Title: Three Little Words
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: R

Word Count: 6286
References/Spoilers: Can't think of any. This story takes place before the time line of the movies.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: Sometimes magic words spring up in the most unexpected ways.

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THREE LITTLE WORDS

by

Candy Apple

I felt like I was walking on air, even though it was a Monday morning. If my life were a musical, I'd have been singing some sappy love song and swinging myself around on the light posts. The streets of Albany suddenly seemed like an enchanted, happy place, and I found myself speaking to total strangers with a big grin on my face like Scrooge on Christmas morning.

Not that I'm not a social creature by nature, but every time I thought about Don and the time we'd spent together on the weekend, I couldn't stop smiling. And I couldn't help but realize that I'd made it to almost thirty years old without ever really being in love before. At least, not love like this.

I tried not to literally bounce on my way into the office, but it was tough. Even passing the chief aide's nice big office with the window on my way to my windowless cubbyhole across from the restrooms didn't dampen my spirits. When I saw the bouquet of roses on my desk, I thought if I got any happier, I'd probably explode.

Throwing my briefcase, forgotten, in my desk chair, I took the card out of the flowers and fumbled my way into opening the tiny envelope. My heart sank. I recognized the handwriting.

Forgive me. Steve.

Fat fucking chance, I decided without hesitation. I turned the card over and wrote "No Thanks" on it, signing it with my initials, just in case he didn't recognize my handwriting. I stuck the card back in the envelope and picked up the phone and called a messenger service. Within thirty minutes, the roses were on their way to Steve's office with my response. Getting rush service like that was pricey, but at the risk of sounding like one of those MasterCard commercials, the feeling I got from sending Steve such a nice, flashy, fuck you by messenger: priceless.

Even if I was still disappointed the roses weren't from Don. I couldn't really blame the guy. He'd paid for everything Saturday, and he didn't really need to tell me he wasn't rolling in money. Starting your own business is an expensive venture at best, and even if he'd be wildly successful someday, he was still paying his dues now.

I couldn't care less if he didn't have two pennies to rub together. No other man could have enough money to make me walk away from Donald Strachey. Smiling at that thought, I got down to business, tackling the mountain of paperwork and tiresome jobs that usually were sent my way by Fred Davis, the chief aide. I hoped that if I did get his job, I'd have the good grace to dump just a little less on the poor schmuck who got my old job. And while I couldn't picture Don as someone who'd really let anyone support him, I liked thinking about a bigger salary, about being able to be there for him while he got his business rolling, about helping provide a comfortable life for us... If he knew where my thoughts were going, he'd probably be scared to death to ever call me again and I so wanted him to call me.

By lunchtime, I was actively staring at my cell phone, wondering if Don would call me, or if I'd look too desperate if I called him. Maybe he'd be annoyed to be bothered when he was working. Or maybe he'd be as happy to hear my voice on the line as I was to hear his the night before. Hoping for the latter, I dialed his cell number.

"Strachey," he replied, not sounding too happy to be getting a call.

"Hi, Don, it's Tim," I said, feeling a little put off by the gruff greeting. I should have gone with my first thought and not bothered him.

"Hey, honey, how's it going?" he replied, his entire tone of voice changed. And he called me honey again. It was all I could do not to spin around in my desk chair and yell "YES!!" at the top of my lungs.

"Okay for a Monday. How's your day going?"

"It's a Monday," he replied, laughing. "Did you eat yet?"

I looked at the half-eaten sandwich on my desk.

"No," I lied. That damn sandwich wasn't going to ruin my chances at a little time with Don. I threw it in my trash can with my free hand.

"Great. I'm not all that far from the Senate building. If you've got time, we could have lunch. My 11:30 wrapped up a lot faster than I thought, so I'm on the road right now."

"I'll wait downstairs by the main entrance," I said, hoping I didn't sound too excited.

"See you in about ten minutes." He hung up.

That was about nine minutes longer than I wanted to wait.

