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“What’s this?” James picks up a box he doesn’t remember packing.
It is two days past their move in date marked in gold sharpie on James’s calendar. Two days of arguments about how to arrange books on shelves and where to put art on walls (if at all). Two nights of getting fucked on their bed. Two thrilling mornings of eyes meeting in their kitchen over coffee for Francis and green juice for James and knowing neither of them has to run back to their own flat for something he forgot before work – ties, shampoo, contact solution. They’ll never have to do that again.
There’s a bone-deep, giddy relief in the air. I’m here. I’m home already.
The cardboard box on James’s lap is dirty and smudged, crinkled and bent and crinkled again. It has clearly been a long time since anyone opened it. So of course he has to.
James delicately undoes the folded together flaps, and blinks at what he finds.
It’s Francis.
Or, a picture of a younger Francis.
He’s filthy with mud up one side of his body, and bleeding freely from a cut on his brow, but his smile is bright and wide through the grime. He has sweaty, ginger hair brighter than James had ever imagined it spilling over white tape holding down his ears, and one eye is blackened and closed in a squint. But he’s happy. He’s so happy.
He’s strong too. Big. His body is clearly straining at the edges of his kit. Tiny black shorts hugging his thick thighs, chest pushing against his jersey.
A jersey which James realizes is in the box as well. Clearly washed since whatever unfortunate mud puddle it slid through several decades prior, though its white collar portrays hints of permanent stains. James runs his finger across the striped, blue fabric. It’s softer than he’d expected. The sort of fabric that promises warmth and comfort. The type you’d want wrapped around you, maybe while you’re being kissed within an inch of your life and—
“What are you staring at?” Francis asks.
“Oh, I—” James tilts the box towards Francis. He can feel himself flushing. Why is he flushing? “I’ve never seen this before, surprised me a bit.”
“You knew I played rugby in uni,” Francis says mildly, going back to sorting through a box of paperbacks James is sure he hasn’t cracked open in ten years and thus should’ve been in the giveaway box. “That’s where I met Clarkie.”
“Well, yes, but…” James does know this. He knows it in the crooked bend of Francis’s nose, and in a knee that aches in the rain and fingers that don’t quite fit together after too many breaks. He knows it in the way Francis takes charge of a meeting, of the gaps in performance he’s always looking to fill. In the people who came with him into James’s life; Clarkie from uni and Blanky from an old rec league.
He knows rugby as something that had made Francis, Francis. A shadow alongside the present that James loves so much.
He does not know it as a vibrant, beating past.
“I hadn’t realized you’d hung onto all of this, I guess,” he offers lamely. The young Francis in the photo is staring at him. There is none of the current Francis’s shyness around cameras in his grin. “I’ve never seen a picture of you from back then. You’re—”
What?
What is Francis in that photo that he isn’t today that so grabs James’s attention? Young? No, James had never wanted Francis to be young. He’s unburdened, surely, and three years ago that would have been a shock, but James has seen more and more of that Francis come out in their time together. Has reveled in Francis’s growing ease and delight.
So, what is it?
“One of my sisters sent it to me after Mammy died,” Francis explains before James can come up with a better ending to his sentence. “I never seem to throw it away, just follows me around from flat to flat.” Francis looks up from his paperbacks, his gaze flicking between James and the box as a frown starts to form. “Maybe it’s finally time to throw it out. Since we’re getting rid of things.”
“No!” James shouts, startling them both. But at least Francis lifts his brows, getting rid of the furrow forming between them. “You shouldn’t,” he says in a softer tone, thumb rubbing against the jersey again. “It’s—we can put it up, if you want, the photo. Even the jersey. God knows we have the wall space.”
He is unable to stop this last sentence from coming out as a grumble.
“Just because someone used real paint on canvas doesn’t make it art, James. Certainly not art that belongs in our living room.”
And that sets them off again and James puts the box to the side to go point and yell at a blank wall which turns to Francis smiling fondly at his ranting which reminds James that they share the wall it’s their wall because they live together and of course he has to take Francis to bed right then and there at one in the afternoon, so it’s not until they’re washing dishes (James’s) after dinner that he thinks to bring it up again.
“I meant it about the picture, you know,” he says with hands covered in suds, “we can put it wherever you want. No point it letting it just sit in a box. Hiding your red-blooded youth from the world.”
