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     I have a recurring dream that’s driving me goddamned crazy.

      In it, Hutch is up at Dobey’s cabin, sprawled over the same bunk he’d slept in when we were there last. He’s wearing that black undershirt he’d worn before, the half-buttoned one, remember, showing glimpses of bare skin beneath it.

      It’s night. Moonlight splashes in across the windowsill to spill over him like a statue, over the individual hairs of his legs and crotch, tracing them in gleaming detail like a fine pattern set in silver.

      Oh, I don’t think I mentioned that the black shirt is the only thing he’s wearing.

      Anyway, his back is curved against the headboard, legs thrown apart, eyes closed against the cold light. The shadows gather in the dark corners of the room, watching his palm come down to cup the crown of his cock. He rotates his hand against the head slowly and makes a low, soft sound. Long fingers stretch, move down, then slide upward.

      I want to lower my mouth down over the hard length of him, taste the big vein throbbing beneath with my tongue. I know what he’d feel like in my mouth, imagined it enough. Want it enough.

      His eyes open up and the light makes them look like deep glass. His hand strokes, squeezes the head of his cock in his fist.

      My hand drops down to my crotch, rubbing there, slow push against the growing bulge in my jeans. I imagine it’s Hutch’s hand and unzip myself, thrust out my hips, do it again.

      His eyes widen.

      He sees me.

      I know it’s a dream, it’s impossible, but his eyes are on me.

      On my hand, still now, frozen.

      On my cock.

      I feel my face flush warm and I lean against the doorframe, legs gone to rubber. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes. What the hell would I say?

      Hutch leans his head against the headboard, gaze gone down to lazy, moon-glint slits. His hand stills. He watches me, face expressionless.

      “Hutch?” I finally whisper, my heart pounding. I feel it just beneath the surface all along my skin, pounding senselessly.

      His hand slides down his cock. It strains against his fingers, and his hips push into them. He groans and my name is in it.

      My paralysis breaks. I stumble forward and fall on my knees on the floor by the bed. He looks at me, in me. He leans over, slow mouth lowering, covering mine, moving over me, heat, wet, longing. He pushes me with the weight of his body. His hands move to my face and I close my eyes as he kisses me into the wall with his tongue, his teeth, his wordless voice, his harsh breaths. And it’s just like I imagined, how I knew he’d feel. I’d feel.

      Like everything I ever wanted.

      But when I open my eyes, he’ll be gone. I know it’s not real.

      Some day, though. The next day, even, or next week or next year—though that year thing makes something hurt deep in my chest—I’ll look and he’ll still be here.

      One day.

      One time.

      Just once.

      I open my eyes.