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The fire had burned down to a thick bed of coals, the kind that glowed more than they flamed. It painted the living room in slow amber light. Books crowded the walls, spines leaning comfortably into one another, and the brass arm of the record player trembled faintly as the needle traced the record.
Something easy and lilting played — guitar, brushed percussion, a voice like warm air. Aldo found it lulling him in, the notes shaping him into something easy and comfortable. Well, that and the bottle of wine that sat empty on the coffee table. He would have gotten up to replace it, but his loose muscles kept him seated.
He had sunk deep into the cushion of the armchair, one ankle resting over his knee, his glass balanced loosely in his hand. The quarter-zip he wore had crept open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his forearms. The fire warmed his shins. The wine warmed the back of his throat.
It was red and velvety, heavy with fruit and oak. Italian. Of course, it was Italian. If the world was going to collapse into nonsense, Aldo had decided years ago, he could at least insist on proper wine while it happened.
But most of his attention was neither on the wine nor the music and fire.
It was on the two people occupying the couch, nothing more than a few feet between them and himself.
Vincent had settled himself sideways behind Catherine, one shoulder propped against the armrest. His sleeves were rolled halfway to the elbow, exposing those careful, capable forearms.
Right now, his hands were working their way across Catherine’s shoulders, unhurriedly and as always methodical and precise.
Catherine had leaned back against him, her long wig sliding over Vincent’s arm as he moved the hair aside, taking care not to let it slip off her head. Her wineglass rested in one hand, balanced lazily near her chest and the pretty rose flush that reached up to her cheeks. Her blouse had loosened slightly at the collar from the way Vincent’s thumbs were pressing into the base of her neck, and she still wore her reading glasses from when she had read them a particularly interesting article on the development of railway signalling.
Aldo watched Vincent’s hands map her shoulders like he was studying something important, carefully kneading across the muscles. At times, he paused, whether to wait for Catherine’s reaction or to decide whether the fibres were relaxed enough, Aldo couldn’t say. Though it never took long for him to resume his work, his thumb settling deeper where Catherine’s body told him to.
Vincent murmured something into the shell of her ear. It was too hushed for Aldo to hear, but he watched as Catherine’s mouth softened into an almost secretive smile.
He took a sip of his wine.
Vincent’s fingers slid upward into Catherine’s hairline, lightly following the tendons of her neck before moving downwards again, settling back into the crook of her shoulders. He could be so gentle with his hands, his fingers thin and wiry but tensed in quiet strength. Aldo knew them all too well. The way they could coast around a wrist, swipe across a face, the pads tender but imploring in their focus. Sometimes it felt as if Vincent intended to hold the world in his palms. And often, when being at their attention, Aldo couldn’t help thinking he was succeeding.
Vincent kept them on Catherine’s shoulders for now, leaning in instead to press a kiss to her temple. The wine in Catherine’s glass rippled, her chest skipping a breath. She seemed to settle closer against him, who didn’t waste a second to kiss the same spot again, slower.
“Shoulders still bad, cariño?” He murmured. His accent thickened when the mood grew more comfortable.
Catherine hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head to give him better access. “They were dreadful earlier. Less dreadful now.”
Vincent’s thumbs resumed their movements, working lower, kneading into the muscle of her trapezius. Aldo knew that with the way Catherine was leaning against him, there wasn’t a chance Vincent could reach the spots he would usually want to. But he seemed more dismayed by the idea of losing her heat and weight against his chest.
“You carry too much here,” Vincent said.
“Mmm,” she replied, her voice airy and smooth. “You never help me bring in the groceries.”
Aldo snorted into his wine.
Vincent huffed a laugh against her neck.
“I apologise,” he said, placing yet another kiss to her head. “Perhaps we should look into getting our groceries delivered.”
Catherine sighed. “We are old enough to justify it, aren’t we?”
She tipped her head sideways as Vincent kissed just below her ear this time, absently humming in agreement. His hands had drifted from her shoulders to the sides of her neck again, thumbs sliding beneath the collar of her blouse.
Aldo watched the moment Vincent realised he’d done it. The stillness, the silent question, the almost guilt for raising it.
