"What time is it?"

Steven's voice is slurred with sleep.

He rolls over to face you. It's too dark to see him properly, but you can feel him looking at you, and you can feel the warmth coming off him.

"Didn't mean to wake you," you say. You didn't have a bath when you got home because the water running through the pipes seems to sound ten times louder at this time of night, and you climbed into bed carefully without nicking the cover so you wouldn't disturb him. "Go back to sleep."

"You only just got in?"

"Saturday, ain't it. Club's always later."

You're exhausted. Yesterday you were at the airport at some insane time in the morning for your flight home from Dublin, then you had a long day at work, then you were awake half the night making up for lost time with Steven. Today you were at work for fourteen hours.

"Was he on with you tonight, that Kevin?"

"What? Yeah. Why d'you ask?"

"No reason."

"Steven."

"Just thought he was a bit funny today, that's all. You know, when he walked in on us."

Steven had called in to see you at the club when he finished work today, and you went into the office together for a bit of one-on-one. Kevin came in, copped an eyeful of you with your tongue down your boyfriend's throat, and told you he needed you to mind the bar while he restocked the fridge. You told him to get lost, and he slammed the door on you and left you to it. The kid's got a problem, you reckon: you know what he thinks of Steven after you knocked back his attempt to – what's the word? – seduce you yesterday.

"Yeah, well, he's a funny lad." No point telling Steven about Kevin's No offence – I think you can do better routine.

"Only, them fridges didn't need restocking, I had a look."

"Forget about it."

"I reckon he fancies you, Brendan."

"What? No. So what if he does?"

"So, do you fancy him?"

Jesus.

"Seriously? Where's this come from, Steven?"

"Do you, though? I mean, he's a barman, I was a barman. That Vinnie one, he was a barman weren't he?"

How long is it since either of you has mentioned Vincent? Years, must be. You didn't think Steven would remember what the boy's name was, let alone his job.

"Steven, can you... can we just get some sleep, please?"

"I'm just saying."

Your eyes are adjusting to the dark now, but you'd know he was pouting even if you couldn't see him.

"Yeah, well, don't. Jesus."

He sighs, then he's quiet for a minute. And then: "What was he like?"

"What? Who? What was who like?"

"That Vinnie."

"Will you leave it now, Steven, please."

"Just tell me."

"Fucksake. He... What d'you want me to say? Okay, five foot eight, green eyes, blond h– "

"See!"

"What?"

"He's blond, Kevin's blond, I'm blond... sort of. You can't tell me you don't fancy Kevin, right, cos I don't believe you."

You sit up in the bed, and run your hands through your hair. You can feel your temper fraying.

"Steven, you've spent eight hours today with your husband. D'you think I'm okay with that? You think I don't worry all the time that you're gonna think the grass is greener, hm? But I... I've got to trust you, or what's the point?"

"I don't even fancy Doug though. I chose you, didn't I?"

"You married him, instead of..."

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of not marrying him."

"Right. Anyway, Brendan, you had all them blokes, you had John Paul McQueen, so you can't – "

"I'm going to sleep." You lie back down, your head thumping onto the pillow, and you shut your eyes.

After a minute or two, Steven breaks the silence.

"I had a fight with him. When you was away."

"Who?" You prop yourself up on your elbow. "Who'd you have a fight with?"

"Him: John Paul."

"About me?" You're half concerned, half amused.

"Don't flatter yourself. We went up my old school, me and Doug – well, it's this poncy college now, innit, and we had to do this talk about the deli, right, for the kids. And John Paul was making a right show of me, looking down his nose like he reckons he's better than me, and I just lost it after, and we had this fight in the corridor."

"Serious?"

"Yeah! And the head came along, and he's a right toffee-nosed git, and he had a right go at us like we was kids, but I reckon John Paul got in proper trouble, right, cos he's a teacher, and you can't have fights in the corridor if you're a teacher."

"I go away for a week, and you're getting into fights. Remind me not to leave you on your own again."

"Weren't my fault, he started it."

"So it was nothing to do with me, then? Because I... you know, met him before in Dublin."

"No. As if."

"No. Okay." You're looking at Steven's face, and he's frowning. "He's not, by the way."

"Who's not what?" he asks.

"The McQueen. He ain't better than you. No one is, okay?"

"So you don't still fancy him. Or Kevin. Or – "

"Steven." You can't believe he thinks you would touch another man now that you're with him. "Steven, why would I go out for a hamburger, when I've got steak at home?"

