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In a lot of ways, Bradley’s life in Northeast Harbor is incredibly predictable. There are constants – the fifteen minute drive to work, the expensive yachts moored in the marina, the terrible coffee that he continues to drink because there’s no better option and the local bakery’s blueberry pie, which always deserves a second slice. There are fluctuations too, albeit no less predictable than the things which stay the same, like changing tides with the gravitational pull of the moon. The population of the seaside town swells in the summer, drawing crowds of city-dwellers seeking a retreat which doesn’t suffer from the same overcrowding as Nantucket or Bar Harbor. Bradley’s work becomes busier, adapting to the increased tourism in Acadia National Park. The lines at his mediocre coffee shop become longer, even though the quality of the coffee doesn’t improve. As soon as mid-October hits, however, everything in flux goes back to its normal state of being – sleepy and idyllic – tucked away at the foot of Mount Desert Island.
Predictability is one of the reasons Bradley loves this place. He loves the buzz of summer, the vibrant atmosphere and the flood of people. He socializes, forges temporary friendships with tourists at The Nor'Easter – the only bar in town – and occasionally winds up with a seasonal, one-night-stand. Some of those people he sees again – once or twice a year, at most – others never return. The fleeting nature of human interaction never really bothers him like it used to. After all, his move to Northeast Harbor was to escape the past; to forge a new beginning. The chance of running into anyone who knows him from a past life in San Diego or Virginia is slim-to-none, and even if he did, he’d only have to put up with them for a week or two.
When he moved to Maine he worried that he’d get cold feet or become bored by the absence of excitement, but the steady routine has quietened his mind in a way he never could have foreseen. The ghosts of his past still linger at the edges of his consciousness, the bitterness still biting at the back of his tongue, but if the last five years have taught Bradley anything, it’s that nature can do a lot to help the process of healing. His job is worlds away from what it could have been – a park ranger is no naval aviator – but at least the beautiful, granite peaks of Cadillac Mountain don’t ask Pete “Maverick” Mitchell whether or not Bradley is the right man for the position.
Putting down roots in Maine is something that Bradley put off for a while – after all, opportunities to buy real estate are scarce when the permanent population of the town is under five-hundred people – but when his landlord wanted to sell earlier in the year, Bradley jumped at the chance. The house is an old weatherboard, something with good bones as his mother would have said. Bradley likes it because it feels like home – he’d spent a lot of time tending to it before his name was even on the deed – and the location is perfect. Close enough to town to walk in the busy summer season, secluded enough to feel at peace. The only other dwelling in his immediate vicinity is a seasonally rented condo, which means he typically has neighbors for four to five months in the year.
This year is a little different, however. The occupant of the condo appears to have missed the mass October migration, staying right through November. Bradley recognises him from previous years, mostly because he sees him around the park. He appears to be one of a few environmental scientists who regularly come up during the summer to study animal migration patterns, although he’s never spoken to the guy and has no idea what his speciality is.
Other than that, the most he knows about his neighbor is that he’s blond and broad shouldered, and a frequent topic of discussion in the park office. Then again, any repeat visitor in their twenties or thirties falls into that trap, because Sharon, their admissions manager, is a middle-aged busy-body who loves meddling in the love lives of her coworkers.
It isn’t until mid-December, the wind off the water making Bradley feel the cold in his bones, when he comes face to face with his neighbor. It’s not at the end of his drive, or at The Nor'Easter, or even in the line for coffee. Instead, it’s at Frost Farms Garden Center – the only place to get a half-decent balsam Christmas tree without going into Bar Harbor township – while Bradley’s toes feel like they’re freezing into a solid block in his boots and a light wind peppers his hair with wet, half-formed snowflakes.
“It’s really up to you,” the store employee says unhelpfully, gesturing at the only tree remaining. Bradley has been perplexed by him from the get-go. His name tag says “Patricia” but the back of his jacket clearly says “Tom”. “I can’t split it down the middle, so one of you is going to have to go without.”
Bradley shifts his weight uncomfortably and looks over at his neighbor. It wouldn’t hurt to be conciliatory, he realizes. It’s not like he really needs the tree anyway, it just feels like a nice touch for his first Christmas as a homeowner. He left it late because it was on the bottom of his priority list, so it’s only fair that—
“I’ll take it off your hands,” the other guy says, with a gorgeous, incredibly fake smile. “Doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.”
He’s good looking, Bradley thinks, stunned into silence as the stranger reaches into his wallet. Unfortunately, Bradley also has unresolved issues relating to people telling him what he can and can’t do, and this man has just waved a red flag in front of a bull.
