We both know it’s true.
Eventually, we have to pull apart, we have to tuck ourselves away and straighten our clothes. I finish the hem of Saint’s trouser leg, and then I find him a pair of dress socks and Oxfords—deep brown, with some brogueing along the vamp and the toe cap, the kind of shoes that say I have money but I don’t care that I have money, which is exactly the Freddie Dansey energy St. Sebastian needs to match tonight.
I kneel down and help him into the shoes, not because he can’t do them himself—he protests quite irritably that he can—but because I like this feeling so much more than I can explain. Kneeling at his feet, helping him, serving him. Making sure his socks are straight and his laces tied perfectly.
I stand up and study him, nodding finally as I hand him the bla