Catherine solved it for him.
She reached back, caught one of his wrists lightly, and guided his hand downward under the delicate fabric of her blouse.
Aldo raised his brows. The movement caught Catherine’s attention, and she lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze, blue eyes bright behind her glasses. She knew how much he liked watching them. And he knew how much she liked being watched.
She broke eye contact, instead tilting her head towards Vincent again. “Go on,” she said, and Vincent obeyed immediately.
His hand flattened gently against her chest beneath the blouse, the open collar offering room easily. His fingers spread slightly like he was still asking permission even after she’d given it. He seemed to relish the warmth of her skin, undoubtedly feeling her heart thrum against his palm. Aldo wondered if it was still a steady beat, slowed by wine and closeness, or if it had moved into something more urgent, more needy. The tips of Vincent’s fingers eventually slid further, following the curve of her breast, revealing her bra with the movement. They scratched over the sparse hair there, and Catherine’s breath hitched ever so softly.
Vincent rewarded it with another press of his lips to the side of her face, mapping the strong cheekbone while whispering something else in her ear. Catherine let out a faint laugh. Vincent’s other hand had returned to her shoulder, working deliberate circles as his thumb stayed on her pulse point.
It wasn’t the most intimate Aldo had seen them. Not by a long shot.
He had seen them naked often enough. Touched every inch of them. Felt them open under his hands and opened himself in turn, eyes closed in that rare, stubborn trust he gave to no one else. He had watched them together too — perched on the edge of the bed, offering the occasional murmured instruction when Catherine got shy, or Vincent forgot his patience.
He had taken them and been taken in turn.
He had cooked for Catherine when she lost track of time and meals. Stood beside her the night she tried on her first wig, watching her stare at herself like she was seeing a stranger who might become a friend. He had rubbed oil into the long pale seams across Vincent’s back until the skin softened beneath his palms. Held him through the nights when some place half a world away came creeping back into his dreams.
And, irritatingly enough, they had returned the favour. More than once.
Still.
Even knowing all that — because of it, perhaps — Aldo felt the familiar lurch in his chest, something warm and heavy settling lower in his body.
He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You’re spoiling her, you know.”
Vincent didn’t look up. “Mm.”
Aldo’s brows lifted a fraction. “‘Mm,’ he says.”
“Oh, hush.” Catherine's objection was immediate, but her mouth twitched upwards nonetheless. Her fingers trailed along Vincent’s arm. “He’s being sweet. Let him.”
Vincent pressed another quiet kiss against the side of her throat, lips lingering a little longer this time.
Aldo swirled his wine leisurely, watching the two of them over the rim of the glass.
He always marveled a little at how they fit. Vincent smaller, compact in that wiry way that came from surviving too many things. Catherine tall and elegant, even when slouched against a couch cushion with a man half-wrapped around her. Faintly, Aldo wondered how an observer might perceive his own adjoining presence when it was the three of them.
Vincent’s hand shifted under her blouse again.
Catherine inhaled faintly. “There."
He adjusted instantly, his hand curving further around her and his thumb finding her nipple through the fabric of her bra.
Aldo tilted his head.
“You know,” he said, conversationally, “if you spent half that effort on my shoulders, I might stop complaining about them.”
Vincent finally glanced up, eyes amused and dark in the low light. “You would complain anyway,” he said.
Catherine laughed.
Aldo scoffed. He lifted his glass in mock offence. “I resent that.”
“You would get a massage too, Aldo,” Vincent offered calmly, his mouth curving against Catherine’s jaw, “if you stopped pretending you’re not always tight as a piano wire.”
Catherine hummed. “He is not wrong.”
Aldo stared at both of them. “Unbelievable.” It earned him a pair of amused huffs.
Vincent returned his attention to Catherine, fingers slipping deeper beneath the blouse now as his second hand joined his first.
Catherine let out a low breath and leaned her head back against his shoulder.
Aldo watched her throat move.
Watched Vincent’s mouth drift there again.
The teasing warmth in his body shaped into something more familiar.
Catherine stretched suddenly, lifting her glass away from her chest.
“Hold on,” she murmured.
She leaned forward to place the wineglass on the coffee table.
