Brass Buttons at Cinderwick

I kiss him before Nolan can assign us another civic task. Victor grabs my jacket and kisses me back like he has been waiting through every rainstorm, every ruined floorboard, every damn pumpkin in this town.

When we pull apart, Dewey gives one solid clap.

“Approved,” he says.

Nolan dabs at his eyes with a festival flyer. “Go inspect a room together. For quality control.”

“Get a hobby,” I tell him.

“This is my hobby.”

Victor takes my hand. “Come on, contractor.”

The front door closes behind us, muting the festival to a cheerful blur. The lobby smells of fresh paint, cider drifting in from outside, and the clean wood polish I used on the desk this morning.

Victor turns the lock.

I lean against the door. “You sure?”

He steps close enough that his chest meets mine. “I have been sure since that stupid cooler fan.”

“Good answer.”

“I’ve got better ones.” His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my skin. “I want you, Hollis. I want this. No disappearing afterward. No jokes to dodge the important part.”

“You have me.” I pull my shirt over my head. “And if you want slower, you tell me. If you want me to stop, I stop.”

“I’ll tell you.” He unbuttons my jeans. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

Room Two is closest, all blue walls and harbor light. I shut that door too, because apparently I’ve learned something about privacy at last.

Victor backs toward the bed, watching me with that sharp, pleased look that always makes me want to earn it. I kiss him again, deep and hungry, then work his sweater over his head. His skin is warm under my hands. I kiss his throat, his collarbone, the flat plane of his stomach.

“Still bossy?” I ask.

“Terribly.”

“Good.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, opens his knees, and hooks two fingers in the waistband of my briefs. “Come here.”

I do.

Victor takes my cock into his mouth with a slow, deliberate confidence that knocks every clever thought out of my head. His lips close around me, his cheeks hollowing as he takes more. I brace one hand on the headboard.

“Victor.”

He looks up.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He takes me deeper. “I want to.”

That answer nearly ruins me. I pull him up before I lose all sense, kiss him hard, and lay him back on the quilt.

“My turn,” I say.

Victor laughs once, then his sound breaks when I take him into my mouth. I keep my hands on his hips and give him what he gave me: patience, attention, nowhere to hide. He says my name again and again, each time less like an accusation and more like a gift.

When he’s close, I pull back.

“No,” he protests.

“Condom,” I tell him. “Lube. Then you can complain properly.”

“You are such a menace.”

“You said favorite.”

“I stand by it.”

I roll the condom on, slick my fingers, and settle between his thighs. “Still with me?”

“Yes.” He reaches for me. “Please.”

I ease one finger into him, then another when his body loosens around me. I keep checking his face, his hands, every small signal he gives me.

“More,” he says.

“You sure?”

“Hollis.”

“Fair.”

When I press into him, Victor holds my shoulders and lets out my name like he’s been saving it up. I go slow at first, giving him time to take me fully. Then he rocks up against me, impatient and glorious.

“Don’t you dare stop,” he says.

So I don’t.

I move with him, kissing him between every breathless laugh and curse. His legs lock around my hips. His cock pulses between us, spilling across his stomach as he comes hard, pulling me with him.

I follow moments later, burying my face against his neck and holding him close while the room settles around us.

Victor rubs a hand over my back. “You still here?”

I lift my head and kiss him once.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here.”

Later, cold November rain taps the boardinghouse windows while twenty adults crowd the rebuilt dining room for Cinderwick’s first supper.

Victor keeps coffee moving. Nolan keeps stealing rolls. Dewey claims the two seats nearest the stove before anybody can argue.

“Permanent,” he says.

Nolan drops into the chair beside him. “Obviously permanent. We’re founding members.”

“Of what?”

“Whatever this is,” Nolan says, waving at the room.

I look around at the full tables, the polished floor, Victor arguing cheerfully with Dean about cinnamon, and decide I hate that he’s right.

After dessert, Victor brings the old guest ledger to me. A new line waits beneath the yellowed names.

“First reservation,” he says. “Micah Bell. Room Two. Three nights, starting Friday.”

I run my thumb along the page. “We’re open, then.”

“We’re open, chéri.”

Nolan leans over my shoulder. “Put Dewey and me down for supper every Tuesday.”

“I’m not putting local freeloaders in a guest ledger.”

Dewey reaches for the pen. “Make a new section.”

“That is not how books work.”

“It is now,” Victor says.

So I make a new heading: Permanent Seats. Dewey signs first, neat as an inspection report. Nolan adds a flourish big enough to require its own zip code.

When the last plates are stacked and the rain has chased everybody home, Victor stands by the stove with his sleeves rolled up.

I take a small box from my pocket.

His eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

“Try not to make it weird.”

“Too late.”

Inside is one brass button from the old porter coat, polished bright and threaded onto a simple chain.

“For you,” I say. “So you know I mean it.”

Victor lifts it carefully. “Mean what?”

“I’m staying. The inn, the café, these ridiculous suppers. You. All of it.”

His face goes soft in a way that wrecks me better than any clever line ever could. He fastens the chain, then kisses me.

Outside, November keeps drumming at the glass. Inside, the ledger lies open under its lamp, ready for whoever comes next.

Victor takes my hand. “Breakfast meeting tomorrow?”

“About what?”

“Our future, contractor.”

I squeeze his hand. “Bossy.”

“You love it.”

Yeah. I do.