James says the last bit in a teasing tone, with an elbow to Francis’s side, but he grimaces.
“…No,” he says after a moment of drying in silence, “best to just leave it. I’ll shove the box back in a closet later. Forget about it all over again.”
Normally, James might let it drop. After all, it’s not like he has any of his own pictures from uni up on the walls. They’re all online, anyway, and not worth the cost of the ink.
It’s like the box; when something has been hidden and locked away, James has to open it.
But when he tries to raise the subject a few times, Francis always shuts him down. Not rudely, but definitively.
“It was a long time ago,” he says, “why do we need to bring it up? Let’s just go buy something new for the wall together.”
Which would also be fine, and is, ultimately, fine in a sense when they spend a day wandering around flea markets and come home with a lovely Turner knockoff for twenty pounds.
But James can’t stop sneaking away to look at the box. Or really, the picture of Francis in the box.
It’s the fulfillment of so many teenaged fantasies, he supposes. The popular rugby captain likes him, wants him; weedy, four-eyed, talks too much James Fitzjames. Who wouldn’t grow into himself until his mid-twenties, and wouldn’t find himself until Francis walked through the door one day and cut right through him with a glance.
Which is the confusion of the whole thing, of course.
In any case, he’s starting to feel like a pervert, running off in secret to stare at the hidden photo of his own boyfriend at an adult age performing the wholesome activity of smiling and bleeding for the camera.
God, he looks like he smelled filthy and delicious in the photograph. Sweat and grass and blood.
When James holds the jersey up to his face, it smells like Francis.
But that doesn’t explain the obsession, not really. James knows Francis, and he would never have been the popular rugby captain stereotype anyway.
Or.
Would he have?
James picks up the photo again, stares at it.
He doesn’t know this man. This boy, practically. He wouldn’t meet Francis for almost thirty years after it was taken. That’s a long time. Something turns in his stomach.
Ah, he knows this feeling. He’s back on familiar ground again, wanting what he can’t have.
A jealousy of knowing Francis in all forms, in all ways. A hunger.
It’s ridiculous of course. Francis had a life before James, and James had a life before Francis, for all that the lengths may differ. But it’s ridiculous in the way James finds he often is about Francis.
Before they got together, he wanted his attention, his sole focus, no matter how cruelly it was delivered. Before they moved in together, he wanted Francis’s time, his love, his affection. It had taken him months of buildup to meet Clarkie, the first big ex in Francis’s life. He still hasn’t been able to stomach the thought of meeting Sophia, currently the holder of two proposals while James has zero.
Now that they’re living together, it seems he just wants Francis the man entire. James wants to fit into every inch of life he’s had, somehow. Fold his body around the contours of time and space so that wherever Francis looks, he sees James.
He has always been terrible at desire.
The more he’s denied, the more he wants, and though it is being done kindly, there is no question that Francis is denying him.
But, he thinks as a plan begins to form, perhaps not for much longer
Francis is relieved when James leaves off the rugby.
He misses it sometimes. The thrill and dread he felt at kick-off. The knowledge of what he could push his body through and survive. The ease of friendships made on the pitch, a couple of which have lasted his whole life.
But this was different. He’d seen the look on James’s face as he’d held that photo of Francis at twenty-three. Eyes brightly astonished and cheeks flushed with, well…
It hadn’t been a great feeling, to see that look and know it wasn’t because of him. Not really.
Because he can’t understand James’s obsession with an old photograph if it has nothing to do with what Francis looked like in that old photograph. Who does he see there, if not someone half-formed, and so different from the man he loves today? What does he want from it but something Francis can’t give him? Youth, time, and a strong body to hold him close.
Then James stops asking, and Francis is left with a handful of unanswered questions he’s afraid to ask. Things are good between them. Too good. There’s no reason to go mucking it up with his own problems. So he puts his feelings away out of sight, and tries to forget. Maybe James will too, if Francis is lucky.
When he comes home from his evening walk with Neptune he is not thinking about James or rugby or anything really.
Or, well, that’s not really true.
He’s wondering if he should buy a new jacket, because the zipper keeps sticking on his and he hates the idea of everyone staring at him on the corner while he tries to fix it without losing hold of Neptune’s leash.
If you unspool this further, he really is thinking about James after all.
