This story includes flashbacks (chapters 5, 7, 9 and 12) which are optional. If you skip them you'll still have a complete story.
1. A Chance Encounter
It’s early September—the days when all the careful planning and tending finally pay off. That’s when Jon spots him: a man on a park bench beneath maples turning gold. Boyish features, glints of silver in a dusky brush-cut. A body that looks like it’s earned every inch—chest filling his shirt, sleeves rolled over tan forearms. Light glasses perch on his nose, a worn paperback held loosely in his hands.
Even Jon’s runner’s pulse picks up. There’s a stir in his shorts.
He takes the looping path through the perfumed rose garden, where everything is in bloom. There’s an intoxicating sense of abundance in the air, each bud unfurled. A flourish before the cooler days, while everything is still glorious and golden.
On the next loop, Jon passes closer. Now he can see the man’s strong hands are holding Bill Sherwood’s Parting Glances—a novel Jon knows well. It’s a nice surprise, and it brings a smile to his face, as does the way the man’s eyes flick up, a teasing smile at the corners of his mouth.
Gotcha.
Jon takes another loop. He can hear the peacocks from the zoo trilling. “Oh yeah?” he thinks, as if answering them. “Watch this.” He takes the path back by the man, hiking his sleeveless shirt up around his neck, letting the late morning air flow over his skin.
He’s old enough to know his body—lean, whippet-strong, all lines and angles. There’s a soft fan of hair across his flat belly, a dark thatch spreading from the center of his chest. He feels the man’s gaze and lets himself slow.
He jogs a circle around the maple twice, and this time the man looks around, then rises to his feet, with smooth, easy confidence. Different builds, but the same height. Eye to eye.
There are families arriving. It’s the last Saturday before school starts, and the zoo will be mobbed. The man’s eyes return to Jon’s as if to say, This is a public area.
Undaunted, Jon raises his chin. An invitation. I know a place.
He turns, and in a slow trot leads the way out of the park, down two quiet blocks into the surrounding residential area of the city. He doesn’t turn to look—he knows the man is following. He stops at a modest craftsman, its porch framed by lush landscaping. From the open window next door drifts the overture of Die Zauberflöte.
Jon bounds up the porch steps, two at a time. He enters, leaving the door open behind him. There’s a soft click as it closes. In two strides, the man’s hands settle on Jon’s hips; his lips find the nape of Jon’s neck, then his teeth, just grazing the side of his throat. Rough hands slide up his torso, playing over his chest, lifting the running shirt from around his neck and tossing it to the floor.
Jon leads the way to the bedroom, the man still attached at his back. They tangle together, bumping into the doorframe as they jerk clothes off, leaving a trail behind them. When they fall onto the bed, their mouths find each other, and the man’s thigh slides between Jon’s legs. Their bodies fit together as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.
The man’s mouth trails down Jon’s neck, the sandpaper fine stubble scraping to that spot just above the collarbone. Jon arches, one hand in the man’s hair, the other gripping his shoulder. The weight of him, the heat of him, is perfect.
“God, you feel good,” the man murmurs into the crook of Jon’s neck, tickling him. His voice is deep, velvety, making Jon hard. He hooks a leg around the man’s hip, their cocks grind together in the heated space between them, sturdy and evenly matched. The man raises his face to catch Jon’s eyes, reading them, his mouth finds its mate, and—
Jon’s watch alarm buzzes. He drops his head back. “Ugh. We have to get ready.”
“No one's home but us,” the man says, hunger in his eyes, his hands touching all the spots he knows will tempt Jon to stay. He rocks his hips into Jon deliberately, making him bite back a moan.
“Rob, don't torture me,” Jon groans, forcing himself to pull away, every muscle in his body screaming to continue.
He rises, gathers himself, and looks down at the man sprawled across their bed. Chest rising with every breath—hard and waiting, every inch ready. Rob’s youthful abundance has matured into something stronger—thicker, charged with quiet power. More magnetic now than ever before.
A slow grin passes between them—a promise. Later. One of the many silent communications they’ve developed over the years, codes only they know.
Through an act of staggering discipline, Jon heads for the door, his frustrated cock swaying. He pauses in the doorway for one last look.
“Shower,” he says, more to himself than to Rob. “It’s showtime.”
2. The First Arrival
Jonathan is checking the wine glasses for water spots when Rob comes up behind him, hands resting on his back. "You've checked those three times."
"I know, I know." Jon squirms as Rob's thumb finds a knot in the small of his back, pressing gently. It feels good, but he doesn’t have time for that.
"We could have done this at a restaurant," Rob reminds him. “You said this was supposed to be effortless.”
Jon turns in mock dismay. “I said it was supposed to look effortless. Very different thing. Sprezzatura.”
“Don’t get Sicilian on me now,” Rob says. “What are you scheming?”
“Nothing.” Jonathan turns back to his task. “It’s just my whole work team coming into my house. You know how I am about boundaries—”
“Your COO was your witness at our wedding.” Rob chooses from his array of cutting boards and selects a knife from the dozen lined up on the wall.
“Kate’s different. We started at the same time. The first hires in the new administration. We were each other’s only allies. It’s natural we became friends.”
“Your work wife,” Rob chuckles.
“Fine. Whatever. She’s single, her family is in the Midwest. She turned 40. So sue me.”
“It’s not even her birthday today.”
“This was the first day everyone was available. And the patio just got done. It’ll never be this perfect again.”
Rob nods, conceding the point, and makes the first slice into a golden watermelon. On the counter, vegetables wait in perfect, identically cut pieces, the meats are dry-rubbed and ready for skewers, and the salads only need finishing touches. “Go get a shirt on.”
The doorbell rings and Jon stiffens. "Who the fuck shows up half an hour early?"
Kate would just let herself in, but she might have her hands full with wine.
Jon opens the door to find Rennie, the new executive assistant. Her round glasses are slightly fogged, her efficient pageboy haircut making her look even younger than she is. She’s only been on the job two weeks.
“Rennie!” Jon says.
Her eyes dart down, up, to the sides—anywhere but at Jon’s exposed torso, reminding him he’s not fully dressed.
"I'm so, so sorry," she stammers. Jon wraps his arms wrapped across his chest. "Kate likes people to be punctual, but I… think I overdid it. I can come back—"
Kate’s big on punctuality lately. She’s even been running morning meetings fifteen minutes earlier than the CEO for months now. Jon’s tracked it.
Rob appears behind him. “Jon’s just going to get dressed. You can help me with the pupus.”
Rennie’s brows furrow, but she yields, entering their home.
Rob leads her in, glancing back—a silent ‘you okay?’ Jonathan shrugs.
He watches as Rob takes the first arrival to the kitchen. “We have watermelon with Urfa biber, ricotta tartine with pickled scapes and fennel, a cheese tray—”
He can see Rennie trying not to stare. Most people try not to stare when they first meet Rob. Jon remembers doing the same.
"Jon," Rob calls, snapping him out of his reverie. He points to the stairs with a finger. "Shirt. Now."
Rob always knows when Jon’s skittish, when he needs an extra push.
As he heads upstairs, he hears Rob chatting easily with Rennie, putting her at ease. He knows the drill for early, anxious guests: give them a task so they feel useful, their hands busied, their minds occupied. “Have you ever helped two gay men host a garden party? No? Well, this is your lucky day. Alphabetize the cheeses? Sure. That’s an interesting approach.”