“Will you?” he asks sharply, all thoughts of the Christmas spirit disappearing from his mind. “I think I was here first.”
The blond guy quirks an eyebrow at Bradley, his smile losing some of its brilliance as it makes way for bemusement. “Were you?” he asks. “Didn’t see you out here when I was parking my truck.”
“That’s because I was already inside, asking about availability,” Bradley points out. He shouldn’t need to, because this guy clearly has eyes and half a brain and could put two-and-two together without being such an asshole about it. “What were you planning on doing? Putting the tree straight into your truck and driving off?”
The other guy has the audacity to laugh. It’s mocking, sort of. It also sounds a little surprised. “Are you accusing me of theft?”
“No,” Bradley says, crossing his arms partially because it’s cold as fuck and partially because he’s annoyed. “If you’d stolen it we wouldn’t be in this situation, obviously.”
“Obviously,” the man repeats slowly, his accent – something out of state – dragging on the vowels. The fucker is enjoying this, Bradley realizes, as he watches the grin spread across the guy’s face. “Look, as much fun as this is, I’m sure Tom here actually wants to make a sale, so—”
“He can sell it to me,” Bradley offers quickly. “Since I was here first.”
“Well, technically, you were both here first,” Tom says with a grimace, failing to mediate anything. They both ignore him.
It’s funny, Bradley thinks, as he stares his temporary neighbor down over a Christmas tree. If the situation wasn’t so adversarial, he’d be interested in getting to know the guy. For one thing, he’s sticking around for a Northeast Harbor winter, which is uncommon for seasonal workers. For another, he’s got pretty eyes and a smart mouth, and Bradley is unfortunately into that in a self-destructive kind of way.
“Look,” the guy says, “You’re a local, right? I’ve seen you at the park once or twice. Next year, when I’m not here in the winter, you can have all the trees you want.”
“Interesting you noticed,” Bradley bites back, before the more logical part of his brain can tell him that it’s a little weird to call someone out for having basic observational skills.
The guy smirks. “Is it?” he asks. “You also live next door to me. You tripped over while putting the trash out the other week. Hard to miss.”
Tom looks between them incredulously, like Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out from behind the one and only Christmas tree and tell him he’s been punk’d.
“First of all, you live next door to me,” Bradley argues, swallowing down the mild shame of being caught tripping over his own feet. In his defence, it was dark and he was distracted because he was busy thinking about the mediocre ending of the murder-mystery book Sharon had lent him. “That condo is temporary housing. Secondly, there was ice on the ground, and—”
“You’re a walking hazard,” the guy interjects. “I think a Christmas tree is too much responsibility for you. Don’t wanna see your house burned down because you short circuited the lights.”
Tom opens his mouth. “I just need to sell this tree—”
“I should get the tree because I’m a local,” Bradley says. ”What difference does it make to you if you have to drive to Bar Harbor? Call it tourism.”
The guy scoffs. “You literally work in the national park, you’re surrounded by trees all day.”
“Now who’s noticing shit?” Bradley asks incredulously, wiping melted snow off his brow. It’s ridiculously cold and he’s so over this man’s attitude. “And if you knew a single thing about trees, you’d know that the park—”
The words die in his throat as something brushes past his knee. When he looks down, he finds a young child has boldly inserted herself in the Bermuda Triangle of Christmas trees, looking right up at Tom. Her brunette pigtails sway slightly in the breeze as her pink puffer jacket collects a dusting of snow. “Excuse me.”
Bradley looks at his neighbor, and then at Tom, who appears ready to receive this child as his personal lord and savior. “Hi,” he says, evidently grateful to be doing something other than being in the middle of a heated neighborhood dispute. “Can I help you?”
“Is that Christmas tree for sale?” she asks, and when Bradley catches sight of her big brown eyes and the fact that she likely belongs to the woman who is approaching from his left, wrangling three other elementary school-aged children, he realizes that both he and his neighbor were fighting the wrong battle all along.
“It is,” Tom says traitorously, without bothering to give either Bradley or his neighbor a second glance. “No one has bought it…yet.”
“Oh thank god,” the woman exclaims, looking between them and no doubt questioning why three people are having a conversation outdoors in such inclement conditions. “We’ll take it. Kids, you’re going to have to help me carry it to the car.”
“Yay!” one of the kids exclaims, apparently thrilled about the concept of lugging a giant tree across a parking lot full of slush.
