#76325

Home, for James, was once a shoulder holster in a foreign country, women he didn’t know and regularly forgot, the London skyline outside his window, a martini shaken just right, and a suit so sharp, marks sometimes cut themselves on his edges. Home, now, is a person, is pizza after a long day, an entire cabinet full of tea, soft pillows and a warm mouth across his shoulders—it’s still London, but home is a flat he shares, a bed where he fights for blankets, the permanent indent of a book spine resting against his ribs, and he’s finally done running away.