The movement pulled her away from Vincent’s hands, and he followed automatically, steadying her waist.
Then she reached back and took Vincent’s wrist again. “Help me sit up a moment, darling. Against the armrest.”
Vincent did so, rising so she could settle in the space he had inhabited. He stood beside her, his thumb still stroking over her knuckles as Catherine stretched her legs. Vincent stepped back.
“No — wait.” Her fingers circled his wrist. “Come here instead.”
Vincent blinked. Aldo felt the corner of his mouth curl. Catherine caught Vincent gently by the hips and tugged. He made a surprised noise as she pulled him forward, his tights straddling her lap. The couch creaked faintly under the shift of their weight, and his hands landed automatically on her waist to steady himself.
Catherine leaned back into the armrest, looking entirely pleased with herself. “There.”
Her long legs adjusted underneath him, one arm sliding comfortably around his back as though he’d always belonged there. Aldo supposed he had.
Vincent let out a small breath. “You’re very certain tonight, Catalina.”
“Am I now?” she murmured, clearly satisfied with his weight on her hips.
Her fingers slipped into his hair. The reaction was immediate. Aldo saw Vincent’s shoulders soften under her hand, his head dipping slightly as her fingers combed slowly back through the dark strands.
Vincent had beautiful hair. Thick and dark with faint silver threading through it now. In the firelight, it made him look younger somehow, the grey catching warm highlights as Catherine’s pale fingers moved through it.
Aldo watched the contrast with quiet appreciation; Vincent’s bronze complexion against Catherine’s fair one. Her cheeks were faintly pink, the flush stretching across her skin but not disturbing her focus. She was looking up at the man in her lap with those pale blue eyes, almost reverently. She was tucking a strand behind Vincent’s ear as if she wanted to see more, drink him in entirely. Aldo couldn’t see Vincent’s face, but he didn’t doubt for a second that he didn’t carry the same devoted expression, dark lashes fluttering under the attention. Momentarily, they appeared absorbed in each other, focused on nothing more than the shared breath between them.
Not for the first time, Aldo mused about how good a painting they would make.
Catherine’s hand curved around Vincent’s jaw. “Now,” she said gently, lifting his chin with two fingers, “you were doing something nice for me.”
Vincent stayed put for another moment before he leaned down. This time, though, he wasn’t going for her neck or jaw, but instead let his lips capture hers. His hands moved lightly over her sides as if he were reacquainting himself with the shape of her. Catherine’s breath shifted as she deepened the kiss, ever so slow and careful.
Aldo took a long sip.
Vincent’s fingers drifted lower, pausing at the hem of Catherine’s blouse. He broke the kiss, glancing at her.
Her mouth curved, lips swollen. “Well?”
That was all it took.
Vincent’s hands moved, beginning to undo the buttons one at a time, his fingers just as methodical here as they had been on Catherine’s shoulders. He kissed her again until, finally, the fabric slid off her chest, further revealing her skin, marked by age spots and dark freckles. She helped him along, sitting up just enough and slipping her arms out of the sleeves. Vincent folded the fabric and set it next to the empty wineglass.
For a moment, Catherine remained like that, half turned toward the firelight, her hair slipping loose over her bare shoulders now that the collar no longer held it back. The soft waves of it caught the glow of the flames as they fell across her collarbones. Age had changed her from their days at seminary, but Aldo had long ago found that she was settling into it with more grace than their colleagues had been granted. Her shoulders were still broad and capable, the lines of her strength shaping her arms. Below them, her waist softened into the gentle curve of her stomach and hips, the faint give of it something he had grown fond of over the years. It was different from the lean silhouette she had inhabited in the Vatican, seemingly a lifetime ago. There was comfort in it, in the evidence of a life lived rather than preserved.
Vincent’s hands began to move again. Up her sides this time. Over her stomach. Trailing her body hair before they rounded over the curve of her breasts once more. She still had her bra on, but that did nothing to diminish the view. Perhaps the contrary might have been true. It was a red thing, pretty with lace and embroidered petals. It offered support, pushing her breasts up just enough to accentuate their fullness. Sometimes she matched it to her lipstick. There was a time when Aldo had considered himself strictly homosexual. He had been blessed to find out how fluid one’s proclivities could prove to be.