"What you even on about now?"

"It's a saying, you know, it means, why would you go and get something cheap if you've already got something... rare."

"Oh." He pauses, and you can almost hear the wheels turn, then he gets it. "Oh. Right." He's quiet for a moment. "Brendan, I weren't having a go at you, right, it's just, you know, you been away for a week, then the day after you come back, I'm at work all day and you're at work half the night, and I never see you, do I? I missed you, that's all."

You reach out your arm and he cuddles up.

"Sunday tomorrow. You ain't working, no?"

"No."

"Okay, me neither. We'll... we got the whole day, just you and me, okay?"

"Okay."

"Starting with a lie-in though, yeah?" You kiss his hair. "Night, Steven."

"Night." It's a couple of minutes before he speaks again. "Did you make it up, that saying?"

"Hm?"

"That thing you said, about burgers and steaks."

"No, no it's... it was Paul Newman said it, I think."

"Who?"

"Who?" Jesus, have twenty-three-year-olds not heard of Paul Newman? "You know, Cool Hand Luke. The Sting. He was Butch Cassidy, yeah? Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

"Oh yeah, I've heard of that."

"Heard of it? You ain't seen it? It's a classic."

"Before my time, innit."

"It's before my time, too, Steven. Nineteen sixty-nine, it was made, but I still seen it."

"That's well old," he says, then he laughs softly. "I didn't know you was a geek."

"Fuck off, I ain't a geek. I just know, don't I, I just... It's general knowledge. I ain't a geek."

You feel well old.

He thinks for a minute, and so do you. Then he says, "So I'm the steak?"

"Hm? Yeah, you're the steak."

"Who was the steak when Paul Newman said it, then? The Sundance Kid?"

"No, it was – " You stop yourself saying, his wife, and you say, "I dunno," and you lean and kiss him, and then you say, "Maybe it was," and his mouth softens and opens when you kiss him again. "Maybe it was Sundance."

You really need to get to sleep. You tuck his head under your chin, and hope he gets the message; he kisses your chest for a minute, but when you don't respond he gives up, and you start to drift off.

"Brendan? You still awake?"

"No."

"That film. What year did you say it come out?"

"Nineteen sixty-nine. Now can we please just – "

"Nineteen what?"

"Sixty-nine."

"Sixty-nine?" He's looking at you now, smiling: you can see his teeth gleaming.

"Sixty-nine," you say.

Sleep can wait.

You get out of bed, pull the cover off him. Get him by the ankles and pull him half way down the bed. Switch on the bedside lamp. Strip off your T-shirt and boxers, while he wriggles out of his boxers. He's wearing a sleeveless vest, and he doesn't take it off, just pulls it up so his stomach's bare, his fingers splayed over it. He's got a semi.

You get onto the bed above his head, and crawl down over his body. When your cock is over his face, he catches it in his hands. You plant your hands on the mattress either side of his hips, your arms taking your weight, and lower yourself til you can close your mouth over his erection.

You feel his tongue on you; his fists grip and stroke, and you move your mouth on him in time with what he's doing to you, so his tip glides back and forth along the roof of your mouth. He starts taking you in deeper, his hands moving to grasp your balls. His lips seal around you, and he starts sucking hard. You mimic him, arching your neck to open your throat. You can feel the ridge of his foreskin on your tongue. You can feel him growing. You're breathing hard through your nose. You feel a dribble of saliva escape the corner of your mouth.

He's getting vocal now, the noise he makes vibrating through you so you feel it as much as hear it. It makes your toes curl.

He starts moving his pelvis up off the bed, thrusting his cock into your mouth so you have to jerk your head away or you'll gag. You retaliate in kind, and your dick hits the back of his throat when he's not ready. He yanks it out, coughs and splutters theatrically – like he can't take it - then when he angles you into his mouth again you feel his teeth, and you take that as a warning, and you let him control how far and how fast. His hands move to your waist.

You concentrate now on what you're doing to him, not what he's doing to you, because you want to make him come first – and you do, and the taste of him floods your mouth, viscous and vivid on the back of your tongue.

You extract yourself from him, get off him and sit up; you bring his head into your lap so he can finish the job, your fingers meshed in his hair as his hands and mouth work together til you come. You hear yourself, and you think you must sound like an animal to him with your grunting and roaring, and maybe he was right when he called you an animal once. You wonder what he thinks about that, about you. Does it worry him how close to the surface the animal lives in you? Does it scare him?