He wants to ask James about the jacket, and James will either tell him no one is looking or, knowing James, that they are only looking because Francis is so handsome. Or he will say yes Francis we should get you a new jacket, and then James will find one. Or best of all a combination of the two – no one is looking at you but I can see that this bothers you and I want you to be comfortable, my love, so let’s look together.
The way this tangle of thoughts presents itself to Francis is a dim, “James will know” at the back of his mind, followed by the little zap of pleasure that he always gets when he remembers that they live together now. That James is not a disconnected voice on the phone or a series of emojis Francis doesn’t understand, but a warm body and lovely smile just through the door.
It puts a pep into his step as he hangs up the offending jacket and lets Neptune off the leash.
“James?”
“I’m in the bedroom.”
Francis follows the voice and doesn’t think much of the fact that the door is closed, but his jaw drops when he opens it.
There is James, caught in the lowlight of candles and sunset wearing only Francis’s old rugby shirt and a pair of tight black underwear. Later, Francis will reflect that for James to choose plain black instead of one of his more extravagant pairs was a bid to get Francis to pay more attention to what James is wearing up top, and he will laugh at how unnecessary it was.
He cannot stop staring at the way the fabric sits on James. The shirt drapes over him, doing the impossible and making long-limbed and larger than life James Fitzjames seem small and delicate. It’s not too long, the few inches James has on Francis showing in wrists peeking out of the frayed sleeves, but James has none of the heft of Francis’s youth. His shoulders are broad, but Francis’s had been bulldozers. His chest is toned, but Francis’s had swelled with power.
He looks young. He looks like someone Francis wants to scoop up into his arms and protect. He looks breakable. He looks like someone Francis wants to pin down into submission and fuck until he can’t even speak.
“Uh,” Francis states intelligently.
“Hello, Captain,” James says, and then he is on Francis. Grabbing his hips and kissing him breathless. Francis kisses back automatically, opens his mouth to James’s tongue like a flower turning to the sun. It has become his natural state to respond to James, to give into his touches and kisses and whims without a thought beyond good and yes and please.
But then his fingers grasp against that long-forgotten cotton instead of James’s skin. Francis inhales sharply. He had expected the scent of musk and dust, but all he smells is fresh laundry and the sandalwood of James’s shampoo.
It wouldn’t fit him anymore, but James went to the trouble of getting the shirt washed anyway. The realization is a weight in his stomach.
Francis breaks the kiss, and isn’t too terribly surprised when James takes that as a sign to mouth at his jaw instead.
“James—”
“Hm?” James nips at an ear, and Francis shivers.
“James.” He pulls back, grasps James’s chin to look him in the eyes. James’s are burning with something Francis is afraid to recognize. “What is this? Is this about that damn picture?”
“What would you have done, if you’d known me then?” James asks instead of answering, and Francis blinks at the absurdity of the question.
“If I had…? You were—young,” he refuses to put a number to it, “when that was taken. We wouldn’t have known each other.”
The back of his neck is hot.
“But if we had,” James presses. “If I had walked up to you after a match.”
“I imagine I would have asked you where your mum was,” Francis grumbles, feeling slightly humiliated at the answer. What else can he say?
“That’s not what I mean.” James sighs and pinches at the faint red lines on his nose where his glasses normally sit at night. “Why won’t you talk to me about any of it? The photo, the jersey. The rugby.”
“Why do you care about it?” Francis counters. Finally, the questions. He wants James to just admit it so they can move on with it out in the open at least. Just tell Francis what he wants that Francis can’t give him. He’d rather know. It’s better to know. “It was a long time ago. I don’t—
“Because I want you,” James says simply. “I want to have you.”
James loves him. Francis knows this. James wants him. Francis knows this too. Uses it to his advantage sometimes. But—
“That’s not me, James.” And he means it. He remembers himself in the photograph. Twenty-three and bleeding but whole in a way he is only just remembering how to feel. He is young and he is strong. He is wearing this jersey and it fits.
He must be brave now like he was then. He must take the hit. “I worried that what you really want is a person I can’t be again. I’m…” Francis gestures helplessly at himself. “I’m this.”
“Francis, if you think I didn’t look at your tree trunk ex rugby thighs the day we met and immediately think, ‘crush me daddy,’ you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”
James looks at Francis with what might politely be described as a dirty leer, and Francis can feel himself flushing, though he has said filthier things in bed to James before.