Jon shakes his head at his husband as he heads to the bedroom. Rob’s got this. He always does.
3. The Gathering
Kate arrives precisely on time. She lets herself in, having the license of a long friendship. She knows where the wine lives and the corkscrews too, and how to lift the cabinet door so it doesn’t creak when getting a glass. But today the bottles are already out at a beverage station for their guests.
Rob hugs her, holding his damp hands out, sleeves rolled up. His hugs make you feel like you’re melting into his arms, and he lingers until you do.
Kate eases back and raises an eyebrow at Jon as he enters, nodding to Rob, signaling ‘still got it, huh?’ Jon shrugs. He’s used to this reaction to his husband—warm smile, athlete’s build.
“Board meeting went well yesterday,” she tells Jon as they hug. “They approved the new initiative.”
“I know. Heard you made a good pitch,” Jon says warmly.
“You should know. You wrote it.” Kate steals a cracker from the platter Jon is arranging, disrupting his carefully constructed pattern. “It’s not like you to miss a board meeting.”
It’s not, but he thought having the one gay man advocate for the trans youth initiative might be a little too personally motivated, inviting resistance.
“They’re talking about a succession plan again. And you weren’t there.”
“Ugh. Succession planning. Sorry, I had the DVT follow-up.”
“Right.” She pauses. “Everything okay?”
“Charmed life, remember?” He sorts the crackers back into his intended display. The doorbell rings and he looks up. “Okay. Enough shop talk.”
Other guests arrive. Margaret, the CFO, and her husband. The lone holdover from the previous administration, her blunt gray hair and out-of-style suit present as someone who stopped paying attention to changing trends years ago. No wonder he and Kate call her Margrock behind her back.
She’s followed by the newish head of HR and her husband, and two of Kate’s reports, both Directors.
Finally, Adam, the CEO, with his wife Linda. She’s petite, impeccably dressed and mannered in a way that speaks of old money without shouting it. Her tailored peachy sweater and understated pearl earrings are the perfect, curated touch.
Before she leans in for a hug, Jonathan pulls out the rosé Linda loves, a Provence vintage he'd sourced months ago after hearing her talk about it. He always puts a little effort into charming her. He doesn’t mind butting heads with the CEO, but he’s not risking losing his wife’s favor. Fortunately, she loves the gays.
Jon ushers them in and navigates the re-introductions of spouses. They’ve all met before, but worth making sure everyone has names right. He can’t have anyone feeling awkward.
He points out appetizers and hands out the event plates borrowed from the development team—each with a clever notch to hold a wine glass, perfect for mingling.
“I love your home,” Linda says. “Adam said you can hear the zoo from here?”
“Usually,” Jonathan says. “The lions at dinner time. Theirs, not ours.” He chuckles. “And mating time. And the peacocks.”
“Magical,” she says.
Kate takes a bite of a tartine and closes her eyes in appreciation. “Sometimes I think you’re wasted on that restaurant consulting gig.”
“Nah,” Rob says easily. “I like cooking for people I love.”
Jon can sense Linda’s eyes on him as he glides through the group without touching a soul. She’s a consummate hostess herself and notices these things. Jon has a lean, cunning way about him. An elegance to how he moves. When he speaks, his voice unfolds softly, drawing people to lean in.
“You’re still running marathons?” she asks.
Rob and Kate both turn to him, but Jon handles it easily. “When my body cooperates.”
Rob opens a bottle of pink Prosecco, and then another, handing them off to Jon to pour into flutes. “A toast to Kate!”
He looks around as the flutes are raised. The guests are assembled. Rob has finished the prep. Everything according to plan.
4. The Neighbors
Jon leads the guests out onto the freshly laid patio stone—a mosaic of bluestone squares, fitting together like a satisfying puzzle. Around the edges, beds of black soil spill over with greenery: mature rhododendrons in bloom, delicate, feathery leaves of nandina, and a mix of shrubs and perennials with subtle textures. In one far corner, a vine maple’s limbs arc in a canopy overhead, softening the garden’s edges.
“It looks like a magazine shoot,” the head of HR says, her eyes sweeping over the carefully curated space. She lingers on the vibrant flowers catching the early evening light. “Those rhododendrons are spectacular.”
Adam’s gaze drifts upward. “That’s a unique tree.”
Rob smiles. “That’s our twisty honey locust.”
It anchors the garden from its far corner, lush mops of leaves curling into ringlets—a majestic, Dr. Seuss-inspired tree. Beneath its dappled shade, almost hidden in the shrubbery, an ornate gate stands slightly ajar.
“We brought it home years ago,” Jon says, recalling the day they loaded it into their compact car, just a sapling, the mop heads peeking out of the moon roof. Now, it towers many times its original height.
As Rennie steps onto the patio, her eyes widen at the faint sound wafting over the hedge of nandina. “Is that... live music?” she asks, her voice tinged with surprise.
Jon turns. “Oh, that’s the Johnstons. They’re practicing their string quartet. Sorry—I guess it’s garden party season.”
“Did you just apologize for a free concert?” Adam chuckles.
Kate arches an eyebrow, a teasing smile at her lips. “Well, what’s the point if your life’s not a gay rom-com, soundtrack and all?”
Rennie opens her mouth to ask, “Does this happen oft—” but the small gate swings open before she can finish.
The party turns as an older couple steps through, each carrying woven baskets filled with fresh produce.
“Jonathan!” the woman calls out. “We’re leaving for Vancouver tomorrow. You were supposed to collect these!”
“Agh!” Jonathan groans, rubbing his forehead. “Sorry. It’s been hectic.” He gestures to the group. “Well, this is Mr. and Mrs. Chen.” Then back to the couple, awkwardly: “And this is... everyone.”
Mrs. Chen sets down her basket with a smile. “ROB! I brought the purple beans you like!”
She reminds Jon they’ll be gone a month, and everything is coming into harvest. “You’re to eat it all while we’re gone.”
Rob leans toward Adam, whispering, “Maniac gardeners. But they travel so much, they miss half their own harvest.”
Linda peers into the baskets, spotting kale, heirloom tomatoes with lumpy shapes, flat purple beans, sprigs of herbs, and delicate shiso leaves. Another basket holds velvety Italian plums. “You grow all this? Right here?”
“Just behind that fence,” Mr. Chen says, gesturing with a nod. “You want to see?”
Half the party trails after the Chens into the neighboring garden, as the air fills with the mingling scents of fresh herbs and the faint hum of the string quartet drifting through the wall.
Kate turns back to Jon with a wry smile. “Your neighbors just crashed our party to deliver vegetables.”
Before Jon can respond, the sharp click, click, click of the grill ignition cuts through the garden. He glances over toward the back where Rob is crouched by the grill, Adam standing close by.
Rob fiddles with the lighting mechanism, his brow furrowed in concentration. The ignition ticks a few times but fails to light.
Adam crouches down beside him, joining the inspection. After a moment, Rob straightens and shakes his head. “We’ve got a problem. The grill isn’t working.”
Jon watches from the patio as Rob’s practiced chef’s eye takes in the scenario—guests waiting, kabobs needing cooking, grape leaf-wrapped feta sitting untouched.
“Slight change of plans,” Rob calls out calmly, already shifting gears.
By the time the guests return, Rob has moved the food back inside. He pulls out cast iron skillets, adjusts burner temperatures. He seasons, sears, and plates with professional precision, the feta wrapped in grape leaves gifted from the Chen garden chars perfectly on the stovetop before being passed around.