“Is Dad still going to get in trouble for forgetting to buy a tree?” another kid yells. “Don’t forget, he did say the F-word.”
“We saved Christmas!” the third one screams over the top of them.
Bradley gives his neighbor a long look. Interestingly, all he gets in response is a raised eyebrow and a small smile, before the guy cocks his head towards the parking lot. “Should we—”
“Probably best to admit defeat,” Bradley agrees, following his neighbor back towards his truck as the kids mill about the Christmas tree like ants ready to transport food back to the colony. “Guess I should have thought harder about procreation.”
His neighbor snorts. “That’s the price of a Christmas tree these days,” he says solemnly. “Child sacrifice.”
“I’m sure that’s in the nativity story or something,” Bradley quips, enjoying the enduring sarcasm as they walk by his truck. “This is me.”
“I know,” his neighbor says. “With my keen powers of observation, I noticed it in your driveway.”
“Shut up,” Bradley mutters, although instead of resisting the urge to stamp his foot, cross his arms and set his jaw, he wants to laugh. Staring down his neighbor for a Christmas tree felt like a battle royale, but now they’ve been bested by a group of under-twelves, the whole thing seems much less serious. “We should have done heads-or-tails.”
His neighbor’s smile widens. “You want me to take a fifty-fifty bet on something that was rightfully mine? I’ll pass.”
“Wow,” Bradley deadpans. “You’re just filled with the Christmas spirit.”
“Famous for it, actually,” the guy says, without missing a beat. “Jake, by the way.”
“Bradley,” Bradley replies. He feels like they should shake hands about it, but it’s far too cold to take his gloves off and the lack of dexterity in gloves makes handshakes feel impersonal.
“Bradley…Bradshaw?” Jake asks, his smile morphing into a little smirk. “Yeah, you wear a name badge in the park. Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one watching me take my trash out,” Bradley points out. “We passed weird a long time ago.”
Jake rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything further about his apparent penchant for surveilling Bradley as he does household chores. “Well Bradley Bradshaw, now that we know each other better, I was going to suggest that you take me on a trip over to Bar Harbor to actually get a Christmas tree.” When Bradley stares at him for a beat too long – surprised by the offer – he adds, “What did you call it? Tourism?
Bradley can’t say he’s against the idea of extending their day together. If he’s honest with himself, some part of the verbal sparring was fun. Exhilarating, even. Completely unpredictable. “As a local, I can tell you that Bar Harbor is gonna make you wanna tear your hair out,” he admits. “I have another idea.”
“Are you ready?” Jake asks, hands behind his back as he stands in front of Bradley’s truck.
They’re at the only other place close to Northeast Harbor to get Christmas trees – a pop up, seasonal store on the side of the road which is renowned for having some of the worst offerings available. It’s only frequented by the rare out-of-towner or someone who is really desperate. Which just happens to be Bradley because he left Christmas tree shopping until the fourteenth of December.
Since the pickings are slim to none, they decide for the sake of equity to pick each other a small, table-top tree. It’s a good idea, Bradley admits, mostly because if this morning is anything to go by, any joint decisions will likely end in bickering. Plus, there are no young children in the immediate vicinity to break up an argument.
He might have picked Jake a straggler with a bent trunk, but that’s payback for being a dick about the first tree. If Jake’s smirk is anything to go by, Bradley’s going to fare just as badly.
“You first,” he says, nodding towards Jake. “How low did you go?”
“Oh, I took it to hell,” Jake laughs, revealing Bradley’s Christmas tree with a flourish. It’s got a dead, patchy spot on its side and no discernable top. Instead, it looks like someone has hacked off the tallest parts with a wonky pair of scissors. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“Exactly what I was looking for,” Bradley says with mock sincerity. “Perfect.”
“Okay, neighbor,” Jake goads. “Show me what I’m working with.”
Bradley has to try very hard to avoid thinking about that phrase in another context. This extremely superficial contest is about Christmas trees and nothing else, although it’s starting to feel strangely flirtatious. “I’m looking forward to seeing how you manage this.”
“Wow,” Jake says drily, giving his tree a once over when Bradley presents it to him. “I love the…shape?”
“Definitely unique," Bradley agrees, trying not to look too pleased about how ugly Jake’s tree is. “Just like you.”
Jake’s green eyes rove over his face for a moment, and in the pause, Bradley starts to question his choice of words. “Careful, Bradshaw,” he says eventually, although it’s a little softer, more careful. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Bradley shrugs, trying to blow off the prickling tension he can feel settling over his limbs. It makes him itchy, like he needs somewhere to put all the extra energy generated by his erratic heartbeat. “Wouldn’t want that.”