I was downstairs in record time, hoping I wasn't actually visibly vibrating with excitement. When he did pull up, I did my best to walk out to the car calmly, casually, and get into the passenger seat. Then he leaned over and kissed me, right on the mouth, though it was a quick kiss hello before he pulled away from the curb.

"I'm glad your schedule opened up," I said, knowing I was grinning like an idiot and not caring. I was in love and I was going to enjoy every irrational, sappy moment of it.

"Me, too. Your timing was perfect. I was on my way to McDonald's."

"That sounds good," I said, not caring if he wanted to go pick through a dumpster for lunch. I'd hop in there with him and start digging as long as we were together.

"We can still do Chen's. It's not that far," he said, laughing.

"What's wrong?" I asked, smiling, confused why he was laughing.

"I didn't mean we had to go to McDonald's. I was just going to get something and go back to the office."

"I hope this doesn't hold you up too much."

"No, this is great. I do have to work tonight, and probably tomorrow night, so it probably would have been Wednesday before we made connections again."

When we were seated, and I slid into the booth, I was surprised when he sat on the end and slid in next to me, on the same side. Not only did he seem to feel the same way about me that I did about him, but he didn't mind if the world knew it. He wasn't ostentatious about it, he just sat next to me like that's where he belonged because I was his date, and he wanted to sit by me. I wondered if, when I turned and looked into those beautiful eyes I'd been missing so much since the night before, he could see how in love with him I already was. I think he did, because he held my gaze quite a few moments, and what I saw in that look were all those feelings reflected back at me in those stunning blue eyes of his, like seeing your reflection in a clear blue pond.

"Mango chicken?" the waitress asked. She was a pretty young Asian girl who had waited on me often, and she knew which items I liked. We'd chatted about her college experience, about adjusting to life in the US, and she'd been practicing her rapidly improving English skills on me since she'd started working there for her Uncle Chen, the restaurant owner, six months earlier. She was studying chemistry, hoping to be a research chemist. Now she was giving me this sly grin, since she'd only seen me in there with people I worked with, and she knew I was single and gay. Don's arm was running along the booth behind me, and when she'd arrived at the table, we were looking into each other's eyes. It wouldn't have taken a research chemist to figure out what kind of chemistry was going on there.

"Do you need to look at the menu?" I asked Don.

"The menu?" he asked, still staring at me. "Oh, yeah, right, lunch." He smiled one of those big smiles of his and looked at it fleetingly. "The basil beef and pad Thai noodles for me," he said.

"Mango chicken it is," I confirmed.

"So I can tell my uncle that basil beef - pad Thai take out and mango chicken with rice and crab cheese are a combo now?" she joked. Apparently we were better known by our combos than our names.

"Mei and I keep well updated on each other's lives," I explained to Don, who was amused by the whole exchange.

"Yeah, we're a combo," Don confirmed, looking at me while he answered her.

"One drink, two straws?" she teased, and we both laughed.

Once she'd left the table, we were back to gazing at each other again. Don, being a man of action, finally broke the stalemate and guided me toward him for a kiss.

"I bet you taste good with some of that mango chicken sauce," he teased, and I wondered if my face actually turned red all the way up to my hairline. I hoped not, even though it felt like it was flaming.

"Maybe this weekend, we'll have another chance for an evening out?" I asked.

"Friday or Saturday night is ours, no matter who cheats on who the rest of the week."

"Both or one or the other?" I asked.

"Depends on when my clients are cheating on each other, but we'll pick at least one night on Wednesday. Two if I can swing it. Makes me almost wish for a decline in business," he added, smiling, taking my hand in his.

"Deal," I replied, smiling back at him, thinking he was the best thing in the world, and hoping it showed.

"Nothin' like having to watch that with lunch," a male voice said. I heard it, and part of me was hoping Don didn't, because I had a feeling it wouldn't go over well. Sure enough, his head swivelled around toward the source of the remark, one of two guys who were obviously employees of the appliance store across the street, given their red polo shirts bearing store logos. The one who made the remark looked like he spent some time in the gym. His friend looked considerably spongier and so far had kept his mouth shut.