Vincent must have had a quite similar train of thought as his gaze lingered there a moment longer.
Then he leaned down again, further this time, pressing a kiss just above the swell of her chest. Catherine let out a small sound, and the colour in her cheeks deepened. Vincent’s lips moved to her sternum, slower, his mouth open and his breath no doubt hot and wet against her.
Catherine’s hands slid down his back before finding the hem of his worn shirt. They slipped beneath the fabric with practised ease, fingertips mapping the muscles there.
“You’re very focused tonight, aren’t you?” she murmured breathily. “So good to me.”
Vincent didn’t reply. He instead offered a small noise that might have been agreement. His hair fell in his face again as he found refuge in the shadows of her body.
Aldo exhaled slowly through his nose.
There it was.
It didn’t happen every time. Vincent could be sharp as broken glass when he wanted to be — quick with his tongue, stubborn in arguments, perfectly capable of steering the entire room if the mood took him.
But sometimes, when the right pieces lined up...
A hand in his hair. A little praise.
Someone gently showing him what they wanted instead of making him guess.
He slipped into this quiet, pliant state that seemed to constrict the margins of his world by just a touch. Aldo wouldn’t call it mindless, no. Vincent was far from that, regardless of circumstance. Just… softer. The constant edge in him eased off, like he had finally set down a weight he usually carried without thinking about it.
Vincent stopped talking when he got like this. Stopped questioning. His attention narrowed until it was fixed on one simple thing: taking care of whoever was under his hands. Aldo had seen it enough times to recognise the signs immediately. The careful concentration in his brow. The way his breathing deepened. The way he stopped noticing much of anything else.
And he was pliant, oh so pliant. Aldo could ask Vincent to shift, to lean closer, to keep going for another hour, and the man would probably do it without a second thought. Not because he had to, but because being guided like that let him stop thinking for a while.
Christ, he’s easy when he gets like this.
The thought slid through Aldo’s mind with equal parts amusement and something warmer.
Vincent trusted them when he went soft like that. Trusted them not to push him somewhere he didn’t want to go, even if he’d follow just about any gentle suggestion in the moment. Sometimes — although disregarded almost immediately — Aldo felt a flicker of temptation anyway. Was there a limit to Vincent’s need to please?
Across from him, Catherine’s fingers drifted leisurely through Vincent’s hair again, and Vincent’s shoulders loosened another inch.
Aldo caught the brief glance she flicked his way.
She saw it too.
She always did.
They’d had that silent conversation more than once over the years — when to indulge it, when to slow him down, when to pull him back into the moment and make sure he wasn’t forgetting himself entirely. Tonight, she seemed content to let him stay there. Frankly, Aldo couldn’t blame her.
He shifted in his seat, the heat in his chest rising in a way that had nothing to do with the wine. His fingers itched.
“You’ve turned him into a very cooperative creature tonight.”
Catherine’s eyebrow lifted, her hand never straying from its steady, rhythmic comb.
“That’s a rude way to describe our husband, Aldo.”
“I mean it fondly,” he said, gesturing with his glass. “Look at him.”
Catherine did. “Hm,” she murmured, almost thoughtfully, though Aldo could swear he heard her breath hitch.
She used her fingers to tip Vincent's face out of its hiding spot at her neck. From this angle, Aldo could make out the slack lines around his jaw, the way he had squinted his eyes as if dazed, as if the low light of the fireplace was still too much input. For a moment, both of them just watched.
“Yes,” Catherine finally said. “I see what you mean.” Her thumb traced the shell of Vincent’s ear. “You do look rather absorbed, darling.”
Aldo’s hand flicked in an expressive motion. See?
Catherine glanced up. “But he isn't a ‘creature’,” she added. “He’s just quiet. He’s putting the day down.”
Aldo let his eyes track the way Vincent’s shoulders rose and fell. He hummed. “What he is, is trying to figure out what you want next. Even when he is half-vague like this.”
“Is that a critique?”
“A confession.”