It’s the twentieth – a Saturday – when Jake turns up again. Bradley’s in his truck, trying to convince himself to brave the elements for a lackluster coffee, when someone raps on the window. Unfortunately, he’s mindlessly scrolling Instagram at the time, so the unexpected noise shocks the absolute hell out of him.
Jake is practically gleeful when he climbs into Bradley’s passenger seat, cheeks flushed from the wind whipping around the harbor. “Did I just hear you scream?”
“No,” Bradley lies furtively. “I was just— You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“What?” Jake scoffs. “Stand outside their truck calling their name and when they don’t respond, politely tap on their window? God, Bradley. You better alert the authorities.”
Bradley scowls at him. “What do you need?”
“Not really a morning person, are you?” Jake says astutely. Bradley notices his hands are wrapped around a reusable cup, steam curling from a tiny hole in the lid.
“No,” Bradley admits. “But I could be. If you get me one of those.”
“A turmeric latte?” Jake asks, evidently perplexed.
“What the fuck is that?” Bradley demands. Frankly, he’s surprised that the people in the coffee shop know what turmeric is, let alone how to make a latte out of it.
“It’s good, that’s what it is,” Jake defends, a little frown working its way onto his lips. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
Bradley contemplates this, then holds his hand out.
“I didn’t mean mine, you neanderthal,” Jake huffs, but relents anyway.
The drink doesn’t taste at all like coffee, although Bradley doesn’t mind the ginger and the cinnamon and whatever it is that gives him a kick in the back of his throat. “Does this even have any caffeine in it?” he asks, turning Jake’s mug around in his hands as if the reusable cup holds some kind of secret. He notices the enamel has a little turtle etched into it. “And what’s with the turtle?”
“Unlike most people, I don’t need caffeine to be functional,” Jake says, a little defensively, as if he’s been questioned on it before. “And turtles are my area of speciality.”
“Really?” Bradley asks, quite genuinely. He knows most of the researchers who frequent the park in the summer months have a speciality, but he’s never had a conversation with one long enough to find out what they might be.
Jake looks at his coffee cup and shrugs. “Sure. Snappers, Woodland Box, Blanding’s, a couple more. Don’t ask me to explain how it happened, because I grew up with horses and dogs. Before college, the extent of my turtle expertise was watching cartoon ones that come out of New York City sewers.”
Bradley hums in contemplation. “I was supposed to go to the Naval Academy,” he admits on a whim. Why he’s telling a near-stranger about such a painful experience – someone he had an argument with a matter of days ago – is beyond comprehension. “Should have been flying F-18s but instead I’m doing biodiversity monitoring and maintaining trails.”
Jake whistles softly. “There has to be a story there.”
Bradley grimaces. “It’s not a good one.”
“I got time,” Jake offers, leaning back in Bradley’s passenger seat like he’s really going to wait around in Bradley’s vehicle for hours while Bradley spills his deepest, darkest secrets.
“I don’t,” Bradley deflects, opening his car door to welcome the freezing air in. Despite the temperature, there’s a warmth blossoming in his chest that he can’t quite explain. “Unlike you, I need coffee to function.”
On Sunday, Jake knocks on Bradley’s door.
Unfortunately, Bradley has his head under his kitchen sink trying to fix a slow leak, and the noise startles him so much he whacks his ear into the pipe.
“Can I— Oh,” he says as he throws the door open, caught off guard by Jake’s presence. “Hi.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Jake asks immediately, frowning at Bradley who realizes too late that holding the side of his head is probably not a normal way to greet someone.
Still, Jake’s delivery leaves something to be desired. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a way with words?” Bradley grumbles, but steps aside to allow Jake entry.
Jake, to his surprise, laughs. “Once or twice. Hey, do you have a Phillips head? I bought a new desk and I can’t put it together without one.”
“Why are you buying furniture?” Bradley asks, leading Jake through the entry hall and into the kitchen. “Isn’t that place a short stay rental?”
“Did someone appoint you head of neighborhood watch or something?” Jake teases, the question void of the argumentative tone he’d adopted over the Christmas tree. “I got an extension on my contract this week. They need someone to keep an eye on the otters, minks and martens over the next couple of winters. I offered to stay.”
Something in Bradley’s stomach flips dangerously at the news, and he tries to cover up the thrill by saying, “Otters, minks and martens aren’t turtles.”
“No, they’re not,” Jake deadpans. “Incredible powers of deduction, Bradley.”