“It’s like watching the Food Network,” Margaret murmurs.
Jon thinks back to how he always joked with Kate that Rob seduced him with his cooking, right in public with no one the wiser.
5. Goldfish
What even Kate didn’t know was that when Jon met Rob, he wasn’t alone. He and Michael had moved across the country together, to start their adult lives.
It was their first full day in Seattle, a Saturday. Jon and Michael wandered into Pike Place Market, seeking refuge from the November chill. The fishbowl café windows were already steamy, red neon glowing softly. They settled onto stools at the arced bar, taking in the cozy atmosphere.
Michael scanned the menu, already sweating their budget. “This place might bankrupt us,” he joked.
A barista with a friendly smile approached, voice low and pleasant. Resting his palms on the bar. His name tag read ‘Rob.’ “Morning. What can I get started?”
“We don’t know. We’re new in town,” Jon blurted, not meaning to reveal so much.
As Rob crafted their drinks, Jon’s eyes lingered on the fluid, economical movements—the way something flexed in Rob’s forearms when he tucked a hand towel into his apron—drawing Jon’s attention. Michael sipped his coffee.
Rob stopped by between customers to check in. Their banter was light, comfortable—punctuated by Rob’s friendly queries—where were they from, where would they be staying.
He set a CD into the player and slid the case to them across the bar. “Do you like classics?” he asked.
Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. The song, Can’t We Be Friends, began with the fluid tones of Ella, then joined by a second, almost comically gravelly voice. Rob grinned. “Satchmo,” he rumbled. “Louis Armstrong.”
When Michael finally stood to leave, Jon had to steel himself. “Hope to see you guys again,” Rob said with a warm smile.
The following Saturday, they returned to the same café, drawn to their first warm landing spot.
Seattle native Rob seemed to enjoy doling out handy tips in much the same way he served coffee. Between orders he’d lean on the bar, filling them in on things to do—favorite cheap eats, places to avoid, how to score affordable tickets to the opera and symphony, all of which Jon dutifully noted.
One morning, as Jon and Michael watched from their usual spot at the bar, Rob slipped on Ella and Louis Again.
He brought their drinks, grinning wider than usual. “I have something for you guys,” he said. He pulled out ingredients gathered in the Market: crusty rolls from the French bakery, eggs and feta from the Creamery, muhammara from the Arab market, sprigs of fresh herbs from the produce vendors.
Armstrong’s voice filled the air, Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it…
Jon watched as Rob worked—the subtle play of muscle as he sliced the rolls with a soft crunch, spreading a generous layer of deep red muhammara. He bunched fresh herbs, slicing through them in smooth, decisive strokes, then ran his fingers along the blade to clear remnants. The scent of thyme filled the air.
Some Argentines without means do it… Satchmo sang it slow, his one-of-a-kind gravelly voice drawing out every syllable.
Rob cracked eggs into a metallic pitcher, beating the mixture steadily with a fork against the metal. He sprinkled in crumbled feta, gauging the amount by eye before adding a little more, then licked the salty remnants from his fingers. Jon imagined licking them for him. Then Rob washed his hands thoroughly—a gesture of professional discipline.
Most surprising, he raised the pitcher to the espresso machine’s steam wand and slowly turned it on. As the hissing gushed, he raised and lowered the pitcher with fluid grace—knees bending, hips rising and falling in sync.
Romantic sponges, they say, do it. Oysters down in Oyster Bay do it.
Finally, he turned off the steam, gently stirred the mixture one last time, then tilted the pitcher, letting the now-cooked eggs softly roll onto the muhammara-covered rolls. They had a velvety, custard-like texture, clinging softly together, their wet sheen catching the café light as he sprinkled herbs on each, then sawed through each roll with a decisive motion, hand pressing firmly on top.
Goldfish in the privacy of bowls do it, Let’s do it, Let’s fall in love.
He plated the sandwiches and set them in front of Jon and Michael, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Jon? Jon?” Michael asked, voice pulling him back. “You okay?”
Jon realized his brow was sweaty. “Just winded from the walk.”
As they left that morning, Rob scribbled his number on a corner of a paper napkin. “If you guys ever want to actually hang out sometime, outside of work,” he said with a casual smile.
6. Snapshots
The kitchen hums with the particular energy of a successful event—conversations overlapping, someone laughing too loudly. Rob turns the kebabs as they release herby aromas into the party.
“Adam mentioned you used to be a chef?” Linda asks, her voice pitched just right to draw the group’s attention. Jon watches, noting how effortlessly she works the room.
“Still am, just consulting now instead of cooking,” Rob says, reaching for another serving dish from a high shelf. Rennie, the new assistant, tilts her head, her gaze drawn in by the way his shirt pulls up, revealing the downy hair on his flat belly.
"He's being modest," Kate jumps in. "He revamped three restaurant groups last year alone."
“It was all Jon’s idea,” Rob says, eyes on the kebabs, tongs in hand. “Consulting.”
"I just drafted a business plan,” Jon counter. “Rob did it all."
He remembers eating at that one struggling Greek restaurant, telling Rob he could really help them out. And the next one after that. And the business plan. How naturally it had all unfolded.
Linda lifts her voice to the group. “However did you manage to find a man who looks like that AND can cook?”
"Just lucky," Jon says lightly, as if it’s a practiced routine.
Kate appears at his side. "Your husband's causing a stir again," she murmurs, a conspiratorial smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
Jon just smiles. Rob is turning fifty, graying, but dazzling.
The room's warm buzz continues—Rob grating Parmesan Reggiano on the green salad, Linda refilling glasses, Adam telling some story that has everyone chuckling. Margaret's voice cuts through, sharp and off-key, like a wrong note in a pleasant melody.
"You missed the Board meeting," she says to Jon, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Damn it Margaret, Jon thinks. Dense as a rock, with the social skills to match. "I had a conflict," he replies, his tone smooth, giving nothing away.
"The Board is all over succession planning," Margaret continues.
Adam, the CEO, intervenes with gentle but firm authority. "Let's not make this a work meeting," he says. "We're here to celebrate Kate's birthday."
"Here here!" Rob belts, raising a glass. "To Kate!"
The tension dissolves in a chorus of cheers, the party's rhythm restored.
Jon spies Rennie drifting off from the group into the next room and follows on cat’s feet.
He finds her at a wall covered in framed photos of all sizes and shapes, pieced together like a mosaic. She stops on two young girls in matching sundresses at a beach. Then Rob, sleeping on a train, lips slightly parted, golden sunlight falling across his face. Jon tiptoeing through tide pools at the Pacific. A selfie of the pair at the Colosseum. Rob in his kitchen whites. And so many more.
"See something interesting?" Jon asks, startling her.
"Is this Rob's father?" She points to one of the older photos. Her efficient haircut and round glasses make her look like a curious owl.
"My father, actually." Jon's voice is carefully neutral.
"Really? But they look so similar."
"They're not even ethnically alike," Jon chuckles. "My dad's Sicilian. Rob's half Syrian, half Mayflower family."
Rennie seems unconvinced.
She's smart, Jon notes. The kind of assistant who wouldn't just take notes, but connect dots others might miss.
"Dinner must be about ready," he says, turning slightly. "Shall we?"
But Rennie's still focused on the wall of photos. In particular one of Jon and Rob in blazers, with matching boutonnieres, laughing.
"Our wedding day," Jon says. "When we could make it legal."
