Shadows Over Crestwood (ManXMan)

Chapter 11: Slow Carbonara

** While this chapter isn't excplicit it's intended for mature audience. Please keep that in mind.**

As I set about preparing the carbonara, each step of the process felt imbued with a significance far beyond the culinary. The sizzling of the pancetta in the pan, the gentle whisking of eggs and Parmesan, even the boiling of the pasta—each action was a meditation, a way to calm the tumult within and focus on the moment at hand.

The knock on the door came just as I was draining the pasta, a simple sound that sent my heart into overdrive. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to find Derek standing there, a bottle of wine in hand, looking every bit the rugged detective and yet somehow vulnerable in the soft glow of the hallway light.

"Hope I'm not too early," he said, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty that was so at odds with his usual confidence. "You're just in time," I replied, stepping aside to let him in. "Wine, perfect. Let me get glasses."

The initial awkwardness soon gave way to a comfortable rhythm, the shared task of finishing the meal and setting the table a bridge over the gap that had formed between us. And when we finally sat down to eat, the carbonara rich and comforting, the conversation flowed more easily than I'd dared hope.

We talked of inconsequential things at first—the case set aside for the moment in favor of discussions about favorite movies, books, and the quirks of academia. But the undercurrent of what lay unspoken between us was ever-present, a silent companion to our meal.

It was Derek who broached the subject, his voice hesitant but determined. "Julian, about what I said earlier, about needing to take things slow... I meant it. But I also don't want to give you the wrong idea. I'm not... experienced with this. With wanting more than just... physical."

His admission, raw and honest, struck a chord within me. "Derek, I understand. And I'm not looking to rush into anything. I just... I enjoy spending time with you, getting to know you beyond the case. Whatever pace you're comfortable with, I'm here."

As Derek helped me with the dishes, our hands brushed, and we both froze, the electric charge of the contact sending a jolt through me. "Oops, sorry. Slow, right?" I quipped, the words out before I could stop them, laced with a teasing edge that belied my racing heart.

The act of doing the dishes afterward was no less fraught with this silent battle against proximity. I found myself focusing intently on each plate, each utensil, as if the fate of the world depended on not accidentally brushing against Derek. He, in turn, took to rinsing with a concentration that was almost laughable, given the mundane task at hand. Our movements around each other were calculated, a choreography of avoidance that saw us turning at just the right moment, reaching for a dish or a towel only when the other was sufficiently distant.

Our attempts at maintaining a respectable distance were becoming more comical by the minute, transforming the evening into a scene that wouldn't be out of place in a play by Aristophanes. "Behold, the tragic comedy: 'The Scholar and The Detective,' a tale of unrequited touch."

The air between us was thick with unsaid words and unexplored desires, each "taking it slow" adding another layer of awkwardness to the mix. It was like watching two people tiptoe around a pool, each too cautious to be the first to dive in, despite the summer heat beckoning them.

But oh, the plot thickens, for the tension that had been building, simmering beneath the surface like a well-stewed ragu, finally boiled over. It wasn't so much a decision as a mutual capitulation, a 'to hell with it' moment where all pretense of distance and restraint went out the window faster than dignity at a strip poker game. The space between avoiding touch and seeking it out diminished, as if Aphrodite herself had grown tired of our antics and decided to intervene, casting a spell that dissolved our resolve.

The transition from not touching to suddenly not being able to get close enough was as rapid as it was intense. It was as if all the pent-up energy, the frustration, and longing, had combined into a force of nature, sweeping away our half-hearted declarations of "taking it slow" with the unstoppable momentum of a mudslide. It was the kind of encounter that would have romance novelists furiously taking notes, a perfect blend of desire, affection, and a hint of desperation for connection.

And as the storm passed, leaving us in the quiet aftermath, the sardonic part of my brain made me say "I told you I am all for slow." Derek, still close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, let out a soft chuckle—a sound that seemed to vibrate through the both of us. 'Yeah, about that,' he said, his voice low and laced with a warmth that made my heart do a curious leap. 'I think we might have redefined "slow" tonight.'

Derek's arm found its way around me, pulling me closer, and I didn't resist, allowing myself to lean into his body. In the silence that followed, filled only by the soft cadence of our breathing, I found myself contemplating the strange journey that had led us here. From cautious allies to passionate confidantes, the path had been anything but straightforward. And yet, as I lay there, with Derek's steady presence grounding me, I couldn't help but feel that every misstep, every moment of hesitation, had been leading us to this.

The idea of Derek staying the night had been a distant fantasy, something I'd toyed with in moments of idle daydreaming. But now, with the night stretching out before us, the possibility felt not just real, but right. 'Stay,' I found myself saying, the word slipping out in a whisper, as if speaking it louder might break the spell that had settled over us. 'Please.'

There were no grand declarations, no dramatic gestures. Instead, there was the quiet comfort of shared warmth, of soft breaths and softer touches, as we drifted into sleep.