“I hardly crush you,” he says after a moment.
“Well then, maybe you need to try harder.
“Maybe I do.”
They smile at each other stupidly, the tide of flirtation and desire lapping gently at them both before James turns soft and serious again.
“It is you,” he insists, “Christ, the only reason I can even think about the you in that photo is because it’s still you, Francis. And I just want you. All of you. Even the you that hadn’t met me yet. It’s selfish; I won’t pretend to be something I’m not anymore. But… don’t you want that, too?”
Yes, Francis wants to say. Please yes be mine and keep me too, let me love and be loved for once please. Especially when it’s you. Especially because it’s you. You with your tempers and your airs and your heart and your grit. You who will hold my hand in the dark and kiss me in the sun. You you you.
“You have me,” he promises instead, and leans in to kiss James because he is out of words that are not ‘How can that be possible?’ or ‘I barely even belong to myself some days.’
James should have him, though. James would take better care of him. If he knew how to give his youth away again, he would. But time doesn’t work like that.
“You still don’t understand,” James says when they pull apart, licking his lips as if he can taste Francis’s thoughts.
“How can you possibly tell?”
“Because I know you, Francis,” James starts, and then stops suddenly. He looks at Francis with wide eyes, as if expecting Francis to disagree. To push him back.
But why would he? This is all Francis has ever wanted. To know and be known.
“You do,” he agrees. “Better than anyone, I think.” This earns him a gasp of happiness and another fierce, panting kiss.
Who else would kiss Francis like he is something precious and infinite? Who else would have clocked his discomfort, let alone tried to fix it? Who else but James, who does not hold up a mirror for Francis to look in, but paints a picture of what he sees instead?
“So help me see, then,” Francis says when James pulls back to breathe. “I want to—to understand it. I want to understand you.”
“Hmm…” James considers it for a moment. There is a thrill about him that Francis recognizes, that he never expected to get this far. “Close your eyes,” he says and as Francis does he hears the muffled thud of James dropping to his knees on the carpet. “Now try again,” he whispers and then he is opening Francis’s jeans and pulling out Francis’s cock. “Picture us the way I want you to. Don’t think about how the kit looked on you. Focus on how it looks on me.”
There is warm, slick heat and there is the touch of James’s tongue and then Francis is wrapping his fingers in that silken hair, pulling it just the way he knows James likes. The edge of the shirt’s collar just touches his wrist.
And the thing is he can picture it like this, in some timeless universe set apart from their own, where all the selves they ever were and would be could meet. Some place where they could find each other in the middle and love foolishly and recklessly.
The timeless, ageless James hums happily around Francis’s length.
Then Francis opens his eyes and there is James of the here and now, lips stretched obscenely and cheeks flushed red and that familiar glint in his eye up for any challenge, and Francis realizes he doesn’t have to imagine anything – that’s what this life is. He is all his past selves put together, and James loves him. Their futures will only be together, and he will love James through it.
He chokes out James’s name and pulls him up urgently, gathers him in his arms as he crushes their mouths together, licks the taste of himself off James’s tongue.
“I want it,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, “I want you. You, you, you. All of you.”
“Yes,” James sounds relieved, “that’s it. Give me everything, Francis. All of it.”
He pulls James close, fingers bunching in the soft fabric of the jersey that was once so familiar to him, and James responds eagerly, sucks roughly at his bottom lip.
“So, what would you do?” he asks again, when Francis leaves off his mouth to bite at his neck.
“Hm?”
“If you knew me then, would you have wanted me?” James asks, a ribbon of need curling around his voice as Francis reaches down to palm his stiff cock. He can feel a damp patch at the front of the underwear and shivers.
“Christ, I’d have been sick with it.”
“So, what would you have done about it?”
“I’d find you in the stands after a game,” Francis sucks a bruise onto James’s neck, “where you’d have been watching me like you always were in the office. Those damn eyes of yours never give me a moment of peace.”
“I’d have gone to every game just hoping you would look at me,” James bucks against Francis’s hand. “I like when you look at me.”
“And I would—I’d see you, James, and I wouldn’t be able to look away. I never can.”
James groans and surges up for another kiss, sucking desperately at Francis’s tongue as he ruts against Francis’s hand.
“I’d come up to you, I’d be so nervous, but I’d know you were worth it.”
