know?”
“Yeah,” Kicks breathed out.
“But I wouldn’t change it. And he don’t seem like the kind of guy who would stick around if he was having second thoughts.”
Kicks’ lip quirked up in the corner, and he breathed out. “Fuck. Yeah.” He held the food boxes a little tighter. “Thanks for this.”
“Thank me later after you get your brains sucked out through your dick.”
Kicks flipped him off with his free hand as he walked around to the front of the club and carefully strapped the boxes to the back of his bike. The traffic was heavy, and he stood a little on edge as a handful of bikes rolled past, but none of them lingered, and he couldn’t see any visible cuts flying any colors.
He hated that he didn’t have universal peace in their home. He knew it was coming—most likely. He knew that with the Cobras at their back, they had a far better chance at winning. And he knew that Smokey was focused now—and ready—willing to do whatever it took to take Hydra down and end the madness.
And there might always be someone ready to take his place, but the ghosts of their past were slowly dwindling down to nothing.
By the time Kicks got to his place, the sun had long-since set. He could see a light burning in the front room, and he walked inside, finding Jude on the sofa with his feet stretched onto the table. He glanced up from his book with a smile on his face, his kippah still on the back of his head, though it was askew like he’d dozed off in it.
It was endearing and soft and perfect, and Kicks set the food aside so he had both hands free to cup the man’s face and kiss him long and thorough. “I missed you. Did you have a good…uh. Sabbath?”
Jude’s eyes crinkled in the corners with his grin. “It was lovely, thank you. Did you bring tea?”
“Uh…”
“Dinner,” Jude clarified, rolling his eyes a little. “I was going to make something, but Eliah wanted to walk around a bit after, and my knee was aching by the time I got here.”
Kicks flopped next to him and opened the first box, which was stuffed full of barbequed chicken, then the second, which was piled high with potatoes, collard greens, and cornbread that was just slightly soggy where the greens’ juice had leaked.
“You’re a dream. Have I told you that enough?” Jude asked, seizing a chicken leg.
Kicks licked his lips, drawing up the small threads of courage he had. “I think so. Uh. I love you. Have I…I mean. I know I haven’t said it, but I hope I’ve showed you enough.”
Jude froze, his mouth half full, the chicken hanging limply from his fingers. Kicks seized it before it fell on his lap, and then he took Jude’s fingers and kissed them.
“I know I didn’t say it before, but I should have. And I’m sorry. I’m so fuckin’ in love with you, there really ain’t words for it.” He closed his eye and ran his thumb over Jude’s knuckles. When he was brave enough to look again, he saw the man was still staring. His eyes were dry—which made him feel better because he wasn’t sure he could deal with shit like tears right then, but he saw the profound shock in his lover’s face. “I hope I didn’t fuck up…”
“No,” Jude breathed out. He carefully pushed the boxes of food onto the table, then dragged Kicks close and kissed him again, then again. And again. He tasted like grill smoke and something distinctly him, and Kicks knew he was damn-near addicted. “You’re perfect, love.”
Kicks closed his eyes and let those words wash over him—the praise touching something deep that no one ever had before. “I’m happy. I didn’t think I’d be allowed this. I thought I could be content with what the universe saw fit to give me. Then you rolled up, and…I don’t know,” he finished with a laugh. “I just know it’s real fuckin’ good.”
Jude didn’t say anything then, but Kicks didn’t need him to. The soft touch, the way he kept him close, and the quiet way he breathed out his name like it was a prayer—it was all enough.
Epilogue
There was nothing worse than the emergency ring on his phone sounding when his ass was being filled with come. And he almost ignored it, but Jude pulled out almost abruptly and leaned over the bed, tossing it to him. He was a