"In a cafe?" Rennie asks.
Jon smiles. "Rented for the night. We wanted to get married on the spot where we met." He sighs, a little wistful. “On April Fool’s Day.”
7. April Fools
Jon and Michael’s growing friendship with Rob made sense. They were the same age, had shared interests and fell into an easy pattern of movies, drinks, home cooked meals in Rob’s little studio apartment.
At the end of March, Michael visited his mother for her birthday. She’d missed Michael at the holidays, but they hadn’t had the money for flights then. This time, Jon suggested they could manage enough for one ticket, for Michael to go home for a visit.
Jon and Rob met after work at an Irish pub in the Market, just down the street from the café. Nothing unusual, but for Michael’s absence.
As they finished their drinks, Rob glanced down the street. "Want to go?" he asked, voice low. He didn’t say where, but it was the closest place, and they’d spent months forming a vocabulary of glances and intonations. Jon nodded, and together they slipped into the quiet night.
"It’s so different," Jon said, stepping in behind Rob—the café eerily quiet, lit only by streaks of red neon and the streetlights outside.
Rob stayed with his back to Jon, fingers tensing. "I think about you sometimes. With him." He sounded like an aggrieved party.
Jon reached out to his shoulder and Rob flinched. "Don’t—touch me. If you don’t—"
Jon slid a hand around his side, under his arm, pulling them closer. Rob turned. Their first kiss was rough and tender all at once, shy even as their teeth glanced. Jon tasted the sharp bitterness of beer and it sent a shiver through him.
"Do you know what you do to me?" Rob breathed into Jon’s neck. "Walking into the café looking like that."
They tumbled into the cramped backroom, the only place hidden from the glass bowl windows. Rob slammed the door behind them.
"Tell me you want this," Rob rasped, teeth grazing Jon’s collarbone, pinning him to the wall.
"Fuck yes," Jon gasped, hands inside Rob’s jeans, cupping the hard length. Rob groaned, body arcing into Jon’s touch.
Jon knelt between Rob’s legs, freeing his cock, jerking him roughly then swallowing him in the hot, wet, warmth of his mouth, working until he drew soft moans and quakes. “Fuckkkk,” Rob moaned, fingers tensing in Jon’s silky hair.
When Jon rose, lips inflamed and glistening, their mouths met again. His hands gripped Rob’s shoulders and then everywhere he could, feeling the steady beat of his chest beneath his palms.
"I want you in me," Rob breathed, voice rough.
Without hesitation, Jon spun him around, pressing Rob’s shoulders to the backroom wall. He jerked Rob’s pants lower and yanked down his own. His cock was already slick with precum. He spat into his palm, rubbed it into Rob’s ass, searching for the most yielding spot. He listened for the groans and gasps as Rob pushed back against the fingers as they slowly pushed in, opening him.
Jon spat again, coating his cock and then pressed the velvety head against Rob’s wet opening, nudging insistently. When he pushed his full length in, Rob’s back arched and he gasped. But when Jon drew back, he made a desperate sound, begging Jon to fill him again.
Rob shuddered as Jon thrust, his face against the wall. But as Jon’s hand roamed over Rob, clutching at his firm chest and belly, he felt Rob’s arm shift, moving down to take his own erection. He stroked himself in time with Jon’s rhythm.
Jon’s pace quickened, breath catching. Rob clenched around him, muscles straining. Jon slid one hand up Rob’s chest, gripping hard and Rob’s body tightened. “Fuck me,” he rasped. The sound of his need undid something in Jon.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Jon gasped, his body shuddering as he thrust straight up, hard, unrestrained. The first wave of his load shot into Rob. He shuddered, pumping slower as the next waves released in hot surges.
Rob grunted and his cock erupted, splattering his cum on the wall and floor, legs trembling as his insides clenched around the cock still buried in him.
They let themselves drop to the floor. Between kisses, Jon muttered, "I’m not leaving Michael." The words slipped out before he could stop them, a feeble shield against the truth he couldn’t deny.
“Oh God. What am I going to tell him?” he asked only moments later.
They made it legal on the anniversary of that first night, but both knew their true vows happened years before, breathless and aching, forswearing all others.
8. Family Matters
The front door swings open, teenage voices drifting down the hallway. “Dads?”
Kate looks up first, a smile spreading across her face as two teenage girls step into the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt the ‘party,’” the older says with a grin, hands raised in air quotes.
“Everyone,” Jon says, raising his hands with a grin. “Our daughters, Clare and Neal.”
“GIRLS!” Kate almost squeals, rushing to air-kiss their cheeks. She’s known them most of their lives.
They filter into the kitchen, Jon’s heart flipping at their social ease and grace. Clare is assertive, self-contained, while Neal is less certain but leans in closer as she greets each person.
“I didn’t realize you were here tonight,” Rob says.
“Papa texted he needed the car keys,” Clare answers, taking a charred feta appetizer in long fingers, blowing on it.
“Wait, I did?” Jon looks around. “I thought I said tomorrow. Sorry—it’s been a week.”
Neal sidles up to him, tightening an arm around Jon’s waist and resting her head lightly on his shoulder. She’s always clung to him more fiercely, as if he might drift away. She passes the car key as she settles against him.
As conversation flows and appetizers circulate, Jon suspects what his coworkers are noticing: how Clare shares his frame—willowy—with the same arch to her upper lip and heavy-lidded chestnut eyes, how she holds herself in slight reserve. How Neal, sporting blue hair this week, shares Rob’s sharp jawline, athletic ease, and quick smile.
He notices Rennie studying them, a thousand questions bubbling up behind her round glasses.
“We co-parent with Rachel and Annie,” he says. “They live just down the street.”
Rennie’s eyes widen behind her glasses, curiosity growing.
Kate jumps in with proprietary ease. “Clare is Jon’s bio daughter with Rachel, Neal is Rob’s with Annie.”
“They’re both just ours,” Rob says, draping an arm around Clare.
“We bought in 2015,” Jon explains. “The moms caught wind that the previous owner was selling, and we made an offer. We never could have done it if it went on the market.”
He and Rob trade glances, remembering the seller’s barely hidden shock at their unconventional family. But Rob turned on the charm, and in the end, they got what they wanted: a home on the same street as the moms, so the girls could move freely between houses.
As the deal closed, Jon got cold feet—daunted by the weight of the commitment and the cost, nearly overwhelmed. Rob stayed steady, no matter how Jon twisted and resisted, calmly insisting this was going to be their family home.
The HR director blinks. “Wait—you have two kids and four parents? So everyone gets days off? Extra hands for everything? You can actually go out and not worry? And you all get along?”
Jon and Rob exchange a quick glance, smiling softly. No need to explain the weekly dinners, the movie nights, or the chaos they now swim in daily, more or less comfortably.
Clare seizes the moment. “We’re staying at the moms’ tonight. So you guys can party… unsupervised.”
Rob packages the last of the charred feta appetizers and passes them to Clare. “See you tomorrow,” he adds, planting a smooch on her forehead.
The girls take the package without hesitation, accustomed to this rhythm. It makes Jon’s heart skip a beat to see how unaware they are of the specialness of their lives.
“They’re gorgeous,” Linda says first.
“And smart,” Kate adds.
“And kind,” Jon finishes.
“Well, with those genes, they’d have to be,” Linda quips, setting her wine glass down.
Rob announces dinner’s ready, the serving platter laden with kebabs.
Jon catches Rob’s eye, and Rob lifts an eyebrow.