Bradley ignores the jab. “Why are they sending you?”
“Would you prefer someone else?” Jake asks, eyeing him carefully. There’s a sharpness to the curve of his lips that seems challenging, but Bradley doesn’t take the bait. Instead, Jake rolls his eyes. “Look, not that I need to justify myself, but I’m the best person they’ve got this far up the coast. Turtles enter a dormant state in winter, so I may as well be useful until they re-emerge.”
“So,” Bradley says slowly, fishing a Phillips head out of the toolbox he was using to fix the kitchen sink. “You’re telling me we have to fight about a Christmas tree next year?”
Jake smirks, accepting the screwdriver. “Appears so.”
Monday and Tuesday pass without significance, the weather turning colder and pelting the township with snow. Bradley manages to put his trash out without falling over, even though he’s briefly distracted by movement in the window of the house across the street.
He calls himself crazy for it, but on Wednesday – free from work and with nothing better to do – he makes a trip to Bar Harbor.
Turning up unannounced at your neighbor’s house on Christmas day probably isn’t the politest thing to do, but Bradley figures that the light in Jake’s kitchen is as good as he’s going to get when it comes to receiving an invitation. It’s taken him all morning to work up the courage to walk the short distance between their houses, but he figures that worse-comes-to-worse, Jake will just tell him to piss off.
When Jake answers the door, he’s clad in black sweatpants and a hoodie, which is just about as casual as Bradley’s ever seen him. Sure, Jake wears sensible clothes working in the park, or jeans when he’s around town, but there’s something about the soft fabric of the loungewear that makes Bradley want to climb him like a tree.
“Hi,” Bradley says breathlessly, taking in the strange dichotomy of Jake’s outfit with his perfectly styled hair. “Merry Christmas.”
“Hello,” Jake replies, one hand on the doorframe like he’s still processing why his neighbor is standing on his doorstep. “Do you need that screwdriver back?”
“What?” Bradley asks, perplexed. It takes him a moment to remember that he’d given Jake one of his tools in the first place. “No, I— That’s not what this is about.”
“No?” Jake asks, quirking an eyebrow as if he can’t quite understand what’s being asked of him. “You wanna come in?”
“Actually, I’d prefer to get frostbite,” Bradley says drily, and Jake’s face splits into a playful grin, suspicion dissipating immediately.
“Suit yourself,” he quips, pretending to shut the door before Bradley sticks his foot in the gap. “God, what happened to manners?”
“Think you should ask yourself that question,” Bradley gripes, trying not to look too pleased as Jake steps to the side and ushers him through the doorway.
“I’m not the one turning up unannounced on Christmas,” Jake points out, although Bradley spots the Nintendo controller thrown on one end of the couch and the indent left on Jake’s cushions as soon as he walks into the living room.
“Busy day?” he jokes, as if he hasn’t been doing odd jobs all morning and eating cold pizza straight out of the fridge. “What are you playing?”
“Super Mario Odyssey,” Jake says, shrugging his hands into his pockets. “It’s not a bad single-player game.”
“You got another controller?” Bradley asks. “I’ll beat your ass at Mario Kart, if you want.”
“No you won’t,” Jake scoffs, but he appears to take Bradley up on the challenge anyway, walking over to the entertainment unit and extracting a blue controller before throwing it on the couch. He smirks. “You gonna lose from all the way over there?”
Seven rounds of Mario Kart later and Jake has a very slight lead, but it’s only because he keeps choosing the damn rainbow road and Bradley sucks at that particular track. “You gotta get better at drifting,” Jake tells him loftily. “Can’t be falling off the edge all the time.”
“You think?” Bradley bites out, coming in third again. “Didn’t realize that was my problem.”
“You’re such a sore loser,” Jake teases, prodding Bradley with his socked foot.
Bradley pokes him in the leg. “You’re the one who threatened to send me home because I got you with a green shell.”
“Still won though,” Jake preens.
“Only because you distracted me with your bitching,” Bradley argues. Jake says something in reply, but Bradley is momentarily distracted by the wonky Christmas tree sitting on the kitchen table, twinkling with warm, yellow lights. “How did you get the lights to look like that?” he asks. “You can barely see the wires.”
Jake follows his gaze. “The secret is to wrap them from the inside,” he tells Bradley. “Close to the trunk. Gotta go through hell to undo it though.”
“Didn’t know you were such an expert,” Bradley says softly, transfixed by the winking lights. The tree is otherwise sparsely decorated with silver and blue ornaments, but it looks nice. Classy, even. “Should have let you have the big one. Yours looks way better than mine.”