"Why don't you mind your own fucking business?" Don shot back at him.

"Don, let it go," I whispered. I didn't want him to feel like I expected him to defend my honor. There were bigots everywhere, and this one just happened to have a big mouth.

"Why don't you watch your mouth, Tinkerbell?" he retorted. I knew this wasn't going to end well.

"If you're trying to start something," Don said, standing, "you better be sure you can finish it, ace. So either shut up or let's go outside and settle this."

I could hear Mei hollering something in her native tongue to Chen, who owned the restaurant.

"I thought the bigger one would be the guy," his friend said, laughing. The first man shot him a look, as if to say he was throwing gasoline on a fire that wasn't his.

"He's just too polite to make a scene. I don't have that problem," Don added. "What's wrong, hot shot? Afraid of getting your ass kicked by a Tinkerbell?"

The restaurant owner, a wiry, aging Asian man with salt-and-pepper hair, joined the fray, cordless phone in hand.

"You leave or I call the police," he said in broken English as he pointed at the troublemakers, "you sit down," he said to Don, pointing at him. "No more trouble here. You don't come back in my place," he told the other men.

"Food sucks here anyway," the spongier half of the pair said as they got up to leave.

"Probably not the only thing," the other man said, and I got out of the booth and grabbed Don's arm before he could make any moves on his adversary. In a matter of moments, they were out the door.

"Thanks, Chen," I said to the owner.

"You two better customers than those two. I take care of my good customers," he said. "You sit down now, have lunch," he added.

"We will. Thanks again," I said, while Don's nostrils were still flaring, and I was concerned he'd go for the door anyway and lay hands on the other man outside. I pulled on his arm. "Don, come on, let's have lunch."

"Assholes," he muttered, sitting next to me in the booth.

"No argument there. But there are people like them everywhere. Fortunately, there are people like Mei and Chen around, too."

"And people like you," he said, kissing me again. "I guess I should have asked you if you minded me kissing you like that in public."

"We didn't do anything wrong. And I won't sneak around in the shadows like there's something wrong with who or what I am. So the short answer is, no, I don't mind if you kiss me like that in public." I smiled, holding his hand. "You can kiss me anywhere you want."

"Oh, Timothy, don't say something like that when all we have is a lunch hour," he replied, laughing.

"I don't want you to get hurt because of some moronic remark someone makes. I'm not going to think less of you because you ignore it."

"I could have taken that guy with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back," he responded, and I arched an eyebrow at him. He was posturing, showing off, and while I found it incredibly sexy, I couldn't let him have quite that much satisfaction out of me just yet. "Okay, maybe not with one hand tied behind my back, but I could have taken him."

"I don't doubt it," I said, touching his biceps, thinking of the gorgeous muscles that lurked under his shirt and suit coat. "You didn't get these from lifting the TV remote," I added, and despite my best intentions not to let him see it, I was so turned on by him right then that I would have probably done it in his car with minor coaxing. Who was I kidding? I loved having him stand up for us like that. Practically speaking, it scared me, and I knew we couldn't go through life beating up anyone who made a nasty remark, but you try having someone with Don's looks and muscles and bravado stand up for you and not get turned on.

"You like those, huh?" he asked, grinning, since I was taking my time feeling his muscles through his sleeve.

"Just a little," I admitted. It was okay if he knew his muscles turned me on. He hadn't spared the compliments in letting me know he liked the way I looked.