You pull his head up by his hair so you can watch him swallow. He holds your gaze, licks his lips, and smiles as if he knows you'd fight a monster if he asked you to. Then he's down again, licking you clean.

"Jesus, Steven. Fuck." You lift his face in both your hands and kiss him, and the taste of his cum and yours washes between you, from tongue to tongue.

You retrieve the cover from the floor and drag it over you both, and you fall asleep together in the middle of the bed.

:::::::

You are in the supermarket. This is what you are doing today, on your day off; this is what couples do on a Sunday, apparently.

He's told you you can't make do with picking stuff up in Price Slice each day, it's too expensive; and he hasn't got time to go into town on the bus every week, so this morning you've gone in the car, and you're pushing the trolley up and down every fucking aisle while he darts off grabbing things to put in it. Okay then.

He vetoes the pack of donuts you've dropped into the trolley. "They're fattening, them," he says, and slaps your belly, and you tell him, "That ain't fat, that's muscle," and he says, "Yeah it is now, but trust me, you'll thank me when you're forty." He'll be thirty then, and you wonder if he'll still be a skinny little bastard.

At the checkout, he tuts at you when you pack the bananas in the same bag as the frozen, so you stand back and let him do it.

He wants to go halves when it comes to paying, but you don't let him. So what if the checkout woman thinks he's a kept man?

You load all the shopping back into the trolley to take to the car, then he says he's just got to run to another shop and he'll see you in a minute, and before you can argue with him he's headed for the exit.

You watch him go. He's in a tracksuit.

:::::::

You reward yourselves after you take the shopping home, with a couple of drinks in the Dog, and being out with him is fine. Better than fine: it feels normal, everyone knowing you're together, and normal is better than fine. Only, sometime during your second drink, Seamus comes into the pub, and walks over to where you and Steven are standing at the bar, and puts his hand on your shoulder, and says, "Mind if I join you, son?" You shrug him off so then he looks past you, "You won't mind, will you, Steven? My round." And you need Steven to back you up but when you turn to him, you see that he's in two minds, he might just as easily say yes to a drink from Seamus as no.

"We're just going," you say to your dad, and he asks Steven, "You always let him tell you what to do, do you?" and he smiles as he asks it. Divide and rule, that's what he's trying, like he used to do with you and Cheryl or Cheryl and her mum.

You wait for Steven to make his choice. This matters.

"Let's go home, Brendan."

:::::::

"Right, I'm gonna cook our tea," he says. "You can help if you want."

"I hate cooking." Running into your dad has cast a shadow, and you're on the edge of a bad mood.

"Alright, grumpy. You can watch me then, and when it's ready, we're gonna watch this." He picks up a plastic bag from where he'd left it on the kitchen counter after you got back from shopping, and hands it to you. There's a dvd inside, and you take it out. It's Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Steven is grinning at you.

You smile back. You let him shine his light into you, and you know there are dark corners that he can't reach, but you want to believe that you can live with that, and that he can too.

"You got it all planned out," you say to him.

"Yeah. And after we've watched the film," he says, and he trails his fingers down your cheek and half closes his eyes, and tells you in an accent that you guess is meant to be French, "We're going to make lurve."

"Oh yeah? And what might that entail?"

"You know." He looks bashful.

"Tell me." You're enjoying his embarrassment now.

"I dunno. Romantic," he mumbles. "Gentle."

You kiss him softly.

"I can do gentle."

:::::::

"Is that the end?"

"Yeah. Did you like it?"

"Yeah, it was good, but..."

"But what? Steven?"

"They got shot. I thought they was gonna think of something, you know, like, Butch was gonna think of a plan."

"They're criminals, I guess they had to run out of luck in the end."

"They weren't, like, proper baddies though. And they tried to go straight, didn't they, and they would've done it if them blokes hadn't attacked them. I wish it had a happy ending."

"It's a true story though, Steven. Most of it, anyways. You can't just stick on a happy ending, life ain't like that, so."

He looks at you; his eyes are full of concern.

"Sometimes it is," he says. He looks very young.

You try to come up with something to make him feel better.

"It kinda was, for them. Out in a hail of bullets, better than rotting in jail." It doesn't sound so reassuring when you say it out loud.

"You call that a happy ending?"

"For men like that? Yeah."

"You're well weird, you."

You get up from the couch and hold your hand out to him; he takes it, and you pull him to his feet and into your arms.

"Thanks for getting the film," you say to him, and you hold him very tight.

