Boys of West Denton ✓

chapter twenty-four

sebastian

It's one a.m. on a Thursday night, and Harris has me all alone in his basement.

It's only my third time seeing it, yet it feels familiar. A mix of lived in and bare-bones, all mixed up with the dash of chaos one would expect when dealing with Harrison McCammon. When we came down earlier, I was surprised that his bed was made and that his laundry was in the hamper, honestly.

"You're sure I won't get you in trouble?" I ask him for the fiftieth time. His mom hadn't seemed particularly thrilled to have seen me walking out all that time ago, although she was really nice. It's not like I would have expected a better reaction from a parent discovering another teenager of the preferred sex sneaking out of the house in the wee hours of the morning, after all.

Harris either doesn't know about this, or doesn't care to dwell on it. "You're fine," he says. "She won't find out. And even if she asked, my grandma would vouch for us, no question."

Silently, I give praise to the great Granny Mac.

We had left for Paco's, eaten there, and now we're back at La Casa de McCammon. Despite everything we did earlier, I'm somehow even more nervous now. I just hope it doesn't show.

Dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and thick West Denton Track sweatshirt, Harris sits on the edge of his bed and looks at me, silently inviting me to join him. I sit down next to him, and he places his hand atop mine.

"I'm sorry things have been so weird," he says softly, rubbing his thumb atop my own. "And hectic. And thanks for everything that night."

"Of course," I tell him, even though I'm sure he doesn't remember the extent of everything that went down. I almost want to say that that's probably better for him. I'm just glad that he's possibly admitting that things happened.

He leans his head against my shoulder and sighs. "You've been great," he says. And for a moment, selfishly, I panic. Because that feels like final words, somehow. Whatever this is, whatever we're doing, whatever we are, I don't want to lose it. I don't want him to break it off, but I'd have to respect his decision either way. Somehow, I can't envision my life suddenly being sans-Harrison.

"You are great," I tell him, because I don't know what else to say.

I feel the muscles in his cheek stiffen when he smiles. "Thanks," he whispers.

Instead of saying anything, I just turn my head and press an awkward kiss against his temple. I don't know what else I could say to him.

Harris tilts his head up, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes searching for mine. My heart thuds in my chest. I don't know why, but over the course of just a few weeks, I feel so much better about moving fast with Harris. That first night, I couldn't fathom having sex with him. But right now, if he asked, I would. It no longer feels rushed, or like we're grasping onto some fleeting, short-lived burst of chaotic coalescence. Goddamnit. Just the brief thought of him gently guiding me through my first time—fuck, okay, not right now, Sebastian.

"I'm going to kiss you," he whispers, and then he does.

His lips are soft against mine, each sweet movement of our mouths together drawing out the entirety of my breath till my lungs are empty, my chest is sore and on the verge of collapsing, but I can't stop to breathe, won't let us stop this. Harris's hands press against my chest, and I let him push me down onto the mattress. One of his legs goes over my torso, and he sits back just enough to feel me beneath him. I gasp.

"Wow," he says, his eyes sparkling, "someone is having fun." He grinds against me just a moment, and holy fuck.

"Shut up," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut, my head going back. I didn't know that this would feel so good. "You're so fucking evil."