We actually managed to relax and enjoy our lunch, swapping some of the food and chatting about an eclectic mix of subjects from prior encounters we'd had with morons like the one he'd just argued with, to more pleasant subjects like our favorite kinds of music, and other things we liked to do in our free time. I found out Don liked everything from classic rock to sultry jazz, the latter being his preferred make out music. He didn't call it that in so many words, but that was the gist of it. We had a lot of musical tastes in common, both of us not willing to limit ourselves to particular genres, but more likely to go by artists and songs that caught our ear. He couldn't quite fake an interest in Gregorian chants or New Age music, some of which I found interesting and relaxing in the right setting. He said he didn't know much about classical, but was willing to learn. I made a mental note to get us symphony tickets soon. He made me promise to never make him go to the opera. That was an easy one, so I promised.

He told me he worked out a lot, which wasn't exactly a news bulletin, and he liked camping or hiking if he ever had time for it. He liked the beach, and so did I, even though it's a long way from Albany. We both loved old movies and sometimes laughing our way through god-awful movies. I said if he'd go to the symphony with me, I'd try camping sometime. My family's idea of roughing it is a three-star hotel when the five-star is booked. I knew as I sat there that I'd live in a cave on the side of a mountain if that's what I had to do to be with him, so a couple nights zipped up in a tent with him would be okay. Provided he killed anything with eight legs that came near me.

I told him I liked to read, just about anything that either held my interest or challenged my brain a bit, liked to do the Sunday crossword, which he liked, too, and that someday I hoped to have a house where I could design some really nice landscaping and maybe have a little vegetable garden. I knew I was relaxing with him, because I didn't even seize up with panic at mentioning a house and a garden, worrying he'd think I was ready to nest with him - even though that was my sweetest fantasy. That's often the kiss of death in a relationship. I think it scared Andrew and led to the disintegration of our relationship. I never had the heart to tell him, even later, that I was just talking about the future in general. I honestly didn't really picture him in that house with me when we were old and gray.

Now, the thought of a little old gray-haired Donald toddling around with hedge trimmers in his gnarled old hands, puttering in the yard while I battled my arthritic knees to work in my vegetable garden made me smile.

I called my office and made some excuse about being delayed with an errand I was running at lunch hour, because we were going on a two-hour lunch, and even then, parting wasn't something we looked forward to or did willingly.

As he drove toward the Senate building to drop me off, he reached over and took my hand.

"I like being with you, Timothy," he said, the words so quiet that between traffic noise and the low drone of the radio, I almost missed them. He kept his eyes on the road, and that's how I knew this was something major. He could flatter me and say sweet things to me and look me in the eyes, but when he bared his soul, went out on a limb, it was a little bit hard for him to look right at me, as if he feared he wasn't going to see the response he wanted.

"I don't like being without you," I replied, holding his hand in both of mine. He smiled then, a big smile, and ventured a look at me before looking back at the road.

"I don't know how late I'll be tonight," he said.

"Come over when you're done. I don't care what time it is," I said, not caring if it sounded desperate. The connection between us was so strong at that moment, it was as if it were a tangible...electricity in the air.

"Really?"

"I'd rather see you for a few minutes before you go to sleep than not at all," I admitted, deciding that he should know how I felt about him, at least, a little bit. He was in a dangerous line of work, and I never would have forgiven myself if something happened to him and he never knew. Or if we missed out on some sweet moments together just because our schedules didn't permit a formal date or a night of incendiary passion - although I didn't plan on waiting much longer for that, either. Love is a powerful aphrodisiac, and I'd never felt desire as hot and longing as intense as I did with him.

"I didn't want you to think I was just using your place as a second crash pad," he said, stopping by the curb a little away from the bustle of the building's entrance. We were having a very important conversation, and time be damned. We were going to finish it properly, not because someone was honking a horn at us to get out of the way. He touched my cheek. "Sleeping over at your place was...really nice, even though I was unconscious most of the time."

"Sleeping next to you was really nice for me, too. Even though you were mostly unconscious," I added, and we both laughed. I was about to offer him my spare key when a thought crossed my mind that didn't set well. "Damn."

"What's wrong?"

"Steve still has my spare key. I was going to say I'd leave it somewhere for you so you could let yourself in tonight."

