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the door frame, and Owen realizes with a jolt that Luther does want him, but he’s also not going to stop Owen from leaving. Not if that’s what Owen wants.
    “You—but—you were pissed that I was there!” Owen finishes, lamely.
    “Owen—” Luther says. He sounds like Owen’s words hurt him, and Owen feels something twist in his gut at the expression on Luther’s face. It’s open, and honest, and almost as vulnerable as Owen feels. “I’ll never be pissed off because you’re here.” Luther’s voice is so low that Owen can barely hear him.
    Then Luther steps forward until both his palms are pressed against Owen’s chest. “I didn’t want to go to that party.” Luther speaks slowly, carefully, like he’s terrified Owen might misinterpret his words somehow. Owen’s not entirely sure Luther’s wrong about that. “Not after I saw you.” Luther swallows, and looks away. “I—Jesus, Owen, I hoped you’d come. Dreamed—” Luther makes a face. “Why else would I put a menorah in the windowsill, Owen?”
    Owen stares. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest and he has a feeling Luther can hear it. What’s strange is how little he seems to care.
    “The menorah’s for me,” Owen says. It’s not a question, but Luther answers him anyway.
    “Duh,” he says, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Then Luther reaches up and flicks Owen’s nose, lightly, with his thumb. If it were anybody else, that would piss Owen off. Instead, he tilts his head, leaning in toward Luther until they’re almost within kissing distance.
    “And the tree?” Owen asks. His breath tickles Luther’s eyelashes and he watches as Luther closes his eyes and breathes in, deep.
    “Lot of trouble to go to if there’s not gonna be anybody else around to enjoy it.”
    “You waited,” Owen says, bewildered. “You—why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Why didn’t you?” Luther counters.
    “Point, sir.” Owen reaches for Luther’s chin with one hand and wonders what it says about him that he’s still surprised when Luther doesn’t pull away. Luther makes this noise when Owen kisses him, soft and needy, and Owen lingers over the kiss for far longer than he intends to. Owen kisses Luther until Luther moans, long and deep. Then (and only then) Owen pulls away.
    “I—I didn’t get you anything,” he says. Owen’s chest is heaving and it hurts to breathe, but it’s okay, because Luther’s gazing up at him with wide, lust-blown eyes, and he looks—he looks in love . The realization makes Owen’s words stutter and die in his throat.
    “Owen.” Luther’s smiling, but Owen could swear he sees a slight sheen of moisture in Luther’s eyes through the mingled glow of the candlelight, and the rising sun that’s slowly turning from red to gold on the horizon. Luther looks amazed, like he can’t quite believe what he’s about to do. Then, he leans forward, standing on his tiptoes to reach Owen’s ear. “All I want for Christmas,” Luther whispers, so soft that Owen can barely hear him, “is you.”

STRANGERS FOR THE NIGHT
    T. R. Verten
    H e awakes with a start—the daily jolt of shit, dinnertime, shit, bath time, shit, bedtime, shit , parenting —but no, they’ve gone to their grandmother’s, where they will stay for the whole weekend—oh, wonderful, glorious , sweet relief—and so flops back down into the pillow to snatch back the quickly unraveling threads of his dreams. An hour or so later, the rumble in his stomach stirs him a second time; he stretches unhurriedly.
    As he rubs the tendons of his neck, he gropes his way into the hallway, eyes cloudy with grit. He trips over Michaela’s elaborate Lego castle and knocks over a turret in progress, one of the yellow pieces embedding itself in his bare foot.
    The inside of the fridge makes him regret skipping the weekly Trader Joe’s run for sleep. The doors are stocked with low-acid orange juice, Horizon 2%, San Pellegrino, and Reisling Kabinett. The shelves hold