Parked beneath Michael’s apartment building, I don’t get out of the car quite yet.
So, this is it. Here we go. Time to get in way, way over my head and hope like hell Michael doesn’t catch on that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and pray to God I don’t fuck up. How do we even get started with something like this, anyway? It’s not like showing up at my old piano teacher’s house.
Knock, knock—I’m here for the eight o’clock lesson.
I close my eyes and pull in a long breath through my nose. I’ve got this.
Right?
“A lot of this is on Michael, not you,” Ian’s voice echoes in my brain. “You’re not fixing him. You’re giving him a safe place to work through the stuff that needs fixing.”
I gulp. That’s all there is to it, isn’t it? Michael needs a safe place. I am that safe place. So, with my heart in my throat and my knees a little shaky, I get out of the car and head up to his apartment.
Hand on the doorknob, though, I hesitate again.
“Literally all you have to do is be the safe, kind, giving lover that you already are, and let him do the rest.”
What if it’s not that simple?
I know people with PTSD. Even the most well-meaning friend can accidentally set off a flashback. One of my coworkers spent a year in Afghanistan, and he seemed okay with everything we would’ve expected to trigger him. Crowds and loud noises don’t bother him. He took his kids to a fireworks show last year without any issues. Even the fire alarm going off barely made him jump. He told someone the only thing he struggles with is driving through mountains or open wilderness, particularly if it’s a desert. His wife has to drive through places like that. Otherwise, he’s completely back to normal.
And then someone decided to surprise him for his fortieth birthday last year. Apparently, walking into a conference room that he thought was empty and suddenly having the lights come on and two dozen people shout “Surprise!” was…not good for him.
I shudder, my fingers still resting on the doorknob. Michael’s been on a relatively even keel, especially after all the therapy he’s had. But is there some trigger I don’t know about?
Only one way to find out, I suppose.
I whisper a prayer and then open the door.
Cody comes flying down the hall, barking and wagging his tail.
“Hey, you.” I chuckle and crouch down to pet him. He immediately flips over on his back, tail still going ninety miles an hour as I scratch his belly.
“Cody!” Michael’s voice sends a flutter through me. “Come eat!”
The dog is on his feet again and scrambling up the hall to the kitchen. I stand, push my shoulders back and follow him.
I’ve got this. It’ll be fine.
I step into the kitchen.
Michael comes into view.
My stomach flips. This is it. Here we are.
I try and fail to will my heart to slow down. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His cheeks color, and he laughs softly. “So, um. I guess we’re…”
“Yeah.” I laugh too, which at least means I’m breathing.
“Do you…” He gestures over his shoulder at the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee?”
“No. No, I’m good.”
Our eyes meet.
“Listen, uh…” I clear my throat. “I’m following your lead on this. I don’t really know what we’re doing. I mean, where to start.” I chew my lip. “Maybe we should talk limits. What’s off limits at this point?”
Michael hugs himself and avoids my eyes for a moment. “Definitely not oral yet.”
“Okay. No oral.” Cocking my head, I ask, “Does that apply to both giving and receiving?”
He nods, but then his lips quirk. “Well, receiving might be okay. Maybe.” He gulps. “Just not giving.”
“Noted. What about anal?”
“We’ll work up to that.”
The fact that he’s more optimistic about anal than oral makes my skin crawl—he used to love oral sex. Giving and receiving. I don’t even want to know what Steve did to turn something Michael loved into something he’s afraid of.
“So for tonight,” he goes on, “maybe we could… Okay, this might be kind of weird.”
I’m pretty sure we’re long past weird and well into what the fuck, but I don’t say anything.
He wrings his hands, watching them instead of me. “So I’m still not too sure about touching. Or being touched.” He exhales sharply. “It’s stupid, but there it is.”
“It’s not stupid.” I manage to keep the venom out of my voice—that’s all for Steve, not Michael. “After what you’ve been through…”
Michael shudders. “Anyway, if you’re really okay with baby steps…” He raises his eyebrows.
“Absolutely. Your pace.”
“Okay. Good. Because I’m thinking a small step to start with would be a massage.”
“Oh. I hadn’t even thought of that. That’s a really good idea.”
Some of the apprehension vanishes from his expression. “Why don’t I start by giving you one, and we’ll see where it goes from there?”
I grin. “I’m not going to say no to a massage from you.”
Michael hesitates, but then he lets himself smile just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Bedroom?”