He’s just suddenly, astonishingly, there, hovering in the archway, smiling, and it’s not the first time I’ve envisioned Justin’s presence in the loft since he left, but this time--

And I think I say something, I don’t have a fucking clue, because everything jumps inside me, some weird little stop-motion jolt that zings jerkily under my skin, and it’s all I can do to finish with the trick, some loser from Woody’s, some nameless, faceless...

I fumble on the bed for his clothes, toss them in his direction without taking my eyes off Justin.

The air seems to grow thick, weighty with promise, crackling with possibility, and I can’t put a name to this feeling that steals my breath and pins me down. I can’t move, and apparently neither can he, so instead we just stand there grinning goofily as the trick fumbles into his jeans and mutters overused profanities under his breath.

“Look at you,” Justin finally says as the trick brushes past him. “You’re all--”

“Sweaty? Smelly?”

“Whole,” Justin says. “Beautiful.”

He hasn’t stopped laughing. Smiling. And I can’t take my eyes off him. I search his face, his body, try to find something that’s changed, a way that rubbing elbows with the Hollywood elite has altered him.

But he’s just Justin. And he’s home.

My jaw almost aches from smiling, but I can’t fucking stop.

“So,” he says, and then he is walking towards me, slowly, measured step by measured step. I listen for the familiar squeak of his sneakers on the hardwood, but all I can hear is the rapid beating of my heart, the thrum of my pulse, the roar of blood in my veins.

He reaches out and brushes his open palm against my arm. “So,” he says again, and his warm breath raises goosebumps on my flesh. “How is your shoulder?”

“I can predict upcoming rainstorms with an accuracy of 90 to 92 percent.”

“Hmm,” he hums. Perfect teeth, perfect lips. He shifts closer, and I imagine I can smell the surf, the sand, margaritas and ocean breezes. “That could come in handy for those days when we’re trying to decide if we want to picnic on the quad.”

“No need for the weath--” I begin, but then his lips are brushing mine, soft and pliant, his palm flat against my chest, cool fingers and warm lips. I watch pale lashes flutter and wonder how I ever did without this.

He pulls gently away, still smiling, but his nose crinkling.

“I should shower,” I say.

He taps my chest. “Good plan.”

I bend to touch my lips to his again. I breathe him in.

Then I can turn my back on him and pad into the bathroom, because he’s here and he’s real and I have the rest of the night to touch him, to fuck him, to taste every inch of him. It will be the fastest shower of my life.

When I emerge from the bathroom ten minutes later, wet and hot and so fucking hard, Justin is spread out on the bed, stomach down, one leg crooked towards his chest, arm nestled under the pillow. Asleep.

Fucking asleep.

I glance toward the pile of soiled linen tossed at the end of the bed, then back to Justin’s still form. At least he got his shirt and shoes off before collapsing, and even managed to toss a clean sheet haphazardly onto the mattress.

I sigh as I carefully settle next to him. He shifts a little, smiling in his sleep. I watch his face, study the purse of his lips and the turn of his nose and the way his lashes always look darker when his eyes are closed. My hand floats over the nape of his neck, his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine. I feel the heat rising from him and I want to wrap myself up in it.

“I’m glad you used that SPF 1000 that you packed,” I murmur. “I’m glad you... I’m glad for a lot of things.”

I tug the duvet over him before reaching cautiously over his body to turn off the alarm. I know I won’t need it.

In the morning, I dress silently by the dim light of the artwork above the bed. I forego my morning coffee, the scent of which always wakens him. I put the Cheerios on the counter and check the expiration date on the Pop-Tarts.

I leave him a note. Breakfast meeting, pitch to a new client, Eyeconics accounts renewal.

“Later”, I scribble on the bottom of the note.