The air in the glass room was still, charged with the unspoken history of the last few months. Dax's thumb stroked Chris' cheekbone, his eyes wide and filled with a tenderness that was both familiar and new. It was the look of a man who had waited, watched, and set aside his own desires to honor another's healing.
"Chris," Dax murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through Chris's chest. "Let me touch you."
Chris's answer was a kiss. He rose to his toes, one hand fisted in the front of Dax's shirt to pull him down. Their mouths met, and it was immediately hungry, a collision of two months of enforced distance. It was messy and desperate, all teeth and tongues and the soft, needy sounds Chris couldn't hold back.
Dax's hands, which had been gentle, suddenly tightened, one spanning Chris's lower back to pull him flush against his body, the other cupping the back of his head, holding him in place.