:::::::

There's a tiny scar at the corner of Steven's mouth.

You hold his chin, and you kiss the scar. Then you turn his head to one side on the pillow, gently, and on his cheek just below his cheekbone, there's a mole. You touch it with your tongue, then kiss it, then you kiss the mole that's on his neck a couple of inches below his ear. There's another mole on the other side of his neck but a little lower: you turn his head to face the other way, and brush that mole with your lips.

He laughs softly, and asks, "What you doing?"

"Ssh. I'm being gentle."

It's dark and you can barely see him, so you find these marks on him by memory, and by the feel of them as you run your palm slowly over him, where they're almost undetectably raised against the skin on which they're dotted.

You follow the ridge of his collarbone across his chest with your tongue, move down a little and find the mole that's there, and kiss it. You suck lightly on his nipple, and then on the other, and then find with your lips the mole on his flank, and then scrape your teeth over the tattoo on his hip bone.

There's another mole hidden in the soft hairs above his cock. You breathe on it hotly, and he shifts on the bed. You stroke down his thigh, and his shin, and you feel the hairs there stand on end.

You turn him over, and kiss the soles of his feet, one then the other, and you hear him stifling his giggles in the pillow – you know how ticklish he is, and you thought he'd decide enough was enough then, but he doesn't.

There's a mole in the crease where his buttock meets his thigh, and you bite it gently; the one at the base of his spine gets a lick, and the one on his shoulder blade you kiss. You smooth your hands along his arms from shoulders to wrists, then press his hands into the pillows either side of his head, and you lie on his back and, at the nape of his neck, just below the hairline and a little to the left, there's a mole that you give a kiss to.

You lie there until you realise that he's struggling to breathe under your weight. Asphyxiation probably wasn't what he had in mind when he said he wanted to make love, so you move off him.

He lies on his side and strokes your face, and kisses you: kiss after kiss, on your mouth, along your jaw, your neck. You reach to the bedside cabinet for the lube; show it to him, and he nods, lies back, spreads his legs. You smile, but you don't think he sees, and it's probably just as well he doesn't, in case he thinks you're laughing at him. You're not. You're amazed by him, is all.

His features are indistinct in the darkness of the bedroom, but you can see his eyes shining and his mouth opening as you ease into him. You take it slowly, even when his muscles are fighting to draw you in, so when you're filling him it's all the sweeter. You feel him shiver, and his legs grip your back more tightly, and he's incoherent, "That's... can't... God... you're..." and then the words go completely and it's just sounds he's making, cries and moans, and hearing him is sending you to the edge, and you can't go slowly any more.

He forces his hand between your bodies and grabs his cock, and you manage – just – to hold off until he's almost there, and you come together, and you think for a moment that the light's been switched on, but it hasn't, it's inside your head.

You roll off him and you lie face to face, breathing hard into each other's mouths. He slides his leg over you and pulls himself against you. You reach around him, go in with your fingers and keep him warmed up till you're ready to make love to him again, or to fuck him, or however he wants it this time. Anything he wants.

:::::::

He's not there when you wake up. You pick your watch up from the bedside cabinet: it's just gone eight. You get up and put your dressing gown on – yours or his? You're not even sure any more, but it makes no odds – and you follow the smell of toast.

He's in the kitchen, standing at the sink doing last night's washing-up. He has on a shirt of yours, the white one you wore for work yesterday and dropped on the bedroom floor when you got undressed last night. It hangs on him loosely, his narrow shoulders not reaching its shoulder seams, its sleeves too long and pushed up to his elbows. The shirt is all he's wearing, as far as you can see.

He hears you come in, and he turns his head to glance at you briefly, and says, "Morning. I've made the toast."

He's shy in the mornings. It's funny.

You go to him, wrap your arms around him from behind, kiss his neck, breathe him in. He smells new.

"Am I dreaming?" you ask into his hair.

"Why?"

You don't know where to start, so you say, "This."

"It's only a bit of toast."

"I ain't talking about the breakfast."

"What you talking about, then?" He dries his hands and turns around in your arms to face you.

You don't know if he's angling for compliments, or if he really doesn't know, so you tell him. You tell him some of it, anyhow.

"I'm talking about you, barefoot in the kitchen," you say, and you run your hands down his back and confirm that he's not wearing any boxers. "Jesus, Steven, you're like a... like a fantasy boyfriend."

He looks at you as if he thinks you're insane, and he laughs that weird laugh of his.

"Fantasy?" he says, and you think he genuinely doesn't get that you mean it.

