"He'll be here. Relax."
Ewan crosses his arms over his chest. Jon suppresses the smirk that wants to spread over his features, and instead leans his elbow on Ewan's shoulder. His fingers rub lightly against his chin, and he thinks about rubbing the tension out of Ewan's shoulders, out of his back, of going to his knees and sucking it out of Ewan's cock. It's always hard watching Ewan like this -- not because he's tense and horny, but that he's tense and horny because of someone else.
Ewan makes a frustrated noise. "He's not coming."
"He is." Jon tries not to let the irritation creep into his voice. He wants to grab Ewan by the front of that fucking orange shirt and kiss him until his mouth bruises, wants to work one hand into Ewan's pants and force Ewan to come, right there in the street, hot and sticky and public.
But he won't, because he actually does believe that he's coming, and if he shows up and finds Jon with his hand down Ewan's pants -- without permission -- oh, there will be hell to pay.