Chapter 8It’s the earliest part of the morning, the grayest part, when Reza speaks. His voice spills low and deliberate into the humid warmth still settled between their bodies.
“Dopamine,” he says, “serotonin, oxytocin.”
Vince’s eyes slide open. Take in the shadows of his room. “What?” he rasps, and his voice is a parching reminder of noises he was barely conscious of making earlier, swelling moans that fell into Reza’s mouth and then the sheets below.
“Dopamine,” Reza repeats, syllables velvety, “serotonin, oxytocin.”
After a still moment, Vince turns to face him. He eases himself around, wary of noise. Careful.
So careful, lately. It’s been barely a week since the standoff in the garden and some despairing helplessness born then has made itself at home. A third figure in their bed.