"Yeah. Not the laugh, obviously."

"Shut up."

He's got to get to work, but you're going to make him late.

You unbutton his – your – shirt. He tells you he hasn't got time, but it doesn't take long to drag him from kitchen to bedroom, to shove him onto the bed. He lands on his back then sits up to start to slip the shirt off, but you tell him, "Keep it on." He lies back and you slick him with lube, lift his legs onto your shoulders. He's spent half the night with your dick inside him, so you're in him easily, and as you fuck him you look down at him, his arms stretched out above his head, his hands clenching into fists, his head thrown back so the skin of his neck stretches taut over the sharp triangle of his Adam's apple.

You jerk him off with your hand, and when he comes, the shudder in his body finishes you off too.

You ease his legs off your shoulders, and he pulls you into a kiss; you push the shirt off his shoulder, and kiss his bared skin.

He leaves you in bed, and goes and cleans himself up, then he comes back into the bedroom and you lie there watching him get dressed. He's in a big hurry now.

"What time you going to work?" he asks.

"Dunno. Not yet though."

"Alright for some." He's heading out the door, then he stops and says, "He didn't say it, did he?"

"Mm?"

"Paul Newman. In the film. He didn't say the steak thing."

"I love you, Steven," you say.

:::::::

You're feeling mellow.

Kevin hasn't given up on whatever it is he's after from you. It surprises you when he suggests you have a drink together after work – didn't you make it crystal clear on Friday night that you weren't interested? – but it doesn't faze you. You and Steven, you're solid, and it would take more than this kid to change that.

Steven comes up the stairs just as Kevin's saying about a drink.

He's got flour all over him, his clothes, his face, in his hair. You call him Casper: he doesn't laugh, just gives Kevin a look. He's come to tell you he's got a last minute catering job on, and since Douglas has got the night off, Steven's going to have to pull an all-nighter.

Kevin says to you, "Looks like you're free for a drink after work then."

Unbelievable.

"Have a beer for me," Steven says, and he turns to go.

"Steven." You go to him. "How about I give you a hand?"

"You hate cooking."

You tell him maybe you want to expand your repertoire.

Kevin objects, asks how he's meant to manage on his own; you throw a bit of sarcasm at him, and then he asks you if he's in charge for the night.

"I'm the boss. I'm always in charge, whether I'm here or not. See ya."

Steven looks pleased as punch as you walk out of the club and over to the deli. Good: he wasn't happy this morning, you got a call from him when he got to work saying there'd been a parcel delivered just as he was leaving home, and what was in it was some new clothes he'd sent Amy for Lucas. He was upset, and you tried to talk him down – you told him maybe the clothes just didn't fit – and you asked if he wanted you to drop by the deli to see him, but he said he was okay. After the weekend you'd spent together, it was down to earth with a crash, and you could kill Amy.

Figure of speech.

You're glad he's over it now, so.

The deli is closed, it's just the two of you, and he puts you to work. You see pretty quickly that you're getting the junior jobs, the ones that can't be mucked up, and while you're stirring and slicing and fetching and carrying, you watch him. He's dextrous, concentrated, confident. When he's doing something delicate, his tongue peeps out between his lips; when he finishes a task to his satisfaction, he nods and smiles to himself almost imperceptibly. Between jobs, you see him running though a mental checklist.

You're proud of him.

When he checks up on you, it's gently: gently taking the piss sometimes, but he's a good teacher. You try his patience eventually though. You're making bread now, and you've got a lump of dough on the board, and you remember hearing once that you can use up your anger when you're making bread, you can be rough as you like with it. Was it your nana said that? Anyhow, you're not angry now, but you're applying that technique, and Steven's got different ideas.

"You're s'posed to knead it, right, not start a fight with it."

"I am kneading it. I don't tell you how to decorate your tarts – let me do my thing." You resume punching the dough.

"It's not your enemy. Right, watch." He puts his hands on yours, makes you roll your knuckles over the dough. "Gentle. See?"

"Yes." You can do gentle.

"You could always go and have a drink with Kevin if you'd rather."

"No, this is what I wanna do with my life," you tell him. "Bake bread with my gay lover."

"Really?" He sounds as if he wants it to be true, and when you don't answer, he's a little deflated: "Course not."

He asks you how you expected your life would go, and here in the quiet and the warmth, the intimacy of this moment here together, you tell him the truth.

"Sometimes I'm surprised I'm still alive, to be honest."

