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    Henry stays on the porch step, just watching. Just looking. It feels like it’s the only thing he’s supposed to do right now—he should just let the world slow around him, let the red cliffs hold them still for a little longer, and look at the man he loves.

    He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the way Alex glows in the morning. Not like this, anyway. There’s no put-together sharpness, no fast-talking charm turned all the way up—just soft Alex. Sleepy, gentle eyes still crinkled from the pillow, sweatshirt sleeves too long over his wrists, and those damned soft curls that seem to be holding the secrets of the universe.

    And this knocks something loose in Henry every single time.

    Or: Alex's curls are wild in the morning breeze and Henry can't get enough of his boyfriend.

    Language:
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    07 Jul 2025