Ilan had let himself feel—for the first time ever with a partner, the space around his heart was open, and Fredric wrapped around it like he’d always belonged. He flopped down and let out a groan, resenting anyone who ever made him feel like simple was easy.
Because it wasn’t. Loving Fredric was simple—it was like finding out he was the unknowable answer to the question he’d been asking all of his life. But it came with so much heaviness and responsibility. He would have to rearrange the way he treated every situation—and even though he wanted to, he wasn’t quite sure he was strong enough.
Doubt gripped him, and he wondered for a moment if he should just sneak out instead of going to find Fredric. But before the idea could even begin to take root, the door opened. Sebastian trotted in first with his dark wet nose and Golden Retriever smile. He laid his chin on the edge of the bed, and Ilan dragged fingers through his fur.
His heartbeat was calming when Fredric stepped through the door, and any moment of doubt faded into nothing as he saw the older man’s cautious smile and the tray he was holding between both hands. “Sounds like you’re up,” he said, moving into the room.
Ilan sat up and shuffled over as Fredric found the edge of his bed with his foot, then gently set the tray down at the edge. “Did you cook?”
“I made an attempt,” Fredric said primly, feeling the open space in front of him before turning to sit, “at what you taught me.”
Ilan peered over, and his heart swelled so big he swore he could feel it touching his ribs. Two bowls of shakshuka—a red mess with poached eggs covered in fresh coriander—and a plate of toasted bread between them. “You…” he started, but no other words came.
Fredric’s fingers danced across the empty sheets until the closed over Ilan’s wrist, and then warm lips pressed a soft kiss to the heel of his palm, then to the pad of his thumb. “You taught me to make this for the morning after.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to be for me,” Ilan confessed, his voice a little rough.
Fredric let out a laugh and carefully pulled himself up on the bed fully, without disturbing the tray. He leaned against Ilan’s shoulder and kept his hand tight against his own. “Dear heart,” he murmured, and Ilan’s chest tightened, “if it wasn’t going to be you, it probably wasn’t going to be anyone.”
“That’s not fair,” Ilan said, squeezing Fredric’s fingers. “Anyone would be fucking lucky to be here right now.”
“I don’t want just anyone,” Fredric told him, and then Ilan heard what he was really saying, and god—that was a lot. “Now, taste the food and tell me how badly I screwed up your poor mother’s recipe.”
The weight of the moment lifted with Ilan’s chuckle, then he reached past Fredric for the bowl and ripped off a crust of the bread. He used the sharper end to spear the yolk, which ran out in a gorgeous yellow pool, and he stirred it into the tomato and peppers before taking a bite.
It wasn’t perfect. It tasted nothing like his mother’s—the sort of rich, hearty comfort after a long Shabbat where his active body and mind had been forced to stay still and quiet for longer than he ever wanted.
But it was perfect, because this was not his past. This was his future.
“It’s good,” he said, swallowing.
Fredric was smiling, but he shook his head. “I know it probably needs work.”
“It tastes like,” Ilan said, searching. He took another bite, then set the bowl down and turned so he could touch Fredric’s cheek. “It tastes like yours. It tastes like you made it. It doesn’t need any work you don’t want to put into it.”
Fredric’s cheeks pinked against Ilan’s hand, and he bit his lip. “I just want to know I can be good at this.”
“You already are,” Ilan told him. “I know I…I haven’t really given you much reason to trust me. I’ve spent the last few weeks talking about how I want to try to be more serious but have no faith in my ability to do it. And I ran out on you more than once.”
“Just the one time,” Fredric said, the curve of his smile pushing against Ilan’s hand, “technically.”
Ilan scoffed. “I’m trying to say something here, old man,” he said, and Fredric’s eyes squinted with his grin, as though the mocking nickname was something endearing and wanted.
When Ilan followed up with silence, Fredric shifted and turned to face him, all teasing and mocking gone from his expression. “Ilan.”
“I…” he said, then ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He spied his glasses at the edge of the bed and reached forward, shoving them on. They were smudged from where he’d grabbed them by the lenses, but Fredric’s face came into sharper focus, and it gave Ilan something like courage to see the patience shining from his eyes. “I’m going to try, okay? Hard. I’m going work my ass off because I want to be worth your attention and your l—” he stopped abruptly because just like the night before, the word almost slipped out and he wasn’t ready to acknowledge that, no matter how he felt. “Your patience.”
It was obvious from the look on Fredric’s face he knew what Ilan nearly said, but he let the moment pass. “You already are, my darling.”
“I just,” Ilan said quietly, “want to do this right.”
Fredric bit down on his lip, then said nothing. He reached for the bowls again, handing Ilan’s off to him, and Ilan appreciated the reprieve. They sat shoulder to shoulder that way, with the sun coming in and warming their toes, with the sounds of the ocean gently floating through the two-inch crack in the window.
The moment felt like something important, but small, and Ilan had a sudden and irrational desire to curl his hands around it so nothing could ever touch it. Which was absurd. Things between them weren’t going to stay perfect. Things probably wouldn’t even stay like this for the rest of the day. He still didn’t have enough faith in himself, and Fredric was still feeling his way out of the ghost of his bad marriage.
It was a recipe for disaster, but Ilan was starving for it anyway.
“Thank you,” he said when he was done eating, pushing the tray to the very corner of the bed. The bowls were stacked, and his mouth was a little sour from the tomatoes, but he was feeling calmer now. He leaned back, then looked over at Fredric and saw a smudge of yolk on his cheek, and he reached up without thinking to brush it away with a licked thumb.
Fredric caught him before he could pull back, laughter tugging at the corners of his lips. “Did I make a mess?”
Ilan grinned. “Not as big of a mess as we made last night.” He could see stains on the top of the comforter, which would need a thorough cleaning, but he couldn’t give it more than a passing thought when he saw naked, raw desire rising on Fredric’s face.
“That was…” he said and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and Ilan wanted to lean forward and nibble at it. “It was nothing like I imagined.”
“Worse?”
Fredric gave him a flat look. “Did I seem unsatisfied?”
“You seemed,” Ilan said, hunting for the words, but there were none. He hadn’t been able to see much of him in the dim light, but he’d been able to feel all of him, hear all of him. He drank in Fredric’s groans and shuddering breaths like he needed them to live. Every pass of his hand over their dicks was to make Fredric arch upward against him, to make him want more. To need it.