"Yeah, there's a cheery thought," he says, and he's mocking you, and he stops you falling into the darkness that you're always on the brink of. "At least you're not dead."

You smile, and you try to put your thoughts into words so he'll understand what this means; what he means.

"This, you know... I never pictured this. But I'm okay with it." You look at him then, search his face trying to see if he gets it, if he gets all of it, what you're saying, and what you can't say because you're not there yet; and trying to see if he shares it.

"Me too."

"Yeah?" You can't believe your luck as he looks at you, nods his head, smiles. You say to him, "Good."

:::::::

You've been working a few hours now. Something about the shared activity makes talking easy, and you've been able to talk about the kids a bit, his and yours, your hopes for them, your fears. Happiness is what you both want for all of them. Staying out of trouble is what you also want for yours – something that hasn't occurred to him to worry about for his, but then his haven't had you as a dad for long enough to send them into worlds they're better off out of. You're going to make sure you're a better father to Leah and Lucas then you've been so far to your boys. You tell Steven about how you got on last week in Dublin – he wants to know – and he gives you hope that it was a step in the right direction.

You slide another batch of bread into the oven, then you turn to Steven. You've got something to say to him, something you've been rehearsing in your head as you worked.

"So, what's next?"

"Now," he says, "We clean up the mess."

"No. No, I mean, what's next... for us? I mean, we just baked bread together. It feels... momentous."

You feel exposed, vulnerable. He has your life in his hands, and there's no one else who's ever had you like that. Like this.

"Does it?" he says.

"Doesn't it?" You need to explain: he wants you to, you can see it in the way he's looking at you. You tell him, all the things that have made it hard between you have been your fault. His instinct then is to touch you, kiss you maybe, but you stop him because you've got to say this. "I just want you to... I want you to know that I'm gonna be there for you, to help you get your kids back."

"Yeah, and once Amy knows that you've really changed – "

"I have changed."

"...Everything's gonna be alright."

"I have changed, you know? You, me, Leah, Lucas, it's... We're gonna be a proper family, and I'm gonna give you the future you deserve, alright? I have changed." You've changed, haven't you? You've got to have changed, or all this will slip through your fingers, and it – he – is all you've got that's worth having. You've changed.

"I know." He thinks you're being weird, doesn't he, or sentimental? But you think he loves you anyhow, and you say, "Come here," and you kiss him, and then because you want to be back on safe ground, and because he'll feel safe that way too, you say, "Sorry, one last thing is... is this," and you pick up a big pinch of flour and flick it into his face. Right in the eye.

You run for it, and he's after you, and he's laughing and he chucks a handful of flour over you, and it's going everywhere. You catch him, kiss him, and plant white handprints on his arse, and he tries to get flour in your hair but you won't have that. You fight him and he pinches you, and you get a few slaps in, sending flour clouding off his backside.

You get back to work: one more kiss, and then you're on clearing-up duty.

:::::::

It's getting late now, but if you have to spend a few more hours here, you're fine with that.

He's still working away, still delegating the menial tasks. You're standing by the oven, watching him kneading more dough, listening to him chattering on about anything that comes into his head. You remember telling him once that he talked too much, and you meant it then, you think: back then, you were scared of the things he said, how he made assumptions about your relationship when a relationship was something you couldn't imagine; how he seemed to see the possibility of beginnings, when you only saw things having to end.

What he's talking about now is how he's ended up here. "Little scally Ste," he says, "Making good."

"Are you drunk?"

"I'm happy," he says. Then he says he's sorry for talking non-stop. "Want me to stop, shut up?"

"No. No, don't stop. I like it... It calms me down." He does. Having him in your life calms you down. He looks at you then, and you don't know how to interpret his look, so you ask, "What?"

He looks away before he answers, "Like an old married couple, aren't we."

"Wouldn't be so bad,"

Maybe it's being in here, locked away from the world, with him in the warmth and the light when it's cold and dark outside: maybe that's why you can say it, and it feels possible, and it doesn't make you afraid.

"Aww," he says, and comes to you.

Then your phone rings, and it's Kevin. Got to be kidding. He's calling from the club, and he's full of apologies but he needs you back there, because there's a pipe burst behind the bar.

"Minor emergency at the club," you say to Steven. "Won't be long."

You kiss him, and you unlock the door and go outside, and shiver as the cold air surrounds you.

Before you go into the club, you look back and see Steven in the glowing light of the deli. You won't be long, because the sooner you get back to him, the sooner you'll get him home.