Anton woke up somewhere around midnight, when Jude’s phone lit up silently on the bedside table. “Jude.”
“Wha’?”
“Your phone.”
Jude grumbled, reaching out. They were tangled impossibly tightly in Anton’s bed, the only clothing Anton’s T-shirt, and despite the ridiculous heat, the mess, and the fact that trying to stifle laughter when fumbling with a condom and hoping your mum didn’t walk in was seriously un-sexy, Anton had never felt more content.
Plus, turned out his dysphoria didn’t go totally crazy if Jude put his fingers—or more—in the distinctly feminine regions, so Anton was a bit over content and into actively happy territory.
“S’just Emma,” Jude yawned, putting the phone back and retreating under the duvet. His head planted itself firmly against the side of Anton’s neck, and A