What?
He loves these girls so intensely it feels like his chest might collapse under the weight. But sometimes he craves just one more. His and Rob’s. Mouth like his, jawline like Rob’s. A blend of their hair colors, Rob’s easy laughter and his watchful eyes.
That would have been something. But some intimacies remain just out of reach.
9. Making Babies
Jon had a way of engineering possibilities. At the LGBT Health Clinic where he worked in development and Annie was a medical resident, he watched for the right moment. Annie and her girlfriend Rachel were the same age, of similar bent—smart and beautiful. Perfect.
He made casual mentions of family, of potential. If she and Rachel ever wanted to explore parenthood, he and Rob were interested.
At a fundraising event, Jon watched Rob’s eyes as a celebrated Seattle restaurateur prepared spice-rubbed salmon and bread pudding for the attendees. He could see Rob’s quiet focus tracking the chef’s hands, each flip of the salmon, every precise movement. Rob could do that, easily.
“You should write to him,” Jon suggested, already drafting the letter in his mind—how Rob was so impressed by the way the chef worked the line with the rest of the team, his feelings about showing love and care through the meals he made.
The letter worked. After an interview, Rob landed his first real shot in a professional kitchen beyond the bakery, working for one of the city’s most respected chefs. Back then he was just a line cook, before he was a sous chef and then chef. It wasn’t just a job anymore, it was a calling. Just as Jon knew it would.
It was time to level up.
A year later, they sat in their bedroom in the apartment on Capitol Hill, while the moms-to-be waited at their home, across town near the zoo. “Deliver it within the hour,” they’d instructed.
“Romantic,” Jon joked, holding the chutney jar Rob had selected and sterilized.
“Are you kidding?” Rob grinned, giddy. “We’re going to make a baby.” Jon realized, in that moment, that Rob intended to stay for what he was going to do.
He sat with the tiny jar, and Rob put on music. A soft, insistent drumbeat began, low and almost imperceptible, as Rob knelt between Jon’s spread legs, resting his hands on Jon’s thighs
“Real musicians hate Bolero,” Jon laughed nervously.
“Good thing I’m not a musician,” Rob replied, steady, confident. “Let me help you make our baby.”
The music grew, soft at first, then more steady. Rob’s mouth trailed kisses down Jon’s neck, his whiskers scraping against Jon’s skin. In one hand he held the jar, steady and sure, while the other stroked Jon’s cock. He knew exactly how to trace Jon’s skin, how to build the tension.
Rob’s gray eyes locked on Jon’s, a knowing grin spreading across his face as tremors shook his husband’s body. “Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured. “I love that we're doing this together.”
The music swelled as Rob pumped Jon’s cock in slow, deliberate motions from base to tip, his palm swirling over the sensitive head, sending shudders. His fingers moved with a rhythm matching Bolero’s slow, building intensity.
“Rob…” Jon began, but Rob shushed him gently.
“Just like that,” Rob whispered. “That’s a good boy.”
Jon’s attention flitted between Rob’s touch, coaxing the building load in him, the low hum of his voice—and the jar. The need to hold it just right. To make it perfect.
Rob’s voice was soft but firm. “Look at me.”
Without ever releasing his grip on Jon, the hand with the jar deftly opened his summer shirt, fingers undoing buttons, drawing Jon’s eyes to the soft hair beneath, making his husband’s heart pound loud as Bolero’s timpani.
“You’re so close,” Rob whispered, his smile and jaw assured as he looked up into Jon’s eyes.
He leaned in closer, to guide Jon’s throbbing erection, letting it glide up and down his chest, in the soft downy hair, drawing Jon to the edge from which there was no return.
Music filled the room. Rob held the jar as he stroked Jon, his cock pressed to his husband’s chest—
Bolero reached its crescendo, and so did Jon. His body tensed, his cock swelled, releasing his load into the jar, Rob catching it.
Rob drew out the last precious drops. When it was done, he secured the lid, an elated grin on his face. He turned to Jon. They shared a look of wonder and excitement.
They delivered the sample to Rachel and Annie’s place, Rob driving with the jar in a wool sock between his legs, keeping it in his own body heat. Annie checked everything with medical precision. Rachel hugged them. Rob handed over a Sicilian risotto fertility tart he’d made.
“One down,” Jon said, back in their car. There was no guarantee this one would take, but he felt lucky. “You’re next.”
Rob’s tart did the trick. Clare was born nine months later, with Jon’s eyes.
They started again immediately, not knowing how many tries it would take. This time Rob’s hands trembled more; the growing sense of what they were creating was more real than imaginary now.
Neal was already racing to catch up with her sister, arriving just nine months later.
“Irish twins,” Rob said, though of course they were neither.
10. Right Place, Right Time
The guests line up after the birthday girl to serve themselves and head to the patio, where a dozen mismatched folding chairs await.
“Actually,” Linda says, her plate carefully balanced, “this looks even better than grilled.” She turns, almost as an aside to Jon. “If that grill hadn’t worked—and it was my party—I’d be a complete basket case. But Rob just takes it all in stride.”
Jon smiles, nodding. “We’re used to a certain level of chaos.”
Margaret rounds out the group, last. “I always say Costco is the only way to handle these things. It’s perfectly good. Personal touches just create more work.”
Rob’s hand finds Jon’s lower back—their silent support gesture—and gives the slightest shake of his head: don’t engage.
The patio hums with conversation as dusk nears. Adam discusses property values. The HR lead and her husband probe Rennie about her history. Kate’s directors interrogate Rob about the dry rub on the lamb and chicken kebabs.
And Margaret—well.
She corners Jon as he sits, fork held like a weapon. “Succession planning,” she says, catching everyone’s attention, especially Kate’s.
Jon’s face remains a practiced neutral. “Adam’s not going anywhere for a long time. I’m just doing my job.”
“Funny way of putting it,” Margaret says. “Head of strategy, no college degree. Quite the climb.”
From next door, Bartók’s Contrasts screeches into its most discordant passage.
The story is a minor legend in their nonprofit circles: at the LGBT Health Clinic, Jon had rapidly climbed from associate to deputy development director when he hit a degree-shaped ceiling. He was appreciated, his ability to see patterns others missed was noted. But without a degree, there was only so far he could go.
At a conference, Jon spotted Adam across the room—the new CEO of a foundation on the verge of great things, Adam building out his team. He waited for an opening and stepped up.
“I’ve been following your work,” Jon said, his tone casual but every word calculated. “Do you mind if I pick your brain about carving a path without the usual credentials?”
They took two seats in the hotel bar, one drink turned into two as Jon asked questions, each with his own clever answer coiled within, hinting at his thoughts on the foundation’s capacity and impact. By the end of the night, Adam was clearly already toying with a leadership role custom-fit for Jon—credentials be damned. Jon’s drink remained virtually untouched.
“Right place, right time is all,” Jon says, his standard deflection.
“He’s being modest,” Rob interjects. “That ‘right place’ was years of watching and learning.”
Adam joins the conversation. “Most strategy people are trained in the same ways and yield the same results. Jon has his own way of seeing the invisible threads connecting everything.”
Jon’s face is neutral. Kate likes to be the smartest person in the room. But Jon—Jon understands something fundamental about power: the best opportunities are those others discover themselves—with just the subtlest of nudges.
“Enough about me,” he says smoothly. “It’s Kate’s birthday. The real contender.”