"I can pick the lock," he said, smirking a little.

"There's a comforting thought," I replied, laughing. "Just knock."

"You want me to go with you to get your key back?"

His concern was so sweet and so sincere that I found myself a little choked up by it. He was protective of me, and he wanted to take care of me. I felt the same way about him.

"I'll be okay, but thanks for worrying about me," I said, leaning over to kiss him. "I'll just call him and tell him to drop it off."

"Or he can just drop dead, and I'll get the key from a friend of mine at the morgue."

"Donald, you're terrible."

"So I've been told," he replied, chuckling.

"He sent me flowers, you know." I don't know why I thought he should know that, but I didn't want to start our relationship by not being open with him about things like that.

"You're not serious? After the way he treated you, he's sending you flowers?"

"Roses."

"I hope you told him to stick them up his ass, thorns first."

"I sent them back to him at his office, by messenger."

"Ouch," he replied, shaking his head, laughing, then his smile faded, and he touched my cheek briefly. "Someday, I'm going to be able to afford to give you roses, too."

The hint at a long term relationship in those words was sweeter than the perfume of a thousand roses.

"Screw the roses," I said. "I just want you."

"You've got me," he said, his voice very serious, and this time, he was looking right into my eyes.

"I sure hope so," I replied, and we kissed one more time before I made myself reach for the door handle of the car. And it wouldn't open.

"Sorry," he apologized, laughing. "It usually opens," he said, getting out and hurrying around to open the door for me from the outside. I got out of the car and he shrugged. "What does Steve do, anyhow?"

"He's an engineer with Carson Engineering."

"I bet he's got a car with doors that open, huh?"

"Yes, he does, and he can shove it in the same place he shoves the roses," I said, pulling him into my arms and kissing him, right there on the sidewalk, to the surprise of a couple people who happened to be passing by us. "And I hope that hood ornament smarts," I added, pulling back.

"See you tonight," he said, laughing, hugging me before walking around to the driver's side.

"Call me if you get bored on your stakeout," I said.

"Count on it," he said, waving and ducking into his car, pulling away from the curb and weaving into the midday traffic.

********

It was almost eleven when I made it over to Tim's place. He knew I was going to be late, and he wanted me there anyway, but I still felt a little guilty showing up at that hour. Still, I hoped what I had with me would make up for it. I knocked on the door and kept one arm behind my back, concealing the hand that held my two surprises for him.

He opened the door, wreathed in the most beautiful big smile, in his pajamas and robe. If God, fate, whatever, chose to smile on me and let me come home to that for the rest of my nights, I would do my best to be worthy of that kind of remarkable good fortune.

"Sorry I'm so late," I said as I walked in, still keeping the goodies hidden.

"That's okay. I'm glad you're here," he said, shutting and locking the door. I noted that he didn't have a chain or anything else on it, so I made a mental note to get him something else for the door - a security bar, a chain, something - to keep him safe until he got Mr. Wonderful's key back.

"These are for you," I said, handing him the bouquet of hot pink miniature carnations. They looked a lot better an hour earlier when I'd bought them, and they were much prettier in the dark in my car than they were in the cold light of reality. "They're not exactly roses, but not much is open this late, so I had to take what the grocery store had left."

"It's not the flowers that matter, it's who they're from," he said, kissing me. I could have latched onto that sweet mouth and kissed him forever. His lips were so soft and he always tasted good. He was the most beautiful man I'd ever touched, and sometimes he just took my breath away when he wasn't even trying. "Besides, these are pretty and they'll perk up in water. You do know they need water, right?" he teased, and I had to laugh.

"Guilty. I thought I was gonna get over here sooner, so they've been in the car an hour or so."

"Mm, that's what I thought," he said, though his tone was gentle and friendly in the teasing. He found a vase in the kitchen and filled it with water. He dignified the ugly little bouquet by trying to arrange it. After his best efforts, it looked like a bad haircut. A bad, hot pink haircut.