“Oh, stop it,” Catherine said, her voice smooth and low. “Being uncharitable doesn’t suit you. You know how much he likes feeling useful. It helps him relax, and I intend to give him the space to do so. Don’t misuse his sweetness just because he can’t respond like this.”
Aldo arched his brow. “You have no problem misusing that state of his if it’s to make him sit on your cock.”
Catherine’s eyes met his, and although the blue flashed sharp, she didn't look offended; she merely leaned back further into the armrest, her fingers tightening slightly in the dark strands of Vincent’s hair to keep him tucked against her. “He likes the focus, Aldo. It’s a relief for him to be told exactly where he’s needed so he doesn't have to think.”
“Please,” Aldo said, his voice dry. “More than anything, he likes being praised.”
Although he wasn’t exactly wrong, he also knew that wasn’t quite the truth either. No, what precisely motivated Vincent during his sweetness was something he had never been able to pinpoint. He figured he wasn’t supposed to, not when it was so easy to accept and accommodate Vincent regardless.
Catherine must have had the same thought. She leaned down to press her lips to Vincent’s forehead. “It’s a good thing then, that you are so deserving of praise, isn’t it, my love?”
The man reacted with a flutter of his lashes. Aldo swallowed. Yes. It was a good thing. Vincent looked small in her arms, still nipping at her skin with the persistence of a kitten, his tongue occasionally darting out to lick the marks he left. And then there was Catherine, holding him as if she wanted to keep him all to herself, shielding him in his pliant state. She was good with him, gentle and soft in a way that came naturally to her and — to Aldo’s shame — provoked envy. When Aldo had seen it for the first time, it hadn’t necessarily been an unexpected discovery, but it had surprised him nonetheless. Catherine had always been good at rounding edges, at diplomacy borne out of a sincere wish for amity. She had always extended kindness to god’s creations, more so when the task had been saving Vincent’s turtles from Rome’s streets. So when Vincent had first dropped into this softness — unexpected to both of them as well as himself — and Catherine had noticed the shift almost immediately, he should have anticipated her hushed coaxing, her comforting grasp. She had not just taken Vincent in; she had handled him.
The heat in Aldo’s gut formed into a knot and then pulled. Hard. The sensation knocked the air out of his lungs, squeezing the organ tight before travelling upwards and settling wet behind his eyes. What had he done to deserve to witness — to partake in — such pureness?
He cleared his throat. Catherine looked back up. He resisted the urge to blink the dampness from his lashes, hoping the low light would do its part to conceal his sentimentality. He felt his skin prickle underneath her gaze, so he focused on the unhurried rise and fall of Vincent’s back instead.
At the edge of Aldo’s mind, the music they had started earlier continued its slow, easy swing, untouched by the lull that had fallen over the room. For most of the evening, it had been little more than a pleasant backdrop. Now it seemed to creep into the foreground, slipping between the quiet breaths and half-finished thoughts as he tried to gather himself. The rhythm kept moving, smooth and indifferent, filling the silence he had left behind. Aldo felt it prickle faintly against his nerves, the steady measure of it almost daring him to break it.
“It’s almost too easy, isn’t it?” he said finally, his voice taking on a jagged, almost clinical edge. “You give him a bit of direction and he just… disappears.”
Catherine’s head tilted a fraction, her hand slowing in Vincent’s hair. “He is still very much here.”
Aldo hummed in acknowledgement. Another pause settled between them.
“But sometimes,” Aldo then continued, “it’s hard to tell where he actually ends. He’s spent so many years in places where staying quiet was the safest option. Reading men. Figuring out exactly what they want before they say it.”
Vincent shifted lightly against Catherine, his mouth still wandering over her skin with that serene, absent persistence.
Aldo watched him. His mouth curved faintly, though there was no humour in it.
“He’s such an obedient little thing for you tonight,” he went on, his words gaining uncomfortable momentum, “but you do have to wonder if it’s actually enjoyment. Or if he’s just falling back on habit.”
He vaguely noticed Catherine’s fingers stilling completely now. And with them did Vincent’s lips. It wasn’t enough to stop him.
“Waiting out the attention,” he added, his gaze fixed on Vincent’s bowed head. “Until it’s over.”