It’s an awkward transition, a rare fumble—but enough to redirect the conversation, as the musicians next door shift into Debussy’s Reverie.
Jon moves through the patio like Rob works a kitchen, checking in with each guest. A joke here, a redirection there, keeping the energy buoyant.
“Margaret’s still Margaret,” he murmurs in a sidebar to Kate, grinning over the snark for anyone who might glance their way.
“Marg-rock,” Kate corrects, manicured fingers over her fake smile.
“Sorry, sis. Couldn’t not invite her.”
They grimace in solidarity.
Jon catches Rob’s eye, the slightest lift of an eyebrow sending a silent message: I’m okay. We’re okay. This is okay.
The dark deepens, prompting string lights to softly flicker on above, casting pools of gold around them. Wine glasses catch the light, and the assembled look up.
Linda speaks first. “Enchantment!”
11. Stories We Tell
The patio hum lowers as night settles around them. Fairy lights snaking around tree trunks flicker on, as do fragile lanterns nestled in their limbs. A gentle breeze stirs the evening primroses, unfurling their moonglow petals.
Jon pauses for a moment, glass in hand, letting the shimmer of the evening seep into him. He’s worked for so long for this.
Half the party takes the gathering dark as their cue to disperse. Kate’s reports and the new HR director and spouse are all younger, struggling with their own children and waiting babysitters.
Rob has prepared mini-loaves of his oat bread, filled with nuts, dried figs, and dates, each wrapped in parchment paper. “I like it best with some salted peanut butter,” he says, handing them off to the departing guests.
“You live like this every day?” the HR director asks Jon, takeaway in hand. She has that off-kilter look of parents with young children.
Jon smiles. “You’re in the thick of it. But it gets better. You’ll see.” He gives her a hug. “The days are long but the years are short.”
She won’t be able to see that yet, but maybe it’ll help in some moment when the stress is too much.
He turns to those who remain: Jon and Rob, Kate, Margaret and her nearly invisible husband, Adam and Linda. The ones who truly matter, Jon would say, if he spoke without a filter. And Rennie, too green to understand she’s overstayed her time.
There are no more pools of chit-chat. Only the eight of them, and only a single conversation.
“How’s your health?” Adam asks, drawing one leg over the other.
Vivaldi’s Winter takes up its melancholy second movement.
Linda protests immediately. “Adam, you can’t ask that!”
“It’s okay,” Jon deflects. “No HR present.”
Kate steps in. She’d been the one to insist Jon go to the hospital: after the marathon, a persistent pain throbbed in his calf. Another running injury, he’d assumed. Runners accumulated them like medals. He waited months, but it never subsided, and he had to admit this pain might be different.
Deep vein thrombosis, the ER doc said. Blood clots.
Jon knew the term. Knew it was ridiculous. He’d run that morning, hadn’t he? Hobbling, but running. He was the picture of health. But the ultrasound confirmed extensive clots—the kind that can break off and travel to your lungs. The kind that can kill you.
He remembers the pulmonary scan afterward, the injected contrast dye making him sweat. Being moved into the big white donut, saying to the poor tech who wasn’t paid enough to deal with his bullshit, “I don’t have pulmonary embolism. Obviously. This is a waste of time. I have a charmed life.”
The scan said something else: embolisms in both lungs. His distance runner’s lung capacity had been the only thing keeping him breathing.
“I’m fine,” Jon answers Adam. “I’m just on blood thinners. Marathoners are prone to these things.”
“You’re lucky you’re not dead,” Kate counters.
Jon sighs. “In a world where some people can’t get a glass of clean drinking water, I have top-tier medical care. I have great insurance. I was barely inconvenienced.”
Kate introduces another narrative thread. “Remember the freeway?”
Rennie’s curiosity sparks. “What happened?”
Kate continues, as if it were her story. “Jon’s car hit the meridian. Completely flipped.”
Jon senses a subtext. This isn’t just about his health. This is about vulnerability. About succession.
“Airbag deployed,” Rob adds. “He walked away without a scratch.”
He sounds almost admiring. As if to say, look at the man I married. Not even a freeway wreck could stop him.
“Down two of your nine lives,” Kate says. Her tone, light. Her meaning, pointed.
Jon sighs, weary of the topic. “Every story has at least two equally true ways it can be told. You could say I was in a horrific wreck. Bad luck. Or you could say I walked away unscathed. I’m lucky.”
“Which do you choose?” Rennie asks.
“I have a charmed life,” Jon says. “Why would I choose anything else?”
As the night deepens, the fairy lights pulse—small, persistent points of light against gathering darkness.
12. Rollover
The airbag exploded, and everything flipped upside down. His seatbelt bit into his shoulder. Shards of glass scattered everywhere, above—no, below him, now. A fine dust coated everything, Jon included.
He unbuckled himself, sliding down, fumbling for his phone. He tapped the only name that mattered.
“Rob?” His voice calm, then louder, “I’m fine. Totally fine.” Details spilled out. “Don’t bring the girls. I don’t want them to see me like this.”
Outside, strangers crowded the wreck. Ambulance sirens closed in. Jon wanted a moment—just one breath—to think. But the world pressed in, demanding answers.
He’d botched even his own escape.
He’d felt upside down for most of a year now: the crushing weight of a job he wasn’t ready for (one Adam had no business hiring him for), the cycle of too much wine and too much food to sedate himself, to help him sleep, the girls and their relentless demands
He could have kept going through all that, forcing one foot in front of the other. But then there was Rob.
There was a deep well under Jon, all the time. He’d once clawed his way out, when he was a teenager, and boarded it over so well he thought he was safe. But when Rob told him he didn’t know if he wanted him anymore, the floor fell out from under him. He’d been in the well ever since.
Their talks about separation had been quiet, focused on logistics. Who would move out, who would stay, how they split the girls’ time. Jon didn’t care. The stars of their carefully constructed family constellation were falling, one by one. Rob had left him.
The ambulance and ER blurred into a haze of questions, ending with Jon repeating what he’d told them all along: his body was fine. Totally fine, but for the burning ache in his chest he’d felt for months now. It was just that Rob had left him.
When Rob drove him home, Jon moved through the house like a ghost. He shed his clothes and crawled under the comforter, wanting only to disappear.
The mattress dipped as Rob slid in behind him, wrapping an arm around Jon’s chest. His voice was raw. “How could you leave me?”
Jon almost said it: You can’t reject me and complain you’ve been left.
Instead he rolled over. His hand found Rob’s face, tracing the rough stubble, the angle of his jawline. His breath caught when Jon’s thumb brushed his lower lip, and then he pulled Jon close.
Rob rolled on top of Jon, hips grinding slowly at first, then with rising intent. Their bodies pressed flush, the friction of their cocks against each other for the first time in—a very long time. They kissed hard, their bodies remembering a language their minds struggled to recall.
“Oh fuck... oh fuck!” Rob’s voice broke. A shudder tore through his body as he clenched against Jon, his load streaking his husband’s belly. Jon’s hands clutched Rob’s back, his climax pushing Jon’s own. He grunted, cumming fast, into the hot pool of Rob’s on his belly.
Afterward, they lay together, trying to bridge the quiet chasm between them. “I need you to take care of yourself the way you take care of work,” Rob said. “The job doesn’t matter. You do.”
Jon knew he’d have to save himself. He approached it like a project. He needed time to build momentum, so he requested two weeks off. Adam urged him to take what he needed, given the accident—maybe always would have. But two weeks was all he asked.