"I have another present for you," I said, handing him the piece de resistance.

"What is this?" He was looking at the DVD case, puzzled. It was a plain black plastic case with a very amateurish cover insert printed on what had to have been a lousy printer. "Thor, God of Thunder?" he read. "I don't understand."

"Oh, you will. Just pop it in the DVD player," I said, sitting on the couch. He still stood there, staring at the DVD.

"Is it some kind of movie? Is it...pornography?" He paused, raising his eyebrows a little. I wasn't sure if he was hoping for that or not. "Should I make popcorn?" he asked, grinning.

"Just play it, Timothy," I said, putting my feet up on the coffee table. I noticed that earned me a sideways glance, but our love was still new enough that he didn't say anything. I had a feeling he'd get over that with time.

Finally, he put the disc in the player and sat next to me, hitting play and turning on the TV. The production quality was terrible, but the picture was clear enough to see the important features.

"Wait a minute, it can't be," Tim said, leaning forward on the cushion, lifting his glasses and squinting, and then dropping them into place again. The images on the screen were of a mediocre stripping routine, the male dancer clad in a winged helmet and boots, and some sort of strange Viking-esque body armor, which he was removing piece by strategic piece, along with some fairly cheesy gyrations. He was tall and blond, with lots of muscles. "Don, where did you get this? Is that who I think it is?"

"So you didn't know your ex was formerly Thor, God of Thunder at the Ambrosia Club in New York City, huh?"

"Steve was an exotic dancer?"

"I'd say calling that dancing is charitable, but yeah, that's him."

"Oh, my God," Tim said, and then he laughed. The more Steve gyrated, and took off, the harder Tim laughed until he was laid back on the couch, wiping at the tears under his glasses. It seemed only fair that he should get the chance to mop up tears of laughter over that two-bit joker after he'd felt so bad he'd cried actual tears for him not a week earlier. "I never pictured Thor as the bumping and grinding type," he managed, still laughing. "Don, that routine is awful," he added.

"I guess he was something of a crowd pleaser. This is a bootleg DVD, recorded against club rules, and circulated to a select few in the adult entertainment industry."

"Do I want to know what your connections to the adult entertainment industry are?"

"Possibly not, but I can guarantee you, it's not from doing that," I said, gesturing at the screen, where Steve, naked except for his helmet and boots, was shaking his ass at the camera.

"Oh, I've seen enough," Tim said, hitting "stop" on the remote. He'd been laughing at the strip routine, but now his expression was changing. "How did you get this? How did you even know where to start investigating him?"

"You said he was an engineer at Carson Engineering. There are only two Steves who work there. One is in his sixties. That left Steve Brewer. So I ran him through every database I have. He was in college when he was doing that, and the job at the Ambrosia Club was on his background check. The thing is, it didn't specify what he did there, so I doubt his employer knows. I made a few phone calls, called in a few favors...and there it is."

"Why did you do that?" Tim asked, and I felt something cold squeeze the pit of my stomach. I thought he'd love this, and now he sounded as if he didn't like it at all. "Why would you run a check on my ex-boyfriend?"

"Because he's a mean son of a bitch who treated you like shit and hurt you for no good reason. I thought you deserved...something for that. And if he gets obnoxious with trying to get back with you, this gives you some leverage."

"So if he doesn't behave the way I think he should, I should blackmail him with something from his past that he's obviously not proud of?"

"I didn't say that. Things can get ugly with ex's. Trust me, I've been in the middle of enough divorce cases and broken relationships that I know what kind of sick shit can happen. You might need to have something to make this guy back off."

"Did it ever occur to you to ask me if I wanted you to run a check on him?"

"I thought you'd be happy with this. Well, maybe not happy, but I thought you'd be glad to have something on him."

"Well, at least I know now that he never trusted me, never really cared about me, and lied to me even more than I originally thought throughout most of our relationship. Yes, I feel much better now, Don. Tell me, did you run a check on me while you were at it?"