Jake sits up properly next to him, knocking their knees together. “Yeah,” he agrees. “You probably should have.”
Bradley shoves him in the shoulder gently. “That was my attempt at being nice, asshole.”
“What?” Jake protests. “This is my attempt at being honest. I bet yours looks like shit.”
He’s not exactly wrong, but it’s also not the point. Still, Bradley’s willing to let sleeping dogs lie when it comes to the Christmas tree showdown. “Hey, I got you something,” he says instead, shifting so he can extract the small, poorly wrapped gift from the pocket of his jeans. “Don’t look at me like that,” he adds, taking in Jake’s suspicious expression. “It’s small.”
“I can see that,” Jake replies, although the sarcasm is lost on Bradley as he watches Jake carefully unfold the wrapping paper, revealing a small, hand-made ceramic ornament.
After a moment of silence, Bradley opens his mouth. “It’s–”
“If you’re about to tell me that it’s a turtle, I’d like to remind you that I have eyes,” Jake says, although the acerbic humor falls flat as he turns the ornament over in his hand. “Where did you even get this?”
Bradley shrugs, feeling awkward as Jake’s knee knocks against his own again. “Bar Harbor.”
“You went all the way to Bar Harbor for me?” Jake asks, as if the journey is twenty hours and not twenty minutes (and only ten minutes longer than Bradley’s drive for work).
“You could just say ‘thank you’ like a normal person,” Bradley tries to say, but the words get stuck in his throat as Jake’s hand lands on his thigh. For a moment, he just stares at it like an idiot, before he looks up to meet Jake’s gaze.
“Thank you,” Jake says, and if his piercing green eyes weren’t enough to make Bradley’s head spin, the earnestness in his voice probably is. “Can I–-”
“You don’t have to ask,” Bradley practically whispers, wondering if he’s severely miscalculated and deciding to lean into his reckless side anyway, crowding into Jake’s space and pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to his lips.
Jake’s nose nudges Bradley’s cheek as they part, before he blows out a gentle breath. “Merry Christmas,” he says wryly. “Not sure if I said that before.”
“You didn’t,” Bradley replies, wondering what on earth is going through Jake’s head and wishing he could somehow gain telepathic abilities. “You offered to return my screwdriver instead.”
An amused smile practically lights up Jake’s face, and Bradley lets himself drown in the warmth of it. “Right,” he says, “let me go get that—”
“Alternatively,” Bradley starts to say, before Jake swings his leg over Bradley’s lap and presses him back into the cushions. “Actually,” he breathes, suddenly placated. “Not complaining.”
“Better not,” Jake murmurs, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of Bradley’s jaw. “Get ready for the best Christmas of your life, Bradshaw.”
Bradley lets himself get lost in the syrupy slowness of the next kiss they share, Jake’s hands in his hair and his tongue licking into Bradley’s mouth with the confidence of someone who knows they’re good at making out. In response, Bradley shifts his hands to Jake’s waist, pulling him closer, enjoying the soft material of Jake’s hoodie as he pushes his fingers under the hem, searching for skin-to-skin contact.
There’s a soft gasp against Bradley’s mouth and a slight rock of Jake’s hips, pressing into Bradley’s lap in a way which could be reactionary or intentional. Either way, the friction makes Bradley wonder whether he’s ever going to be normal about his neighbor again. Probably not. It probably doesn’t matter so long as Jake is cool about continuing these types of activities.
“Stop thinking,” Jake tells him, pulling away and pressing a gentle kiss to Bradley’s cheek. It’s sweet, far sweeter than anything Bradley expected from Jake, and he wonders how many new things he’s going to learn about his neighbor today. “It’s okay if you don’t want to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Bradley tells him seriously, transfixed by the kiss-bitten red of Jake’s lips. He leans forward, searching for contact, and makes a pleased sound as Jake presses him back into the couch cushions again, capturing his mouth in another searing kiss. It’s a few moments later, while Jake is sucking a bruise into his neck that Sharon is definitely going to have questions about, when Bradley confirms, “I want.”
“You want?” Jake hums, covering his handiwork with the press of his tongue. It makes Bradley shiver in a way which has nothing to do with the snow falling outside.
“Yeah,” Bradley says, hooking a finger under Jake’s chin and trying to convey a vision of the future which may involve many more arguments about Christmas trees and their associated decorations. Jake looks up, then leans in to rest their foreheads together for a long moment. “I want.”