Rachel and Annie kept the girls during that time. That was hard. Each day he ate right, walked the lake near their home, listened to music. By the first week’s end, he was running again. By the end of the second he was feeling more himself. Stronger.
He set boundaries, carved out hours for himself. Day by day he clawed his way out of the pit again. Every mile he ran was another plank over the well, every time he said no when he needed to was a nail to secure it. He made himself and his wellness a priority.
It wasn’t vanity—it was a promise to show up fully for the marriage, to be his best self, for the girls. For Rob.
And things with Rob got better, with a little help from a counselor. They both wanted it. That counted for a lot.
Later, when the memory of that terrible day softened, Rob would chuckle, “I knew Jon was really okay when I heard him yelling at the paramedics, ‘Excuse me, I’m on the phone with my husband!’”
“I did not say that,” Jon would retort on cue, rolling his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips.
But deep down, he thought maybe he did.
13. Departures
As the last guests prepare to leave, Rob rests mini loaves in their hands, neatly wrapped in parchment, and they move together toward the door.
Adam approaches first, Linda slightly behind him. "We should do this more often," Adam says, his hand on Jon's shoulder. It’s tempting to read more into it.
Linda hugs them both. "You two," she says, "you just... work, don't you?"
"Keeping up appearances," Jon says. "For the kids."
Margaret moves slowly, her quiet husband shadowing her. Margaret is at it again, this time with Kate now that Adam’s gone.
"Big shoes to fill," Kate says to Margaret.
"Oh please," Margaret replies. "Everyone knows it's between you and Jon. Though how they'll choose between you two..." She leaves the sentence hanging, gesturing vaguely.
Succession is the Board's call, but Adam will make the recommendation. And while the leadership team may be consulted, the CEO’s recommendation would be the first domino. The rest would follow his lead.
Kate understands this. Even tin-eared Margaret does. Jon most certainly does.
Margaret and her husband leave, finally, and then Rennie. Rob hugs her, thanks her for help. Jon gives her a thumbs up.
Then it's just the three of them.
The musician neighbors are playing something softer. The Chens have left them with enough produce for a week. The girls are away for the night, but their presence lingers. Everything is as it should be.
"Remember when we used to get lunch every day?" Kate asks, under the starry night sky.
For a moment she and Jon are both back there, ten years ago, plotting the foundation's future over boxed salads, before words like "succession" entered their vocabulary. When they were scheming together instead of wondering if they were scheming against each other.
Her smile doesn't waver, but Jon knows her tells. The slight tightening around her eyes, the way her silences grow longer and deeper—the years of friendship, suddenly complicated by ambition.
"Kate..." he begins, speaking low.
And there it is: a roar, from the Zoo.
Kate's face lights up. It had been too loud to hear them earlier, but there under the fairy lights, with Ravel playing softly, even the lions are in on the plan.
"Let's just have this," Kate says. A perfect moment, one evening in a charmed life.
Later the last hugs goodbye. Rob squeezes Jon's shoulder as the door closes behind Kate.
As it shuts, Jon rests his back against the door, as if barring anyone from returning. "Thank God."
Rob grins. Without words they move into the kitchen to begin cleanup, falling into their usual roles of gathering, cleaning. It's been over 20 years. They know their parts without thinking of them.
Rob’s eyes are on his own hands, rinsing wine glasses. "Jon. This wasn't all some kind of… audition. Was it? To be next in line as CEO? Succession planning?"
"What? No. Why would you think that?"
"Well. You forgot the neighbors were performing. You forgot to get things from the Chens so they came over. The mix up with the girls and your car key. That's a lot of forgetting." He looks up. "For someone who never forgets a thing."
"That's crazy," Jon says. "Rob, I didn't make any of this up. This is our life. Every day. We’re lucky. We’re so, so lucky.” It was just a matter of timing.
Sometimes in a marriage you let things slide, and Rob seems to decide this is one of them.
Jon adds, "I don't even want to be CEO. Who wants that kind of responsibility?"
In fact he doesn't want to be CEO. But if it were offered—if it meant—more stability, more security, for Clare and Neal and Rob. Well, there was nothing he wouldn't do for that.
Anyone who didn't see that never understood him to begin with.
"I need to change," Jon says. "Be right back."
He goes to their bedroom.
14. The Other Story
More introverted than anyone truly understands, Jon craves the quiet of their bedroom. He can put on the face, but at a cost. At his dresser, he removes his watch. Time doesn’t matter anymore.
His fingers betray him, going to the keepsake box on his dresser top. He tells himself not to open it, but when he’s tired this way, he’s more prone to the old, unwelcome current.
There are things in the box he keeps. A paper napkin from a café with Rob’s old phone number. Three hospital bracelets—the newest from the DVT scare, another from the rollover. And a much older one, from when he was 16 and tried to get away from everything the only way he could see. A bad choice that could have gone differently. He would have missed so much.
His father’s watch sits heavy in its corner. When he feels like this, when it all begins to unwind, the spiral always seems to lead back to him.
In his better moments he can frame this, can tell himself the story of his father as a free spirit, a man who loved deeply but couldn’t be tethered. But in his weariness, that narrative feels threadbare. A quiet tremor starts deep in him.
His boy-crush on his father was intense. Not sexual. He didn’t know what sex was. But a desire for his presence. To be wanted in return, and confused about the rules of attraction. He can remember the visceral need to be the one his father always returned to, always wanted. To be enough.
“Maybe next time you can come with me,” his father had said in the dark, perched on Jon’s bed.
“Take me now.”
His father took the watch from his own wrist and put it on Jon. The band wrapped around twice at least.
“Jon Jon, you keep this for me till I come back, partner.”
It’s been more than 40 years, and he has it still.
The familiar tightness begins, just below his sternum, a subtle clenching that always starts small. He tries to breathe through it, as he does on long runs, willing his body to cooperate. But his jaw clenches, a familiar warning. Not now. Not today. Not after everyone saying how perfect everything is.
He fights it, pressing his fist against his mouth, shoulders hunching, but the eggshell-thin reality he’s constructed is cracking. It isn’t sorrow; it’s a terrifying recognition of how utterly precarious it all is.
The questions he usually keeps at bay, buried beneath layers of relentless action, now claw their way to the surface. Has he done enough? Is Rob all right? Are the girls? Will they be okay, at least in some limited way? Then, sharp and unwelcome: Will he ever be enough to hold it all together?
There’s always at least two stories, but he can’t find the other one now. He’s lost the thread, and his chest is already closing in. His face is burning hot, and no matter how hard he fights it, his chin wrinkles in that ugly way it does.
He thinks of Clare’s silences, so much like his own, and a fresh wave of anxiety washes over him: Has he passed on some inherent fragility? He thinks of Neal’s bright spirit, so like Rob’s, and her own fierce, protective instinct to pin him down, like she knows how tentative his grip is. His desire to run away.
And Rob. Always Rob. The effortless confidence, the quiet strength that makes everything seem so simple, while Jon feels like he’s constantly coming apart at the seams, in a frantic effort to keep the pieces from scattering.
Down the hall, a floorboard creaks. Rob’s familiar step, steady and assured. Jon’s body, for all its betrayal, responds automatically: a ragged breath, shoulders squaring, the flat of his hands across his eyes, forcing a semblance of control.
