Kyle didn’t corner Aaron.
He waited.
That was the difference.
If Harvey was heat and pressure, Kyle was gravity—subtle, inescapable, pulling Aaron closer without ever seeming to move.
It started with proximity.
Aaron would be chopping vegetables, baby balanced on his hip, when Kyle would drift into the kitchen and lean against the counter. Not touching. Just close enough that Aaron could feel his warmth and the carefully dabbed essential oils and enticing scents.
“You don’t need to do that,” Kyle said one afternoon, watching Aaron rinse rice three times like it was sacred and chopping vegetables in record time. “I could’ve ordered takeout.”
Aaron shook his head. “You said this was your favorite.”
Kyle blinked. “I said that once.”
Aaron shrugged, embarrassed. “I remember things.”
