Josiah grabbed his backpack. “I’m not with him. How many times do I have to tell you that? He’s...” Josiah shrugged. “Helping me out. I don’t have the money to do much else. Cooking’s all I got.”

“And you also didn’t see his face a few months back when he came in here looking for you. He doesn’t know you, but he let you live in his house. He wants you, man.”

A slow heat rolled through Josiah, making his skin burn. The thought of Tristan wanting him made the ache, the desire he felt around Tristan, multiply. He’d give anything for Tristan to want him.

“I have to go.” Josiah went for the door, but Elliot’s voice stopped him.

“Go for it, man. Can’t hurt. Make a move or some shit. Try to be happy.”

That word swam around inside him. Happy. He’d dreamed of that his whole life. He found it briefly with Teo. Things had been hard—scary—but despite it all, having Teo had made him happy. What he wouldn’t give to be happy again. Really happy. Forever happy.

He nodded at Elliot, unsure if it really meant anything or not, if he’d really do anything before walking out.

Josiah looked at his cell phone on the way home. It was five thirty. Tristan had said he’d be home at seven.

The closer the bus got to Tristan’s neighborhood, the faster his heartbeat. Could he do this? Did he want to? Hell yeah, he wanted to. That was a no-brainer. The only thing he had to do was figure out if he could do something about it or not.

He’d kissed Mateo first, told Tristan he wanted to go home with him the first day they met. And Josiah didn’t want a relationship, he wanted pleasure. For once, just pleasure, and maybe the only way to get it was to show Tristan he wanted it.

Yes...he could do this. He would. For once he just wanted to react and not think about the consequences.

Josiah started dinner as soon as he got home. He sautéed chicken in red wine Tristan had bought for cooking. Chopped vegetables and rice before mixing them all together. Josiah put it in the oven before heading to the shower.

It wasn’t like he had anything nice to wear like Tristan. Didn’t have a different suit for every day. That didn’t bother him, though, because...well, because suits weren’t really him. Josiah slid on a pair of the nicest jeans he had and a shirt before he went back down to wait for Tristan.

Searching the wine fridge, he looked for Tristan’s favorite kind. At seven he set it on the table and made them both plates, the whole time thinking, holy shit, I’m going to try and sleep with Tristan Croft.

At seven thirty he put the wine back in the fridge so it didn’t get warm. At eight he checked his phone for missed calls or a text. Then at eight thirty. And again at nine.

Nothing. “I am so stupid.”

What had he been thinking? Yeah, he knew Tristan didn’t owe him anything. If he wasn’t here, it was because he was busy, or disappearing to wherever he refused to tell Josiah he went. Very likely with another man. And he had every right. That didn’t mean Josiah didn’t wonder why it couldn’t be him.

Josiah scraped the food off his plate and into the trash before washing it. He covered Tristan’s plate and set it in the fridge for him before turning off all the lights and going to his room.

He studied, and read a bit. Fought with himself on whether or not to Google Mateo Sanchez. Everything in him begged for Josiah to do it, but he managed to hold off again. Nothing he found online could soothe him.

At ten thirty, there was a soft knock on his door.

“Come in,” he called, and Tristan slowly opened the door. His tie was undone, as were the top buttons on his shirt. Desire sliced through him.

“Dinner was good. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Tristan’s eyes skated around the room. Even from ten feet away, he saw Tristan’s jaw flex, the way he did when he was frustrated by something.

“You’ve been here over four months. Why aren’t you completely unpacked?”

Josiah shrugged. “My clothes are put away.”

“But your other things are boxed up.”

He almost held back his honesty, but he was tired of that. “Because it’s easier when you have to pick up and leave. I might live here, but the house isn’t mine.” Just like the bed he’d had at Molly and William’s hadn’t been his. The apartment with Mateo and the one he got when he moved here had been the only places he ever fully unpacked.

Tristan crossed his arms. “Fair enough. You’re angry at me, though. I see it. Do you want to explain that?”