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Summary
Stan jerks away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not going to be second-best,” he growls, eyes dark. There’s a certain angry defiance in Stan that’s enrapturing, white-hot like wildfire. “I know I’m not as good as him, but I can’t—” His chest heaves. “I won’t do that to myself.”
Fiddleford reaches up, tracing the curve of his cheekbone. And it only takes his touch for Stan to fall apart again, to tremble like a newborn calf.
Beautiful, Fiddleford thinks.