"Of course not," I retorted. And it was true. I guess maybe I realized then just how much in love with him I was. If he turned out to be an axe murderer with bad credit, I didn't care. I just wanted him to be mine. "I don't care about your past - I mean, it wouldn't matter. Even if there was something awful or embarrassing or...or...illegal. Timothy, I don't give a damn about that. I love you, and nothing else matters," I protested, and then I swallowed a couple times.

I thought my heart was going to stop. Wonderful. I professed my love and felt like I would drop dead on his floor. I wondered if he'd let me be buried next to him...

"What did you say?" he asked me, his eyes wide, a little hint of a smile trying to cut through the irritation that had been there a moment earlier.

You tossed it out there, Strachey. There's no turning back now. And really, looking at that beautiful face that was so hopeful and so excited and looked so in love with me, why would I want to take it back? There were no roses, wine, soft music and candlelight, but if I knew Tim the way I thought I already knew him, it didn't matter.

"I love you, Timothy," I said, walking over to him, and taking both his hands in mine. He hadn't said anything about it, but I knew he liked it when I used his full name. "I'm not really good at doing everything right in a relationship. I...I haven't had that many, and the ones I've had..." I shrugged. "I couldn't seem to do anything right. I can't stand the way that asshole hurt you, made you feel...maybe I can't stand that he was your boyfriend and he kissed you and made love to you and then he didn't treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and you felt enough for him to feel bad about it. I'm sorry about running the check on him. I should have asked you."

"Don?"

"What?"

"Shut up."

He pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard, with lots of tongue, and I surrendered to it completely. If he was going to break my heart, dump me, figure out he could do better, or just get sick of my ugly flowers and my crappy schedule, there was nothing I could do about it. I loved him, I was his, and I was in the terrifying position of entrusting him with everything, with all I am, all I feel, everything that matters. I'd only surrendered to that once before, and the wound was still so large, so open, and so...raw, that I didn't dare poke it. If I clung to him tighter than I meant to, maybe it was in part because of that. Because he showed me that my old battered, broken, spackled together heart was still capable of falling in love, and falling hard. And for whatever he'd ultimately decide to do with it, it belonged to him.

When he let me up for air, his eyes seemed misty and he was gently touching my face.

"I love you," he said, his voice soft and a little strained. "I have for a while," he admitted, and it looked like the admission scared him a bit. I never, ever, wanted to see fear in those beautiful eyes of his for any reason that had to do with me.

"Yeah, well, this isn't the first time it's crossed my mind, either," I confessed, smiling, and loving the way his whole body seemed to relax in my arms, and he smiled back.

"It's getting late. We could turn in," he said, and I knew he was offering more than sleep.

"Sleeping here, with you, sounds great," I said, savoring just being in his arms. He has the best arms and gives the best hugs in the world. "I've got some plans for the weekend. What do you say we be on our good behavior until then?"

"Until Saturday?" he asked, looking a little surprised. I laughed and I kissed him again. My Timothy liked to be romanced, but he also had a healthy libido lurking in there.

"I want you to remember the first time we make love for the rest of your life. And I really don't want half-dead carnations and Thor, God of Thunder to be the other things you remember," I added, and he laughed softly, but he was still looking at me with all the love in the world.

"Don't worry about what I thought or felt about somebody I was with before you," he said, touching his forehead to mine. "Because I never felt this way with anybody before, and I don't care if Steve buys me a whole chain of flower shops, or even if he is Thor, God of Thunder," he added, smiling, rolling his eyes, "it's you I want. Just you. Not the car you drive, the money you make -"

"You mean, don't make," I corrected.

"Don't make," he amended, stroking my cheek. "It's not flowers or gifts or anything else. Donald, it's just you. Only you. Okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, hugging him, burying my face in that sweet-smelling neck of his. God, he smelled so good and felt so good, and he was so good, and so sweet, and so gentle, and maybe eventually it would sink in that he was mine.

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