“Just like real life then,” James laughs and Francis nods. God, he’d been a blushing wreck, so afraid he’d read every signal backwards like always. “And I’d hold your hand just the same way.” Fingers laced and trembling with excitement on the table of the café. An invitation home hovering on both of their lips.
“I’d whisper to meet me after my shower—"
“No,” James says abruptly, “no shower,” and Francis can’t help a breathless little chuckle at that.
“Alright, you can have me smelly and dirty if you want.”
“Filthy,” James agrees and presses his nose to Francis’s neck, inhales the sweat there from his walk with Neptune, “bloody and bruised.”
He leans back and looks at Francis like he can see it on him now, the blood dripping down his forehead and the eye swollen black and purple. His eyes are tender and worried.
“It must be scary,” James says in a young voice. James has climbed mountains and rescued men from the sea. James has walked across continents and talked his way out of being held up at gunpoint.
“Not really, “Francis says, “it’s…” he tries to picture how it felt to go down on the pitch. How it feels. The anticipation and the adrenaline. The solid truth of another body against your own. The pain mixed into pleasure from taking a hit and surrendering yourself to the earth below you. The fraught chaos at the bottom of a ruck trying to protect something that is, briefly, worth so much more than your own self. He doesn’t know if he has the words for it.
Abruptly but carefully, he picks James up in a rugby tackle. Crouch and lunge. Shoulder to hip. Hand pulling up at the thigh. Drive. The memory of is locked into his body. They land on the bed with a bounce and an ‘oof’.
“Were you scared just then?” Francis asks as he leans over James, who is lying prone on the bed.
“No,” James says, his eyes are wide and dark. His lips are parted. His cock is hard and insistent.
“It’s like that.”
James reaches up and traces one thumb carefully across Francis’s brow, then puts it to his mouth and licks at the blood Francis washed off years ago.
“Mine.”
Heat shoots through Francis’s body, and he lets out a low moan.
“I’d mark you to match me,” he says, fastening his mouth to that long neck and sucking a second bruise. Biting down with teeth and causing James to groan. “Over and over again, paint you with my mouth.” He pulls back and surveys his work. His eyes hungrily trace over the tanned skin peeking out of the open collar, stretched wide from too many illegal tackles and displaying the bruises like a string of diamonds. “There you’d be wearing this, and everyone would see. Everyone would know.”
“What would they know?” James pants.
“That you were mine.” Francis pushes James’s underwear down and strokes the velvet skin of James’s cock.
“Yes—!” James fucks into his fist. “Make me yours, Francis. I was always yours.” He rolls them over so that he’s straddling Francis on the bed, and grinds against Francis’s still clothed prick.
Francis shivers and trails his other hand up, fingers brushing against his own name stitched so carefully on James’s back.
They could share it one day.
Or share a different one, if that was what James preferred. His heart trips happily at the thought, and he hums into James’s mouth.
The urge to get down on one knee right then and there is strong, and the only things that really stop him are how much he wants to keep kissing James, and the conviction that James deserves something better than that. Flowers and candles and a ring. All the things Francis never quite felt brave enough to try with Sophie, where marriage had been discussed (and rejected) as a mutually beneficial decision and inevitable (regrettable) outcome.
Instead he sits up on the bed and throws off his shirt before pulling James against him. When James makes to take off his own shirt, Francis stops him.
“I thought you could… keep that on.”
James’s pretty cock is standing stiffly, red head flushed and drooling slightly against the edge of the jersey.
“Yeah?” his eyes darken. “Why?”
“James…”
“Tell me why, Francis.” He gives a pointed roll of his hips.
“B-because—I like the way it looks on you.” Francis shudders. “Because I want to imagine it. I want to belong to you, even before I knew you.” James moves off of him to help pull his jeans and boxers down, and Francis can’t stop babbling. “I asked you to wear it. I wanted you to wear it around campus. And you said yes and it—Jesus Christ, James,” he groans as James takes him back in his mouth, sucks at him eagerly like any time apart between his lips and Francis’s cock is a mistake.
“It what?” James rasps before diving back down.
“It made me so happy,” this is too much, it is too much for him, “to know that—God—to know that you wanted me. That you would tell everyone you wanted me. James, James,” Francis pushes at James’s shoulder, “if you make me come before you let me fuck you, I—”
James pulls off and grins.