Catherine’s hand slid from Vincent’s hair to the back of his neck, pulling him a little closer against her chest. Vincent followed the pressure easily, his forehead settling against her collarbone.
Aldo tipped the last of the wine around his glass.
“It’s strange,” he said after a moment. “The way he goes soft like this. Like he knows exactly what’s expected of him when someone bigger has him where they want him.”
Catherine’s voice was quiet.
“Aldo.”
“How he just takes it. Like it’s not the first time someone decides they’re in the mood and he’s the one underneath—”
“That’s enough.”
The words landed with the clean, sudden force of cold water.
Aldo’s mouth clicked shut. For a moment, he simply stilled where he sat, the glass still loose in his fingers, the last dark ribbon of wine circling the bottom as his hand trembled.
Then the meaning of Catherine’s voice caught up with him.
His gaze snapped fully back to Vincent.
God.
The realisation crashed through him in a sickening wave.
Aldo inhaled sharply, the breath snagging somewhere in his chest. He could feel heat rushing into his face now, burning through the haze of wine and sentimentality that had loosened his tongue a moment earlier.
What the hell had he been saying.
It wasn’t as if the words had come from nowhere. But that had never been his place to speculate. And certainly not like this.
His eyes dropped for a second before he forced them back up again. Because Vincent was still there. Still half draped across Catherine’s body, still tucked against her like something small and warm that had found its place.
He hadn’t recoiled. Hadn’t looked up in alarm. If anything, he looked only faintly puzzled by the shift in tone. He was pressed even closer where Catherine had guided him. He had settled into it without hesitation. Like this, his lips were unable to continue their distracted wandering, but his breath stayed steady as though the interruption had been nothing more than a change in weather passing through the room.
Vincent’s dark eyes drifted sluggishly toward Aldo, taking a moment to find him. Once, afterwards, he had tried to describe his state to them both. He had compared it to thick honey. A wall of it that not only slowed his thoughts and reactions but forced his whole consciousness to wade through it as if it were the grey, sucking mud of a low-tide flat. But it’s... comfortable, he had mumbled, still lying sandwiched between them.
As Aldo met his gaze, he couldn’t help but think that Vincent was straining to force his thoughts to pass. Aldo couldn’t say if he was making any strides. He couldn’t say if he wanted him to. For now, Vincent’s face didn’t carry accusation or hurt. Just that same mild attention. A vague awareness that Aldo existed somewhere nearby, followed by the plain acceptance of it.
As if the idea that Aldo might wound him had never even occurred to him.
The thought struck Aldo square in the chest.
Jesus.
He swallowed hard and abruptly leaned forward, setting the wineglass on the table before he could drop it.
For a moment, he just sat there, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand across his mouth while he tried to gather himself again.
Then, quietly:
“I’m sorry.”
The words felt insufficient the moment they left him.
He looked up again, this time at Catherine.
She hadn’t moved much. One arm around Vincent's shoulders, her fingers continuing their slow, grounding movement along the back of his neck. But her eyes were on Aldo now, steady and assessing.
She said nothing.
Aldo felt the weight of that silence far more keenly than any reprimand.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he added after a moment, his voice lower now. “That was… out of line.”
Catherine kept watching him. For several seconds, she simply held his gaze, as if measuring something deeper than the words themselves.
The anger he had half expected never came.
Instead, her expression softened by degrees, the sharpness leaving her eyes as understanding settled in its place. She knew him too well.
Aldo looked away first.
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how warm the room had become, of the firelight flickering across the walls, of the quiet, steady sound of Vincent’s breathing.
He had nearly ruined this.
Across from him, Vincent shifted again, one hand sliding absently across Catherine’s stomach as he resettled against her. His gaze drifted back toward Aldo, following his gesture almost idly before returning to Catherine’s skin.
Catherine’s fingers smoothed once more through Vincent’s hair before she finally spoke.
“You don’t have to sit over there, Aldo.”
Her voice was quiet again now, the smoothness of it arriving calm, inviting rather than corrective.
Aldo glanced up.
For a second, he just looked at her, not quite trusting what he’d heard.