He busies himself with the box, angling his body, trying to project a casualness he doesn’t feel. But when Rob’s hand settles on his waist, the dam finally breaks. He’s made mistakes—so many mistakes—under the weight of them all at once, Jon crumples down.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It is the Jon no one else ever sees, the one built on shifting sand.
Rob’s strong hands find the weak spots in the small of Jon’s back. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice against Jon’s ear. “It’s just a long day.”
Jon turns, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Rob’s jaw—the same angle, the same quiet strength he’d once sought in a restless phantom. The recognition is a jolt every time he sees it. But still, in Rob’s presence, the chaotic noise in Jon’s head begins to subside.
“Jon… Jon…” Jon Jon.
Jon grips Rob’s belt. Pulls him closer. “Fuck me. Now.”
15. Closing
Rob's hands rise to cup Jon's face, thumbs stroking his cheeks with a slow, deliberate touch. "Shh-shhhh."
Jon’s tight clutch on Rob’s belt softens, his fingers stretching and then moving under Rob’s shirt, around his waist, pulling him closer. He feels the hot, desperate flare in his body begin to temper, meeting Rob’s calm—a different kind of heat now.
“Do you want to talk?” Rob’s voice is low, gentle.
Jon shakes his head. There is nothing he wants less than more words. He wants to be grounded. Pinned. He finds Rob's lips, a slow kiss at first, just lips, and then a flicker of tongue and a slow, steady presence, entering him.
When Jon breaks away, there’s a quirk at his lips. Rob pulls his shirt off, a movement he's made thousands of times, but the reveal is still hypnotic. Jon's hands survey the familiar landscape of Rob’s shoulders, the soft dusky hair on his chest, leading down to his belt. The way Rob keeps himself is a gift—his way of saying, “The hours and effort, it’s all for you. I’m yours.”
"You back?” Rob murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble.
Jon sighs, reaching out, his fingers tracing the thick, hard length of Rob’s cock in his shorts. “Fuck me,” he whispers.
It’s only a few steps to the bed. Rob grins and leans in, his mouth devouring Jon’s neck. A hand slides into Jon’s briefs, cupping his rear, fingertips brushing his hole and then pressing in, drawing Jon’s hips forward. It’s a wordless promise of what's to come.
Shorts and shirt drop off, falling bedside. Rob hovers, kissing, hands exploring, and then his lips trail Jon’s lean torso. He knows the long lines and angles, trailing with his tongue and teeth, finding the sensitive spots that trigger Jon’s gasps, then swallowing him. Jon groans and his fingers rustle through Rob’s short hair. “Fuckkkk.”
When Rob rises, his eyes are wet, his lips glossy with spit and precum. He shifts to kneel between Jon’s spread thighs and reaches for the cool bottle of lube on the bedside table. He pours a generous amount onto his cock, catching the excess in his palm and then spreading it into the crevice at Jon’s rear, his fingers pressing in, opening him with a loving certainty.
Jon surrenders, first to Rob’s fingers, and then—when Rob presses his cock to Jon’s slick entrance, it isn’t tentative. It’s a slow, deep slide—returning home. His gray eyes lock on Jon’s, a steady heat burning through the desire.
Rob begins to move in a steady, driving rhythm. It’s not the rapid pace of their early trysts, but the sure cadence of a deeper connection, as steady as the tide. Jon’s hands grip Rob’s hips, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel filled with him.
Jon’s eyes flicker up to take in the sight of his husband—his strong jaw jutting, the clean line of his ear. The images are as deep in his mind and heart as Rob’s cock is in his body. Rob whispers words against Jon’s ear, his breath hot. Their movements become more fluid, more synchronized, as the pace picks up.
Jon’s breathing deepens, mirroring the harder thrusts. Rob’s body blossoms with pinpricks of sweat that grow and slowly drop onto Jon, increasing as his rhythm intensifies.
Rob’s hand slides down to settle over Jon’s erection, the remaining lube mixing with Jon’s precum. His slick grasp teases tremors out of Jon, his legs reflexively spreading to take Rob deeper.
Jon’s free hand runs up Rob’s hip and side, up to his chest, his fingers clutching at the muscle there. His orgasm begins to bloom, the rising wave spreading through him. His body clenches where they’re joined.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Jon gasps as he releases into Rob’s hand, his load overflowing in surges, his center tightening its hold on Rob inside him.
Rob’s breath explodes against Jon’s neck, his muscles tense. A grunt rips from his core as his own release follows. Deep, quaking pulses of thick cum flood Jon, as Rob nearly whimpers.
He lets his whole weight drop, body shuddering with the final releases, pinning Jon to the bed. He stays there, slick with sweat, the frantic energy easing into a slow, gentle grind.
They turn onto their backs, breaths easing, the heaviness of the day like a tide retreating.
16. The Last Story
Rob slowly trails patterns on Jon’s back. The quartet next door must be on their final number—the faint swell of strings just fading with time.
His hand stills between Jon’s shoulder blades. “I used to think you were only a sexy boy,” he says quietly.
Jon turns his head on the pillow. “Only what?”
“A sexy boy. I didn’t understand you then,” Rob says, voice low. “Now I see how you glide through life, pulling us all along. Your work. The moms. The girls. Me. We all clutch at you, and you don’t even slow down. You’re strong enough for us all.”
If only he could be as certain. He wants so badly to shield Rob and the girls, to protect them from the rough edges of the world. But he’s so slight—so inadequate to the task.
“I don’t feel strong,” he admits against his husband’s side. “Sometimes I just want to—” He trails off.
“You would never do that.”
Rob’s hand starts its slow dance again.
“Jon, I know every freckle on your back. I hear the things you whisper when you sleep. I know how your beating heart feels inside you, and a hundred other things you don’t know about yourself. Trust me on this.”
Jon nods, resting closer, melting into Rob’s resilience. What no one ever understood about Rob was that it wasn’t that he was so fit and handsome, though he was both of those things. It was how he used his body, grounding Jon whenever he grew skittish, felt the urge to run.
“Kate will be fine,” Rob adds. She’s a big girl. The kids will be fine. They’re still finding their way, but we’ve seen them through enough.” Even Rob’s chest seems to rise at that. But he’s right.
Rob’s fingers find that tight spot between Jon’s shoulder blades where the tension always gathers. “YOU, however, might actually have to learn to delegate.”
Jon laughs softly, pressing a kiss to Rob’s side. “Says the man who redid the entire dinner when the grill died.”
“That’s different,” Rob says with a grin. “I’m a control freak about food. You’re a control freak about everything.”
Jon shakes his head, smiling. “Did you think Linda drank enough?”
Rob chuckles. “Did you think Margaret’s husband has been allowed to speak yet?”
They share a quiet laugh, the sound easy and warm.
“Rennie seemed shocked by everything tonight,” Jon adds.
“Rennie seems shocked by everything, period,” Rob notes with a grin. “Oh, to be that young.”
“Can you imagine?” Jon shifts, looking over at Rob, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Would you do it all again?”
“Oh yeah!” they race each other to declare. They laugh and drowsily knock their knuckles against each other’s.
Their voices and laughter rise and fall, carrying softly through the quiet night. From next door, the faint sounds of instruments being packed away drift through the wall. Jon and Rob fold into each other as the day fades into sleep.
END
Author’s note: I was very torn about publishing this only as the night of the garden party, no flashbacks, for a cleaner storyline. Two pre-readers urged me to keep the flashbacks, one because he has suffered from depression and took heart in seeing a character struggle with it but still do well. I hope it worked.
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