“You’ll finally crush me?” he asks, and Francis snorts. “Make me run a lap? The captain can do that, can’t he?”
“He can,” Francis agrees, “but I was thinking more like edge you until you were crying.”
“I thought this was supposed to be a threat.”
“Oh. It is.” Francis tries to sit up and make good on it, but James pushes him back down, and straddles him once more.
“I want to have you,” he reminds Francis, before rising up on his knees, “and besides, you’ve already worked so hard today. You must be tired; all that running and bleeding.” He lines Francis up underneath him and sinks down, and of course he had prepared himself already. Of course he wanted to take Francis inside of himself as soon as he could. Eager, grasping thing that he is. “Let me take care of you.”
James fucks himself on Francis’s cock leisurely, wantonly. Francis is trembling underneath him, his hands fisted in the shirt, wrinkling the blue cotton beyond repair. Stretching it too, as he pulls James down roughly on his yard.
He is so worked up, he knows he won’t last long, and so he reaches a hand to James’s cock and starts to stroke him in time with the thrusts of his hips. James’s thighs begin to twitch, and he is red-faced and panting and Francis knows he’s close.
“That’s it,” Francis says, “that’s it,” and when James starts to come Francis aims as best as he can to get it all over the front of James’s jersey. Blue stripes now dappled with white. He stares, that possessive, insistent heat running through him again, but James has his eyes closed. Francis tries to get him up and off, and they shoot open, and he clenches hard around Francis’s cock.
“I want you to come inside,” James moans, and rolls his hips again, “I want it in me. I want all of you to be mine.”
“I will,” Francis promises, “I will, just… let me fuck you properly. While I’m still young.”
He smiles, and James smiles back and then they are giggling while he pulls off of Francis with a lewd, wet sound. Lying back on the pillows he’s a vision. Fucked out and covered in spunk and Francis’s name. Francis’s holds his legs apart and pushes back into him, again and again.
“Harder,” James grunts, “harder, Francis. Make me yours. Own me.”
Francis does, grasps his hips till they bruise and fucks James in a way he knows will leave them both sore and aching tomorrow.
When he comes it is punched out of him, violent and vicious and perfect. He can feel himself pulsing inside of James’s tight heat, filling him.
They stay like that for a moment, still joined and staring at each other, eyes wide like they have found an undiscovered country. There is a feeling splitting through him, some heavy, grasping emotion Francis can’t quite name but which he can recognize in James’s eyes right now.
He got a concussion once during a game, tackled wrong and cracked his head hard on the ground, was out for a month afterwards. The only way he could describe it was that someone had picked him up and rung him like a bell.
The feeling is a little bit like that, but good. It’s so good.
He kisses James again, as soft and as sweet as he knows how, and James kisses back. Then he carefully pulls out, and goes to fetch a flannel to clean them up. Captains do have their duties, after all.
When he comes back to the bed James is frowning down at the jersey.
“I’m sorry I got your shirt all filthy again.” He takes it off, and this time Francis lets him, but before he tosses it away Francis stills him with a hand to his wrist.
“It’s yours, you know,” he says, nodding towards the shirt, “if you want it. Everything about it.”
James blinks, looks from Francis to the shirt and back again. Runs his fingers across the name stitched on the back.
“Only if you want it,” Francis says again. And then he is being kissed and kissed and kissed.
“All of you, I said,” James whispers. He folds the shirt neatly before placing it gently on the ground, as if it is some great, precious thing and not jizz-covered cheap fabric from the 80s. He lets Francis clean him up, and then curls up possessively at his side.
It is about six-thirty in the evening. The sun has only just set. They will be up in about three hours, Francis thinks, and they will probably order from that new Thai place James has become so fond of. Maybe put on a movie or just drowse on the couch with a record, full of good food and still enjoying the lingering endorphins from sex on the couch in the room in the house that is theirs.
“I love you,” James says drowsily.
Though they have said the words many times before, there is something careful and weighty to them after moving in together. I love you, see? Here we are in our home together.
“I love you too,” Francis says back. He wants to say more. Thank James, for showing him what they can be together. What they are. But he knows James won’t want that. He places a kiss on James’s brow instead, and James lets out a little content sigh. “Now get some rest. We have to finally finish unpacking in the morning.”