Sitting on the edge of the other bed, Dante
watches Ryan dress and resists the urge to ask if he can help.
He’s done this before, he tells himself, frowning as his
boyfriend lies back on the bed they shared the night before and
tugs his jeans up over his hips. Every morning since the
accident, over a month now, he doesn’t need your help. Still,
it pains Dante’s heart to watch him struggle—he has to pull the
jeans to his thighs, arch away from the bed and inch them up
further, fall back to the bed and try again, and again, until
finally the damn pants are around his waist and he can zip them up.
Probably had to do the same with his boxers, but Dante was in the
bathroom brushing his teeth at the time and didn’t see that. Maybe
he should’ve stayed in the bathroom until Ryan dresse
