tug-of-war between the side of himself that wanted to keep every encounter proper and the side that wondered, fleetingly, what might happen if he didn’t.