“You’re welcome here,” she added after a moment, her thumb tracing a line behind Vincent’s ear. “You always are.”
Something in Aldo’s chest shifted.
Only then did he notice how tight he’d been sitting. His shoulders, his jaw, the way his fingers had been wrapped around the stem of the glass like it had personally offended him.
Not just since she’d stopped him, either. No. This had started earlier. From the moment he’d taken the armchair instead of the couch. From the moment he’d decided to sit there and watch them like some polite guest instead of simply getting up and joining them like he normally would.
He’d been holding himself apart all evening. As though some stubborn part of his brain had quietly concluded he didn’t quite deserve to be there tonight. The realisation landed somewhere deep in his stomach and pulled.
And yet the worst part might have been how Catherine’s simple invitation loosened the knot instantly. Just like that.
Aldo exhaled through his nose. God, that was embarrassing.
He had been sitting there like an adolescent waiting to be told he was welcome, when the truth was that he had never needed permission from either of them. They had built this life together piece by piece, turning it into something comfortable and accepting. He knew that.
And yet some childish, self-indulgent part of him had apparently decided to sulk about it instead. Lashed out even. The thought alone made him roll his shoulders in irritation and shame.
Still, the invitation had worked. Because now that Catherine had said it aloud, stepping closer felt simple again. As though the momentary distortion in his thinking had been corrected by the quiet certainty in her voice.
Aldo pushed himself to his feet, not quite trusting them as he stepped around the coffee table. When he lowered himself down beside the couch, his knees protested immediately, the joints creaking loudly enough to make him wince.
“Jesus.”
Catherine’s mouth twitched faintly.
He settled onto his knees beside them anyway.
Up close, the warmth of their bodies hit him immediately: the faint scent of Catherine’s perfume mixed with smoke from the fire, the familiar citrusy of Vincent’s shampoo.
For a moment, Aldo simply looked at them.
Vincent had turned his head slightly, watching him with that same softened curiosity, as if trying to follow the movement through his pleasant haze and weighted lids. Aldo suspected he might have aborted his efforts to think.
Aldo reached out first for Catherine’s hand. She let him take it without question, her fingers curling loosely around his. The contact steadied him in a way he hadn’t quite expected. For a split second he hesitated, but then his other hand came to rest along Vincent’s back, ever so lightly. The muscles there were warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, moving with each breath. Aldo’s palm slid upward almost automatically, tracing the familiar line of his spine before settling between his shoulders.
Vincent leaned into the touch, a quiet shift in the subtle way a body recognises a hand it trusts.
The gesture twisted something in Aldo’s chest again. He leaned forward before he could overthink it, pressing a kiss to Vincent’s temple. It was meant to be brief. Instead, he stayed there a moment longer, his mouth resting against the warm curve of Vincent’s skin. A poor apology for what he had so casually thrown across the room.
“I’m sorry,” he nevertheless murmured against his hair.
Vincent didn’t respond with words.
He simply tipped his head slightly into the contact, and his hand drifted from Catherine’s side, sliding across Aldo’s arm for a moment before settling there, as though acknowledging the presence without needing to examine it too closely.
Aldo huffed quietly.
“There he is,” he said under his breath.
His fingers resumed their movement along Vincent’s back, the touch gentle and deliberate.
“You’re doing very well tonight,” he added softly. “Taking such good care of our wife.”
Vincent made a subdued sound, and his shoulders loosened another inch.
Catherine watched the exchange without interrupting. Her gaze moved between them slowly, the thoughtful stillness in her expression suggesting she was seeing far more than either of them said aloud. She didn’t comment on Aldo’s earlier words, didn’t drag the moment back into that sharp place. He was grateful for it.
Eventually, her eyes felt too heavy on his skin, and Aldo glanced up. She met his gaze over the rim of her reading glasses.
Something warm and knowing passed between them.
Then her fingers slid once more through Vincent’s hair, drawing him gently back toward her as the tranquil rhythm of the evening resumed, albeit slower, more carefully. Kneeling beside them, one hand holding Catherine’s, the other resting steady against Vincent’s back, Aldo let the warmth of them both settle around him like something carefully slotting back into place.
Yes. This was where he was supposed to be.