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Troy's feet pounded the pavement with an extra fervor he usually reserved only for the ice. He had one mission for this morning's run: blow off steam from the night before.
The game against Vancouver had been, on his part, shit. He played as if it were one of his first games—fumbling passes, nearly tripping over his own teammates. It was embarrassing, and even more embarrassing to admit his poor performance was because of his father. This happened every time they played Vancouver, whether in Ottawa or away; he couldn't seem to escape the whirling noise in his head.
Would his father reach out? Would his father be in the crowd? Was his father even watching? It was ridiculous thinking; they hadn't spoken since last year's pride night, but the Vancouver games almost always surfaced residual guilt and anger that Troy worked so hard to suppress.
After the game, he'd been quiet, borderline rude to Harris, and when he finally succumbed to sleep, it was fitful at best.
This morning, groggy and still irritated, he'd hit snooze.
Twice.
And then, when he finally opened his eyes, Harris looked so soft and peaceful that Troy couldn't help but press himself against his boyfriend for a few extra minutes of comfort. Now he was twenty minutes behind his normal schedule and debating whether he should run by the store for the milk they needed or make it back to the apartment in time to enjoy breakfast with Harris.
He chose Harris.
He would always choose Harris.
The apartment was eerily quiet when Troy entered, nothing but the click of Chiron's nails as he pattered off to his bowl.
"Harris?" Troy called out, drifting to the bedroom. He hoped maybe Harris was still naked and dripping wet enclosed in the steam of their shower, but it seemed nothing wanted to go Troy's way this morning. Bedroom, bathroom, every room was void of Harris' sweet smell and booming presence.
An anxious flutter rolled through his chest. Harris wasn't one to leave without sending a message or without a note.
Had Harris told him he would be gone, and he'd forgotten? Or wasn't listening? Maybe Harris had an appointment he didn't mention? Did he leave every morning Troy went for a run?
The sound of jingling keys echoed through the hall, cutting off his thoughts. When Troy rounded the corner and saw a familiar jean jacket, his heart settled.
"Hey," Troy said.
Harris' shoulders jolted. "Damn." He turned and talked through a side smile. "You beat me back."
In his hands, Harris held a takeaway carrier of two coffees, and when he placed it on the counter, Troy noticed his tote was full.
"What's all this?"
"We needed milk."
Troy's stomach dropped. He should have shortened his run to stop by the shop for milk. Not only had he messed up his morning routine, but he'd also managed to ruin Harris', too.
"I'm sorry. I meant to be up earlier so I could stop on the way home from my run, but—"
"Hey, it's fine." Harris plopped the tote next to the coffees and stepped toward Troy. "You needed that extra fifteen minutes. I know you didn't sleep well."
Troy sighed. "No. I didn't."
Harris hurled himself toward Troy. His arms circled Troy's center fast and strong. He wanted to stay here forever, forget about his dad, forget about hockey.
"I'm sweaty," Tory complained.
"Don't care," Harris mumbled.
He burrowed deeper into Troy, nuzzling his cold nose against the space between Troy's neck and shoulders. His nose was soon invaded with the smell of apples, and he sank loosely into his boyfriend's hold. Harris kissed his neck, three short and sweet touches.
"Go shower and I'll make breakfast," Harris said, pulling away.
Troy protested, tugging Harris back. Troy grazed his lips softly over his. "Did you shower already?"
Harris chuckled. "Yes." The vibration of his lips against Troy's sparked a thrill of heat in his stomach.
"Damn." Troy pressed his mouth to Harris's, gently. A faint hint of something sweet hit his tongue when he swept it past his lips. Troy hummed low. "Sweet."
Harris pulled back, resting his forehead against Troy's. A content sigh slipped from his lips. "There's a new cinnamon sugar danish Thomas wanted me to try. It's very good. He gave me an extra you can have. It's in my tote."
His eyes found Harris' tote, half-spilled on the counter. A brown paper bag peeked out from the top. He stopped, narrowing his eyes at the sight of colorful petals—a bouquet of flowers.
Troy's lips curved up. "Don't tell me Thomas gave you flowers too?"
Thomas, the overly friendly barista, had a massive crush on Harris, and Troy loved teasing Harris relentlessly about it.
"No." Harris rolled his eyes and patted Troy's chest playfully. "Those are for you."
He raised his eyebrows. "For me?"
Harris' mouth lifted into a warm, earnest smile. "Yeah. I figured they might be a nice pick-me-up."
Troy's stomach flipped. God, he was certain there would never be anything as sweet as loving Harris. "No one has ever gotten me flowers."
"You deserve nice things too, Troy."
Troy felt his cheeks flush, and he ducked his head to brush his lips, just briefly, against Harris'.
Morning saved.