Bringing Up Himbo

This is a fully rewritten story, the original published in 2025. Thanks for reading.

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Chapter 1: The Inciting Incident

I held the invitation up to the flickering fluorescent light, watching the gold-leaf edges shimmer against the cream cardstock. I twirled it between my fingers, letting the letters blur, and then arrested the motion. I traced the embossed text with a nervous thumb.

The Whitman Society requests your presence for the Fellowship Finalist Weekend.

And there, at the bottom, were the only two words I hadn't fretted over since the envelope arrived: Plus One.

I shifted in the driver’s seat, glancing past the steel pillar of the car deck as the ferry cut through the dark water of Puget Sound. Every whitecap in the ferry’s wake felt like another beat in a countdown. I sighed.

Plus One.

I had forsworn them two years ago, right around the time I realized that falling in love was essentially just a high-stakes way to ruin a perfectly good writing day. I didn’t do dates. I didn't do plus-ones. I didn’t do romantic entanglements of any kind.

I wasn't a monk, of course—I was a healthy man with a pulse. Fit, and not without admirers, as they say. The occasional anonymous hookup kept the machinery running, and I certainly had an aesthetic appreciation for a certain type of man. Something I shared with the trustees of the Whitman Society, apparently.

They had included the Whitman quote on the invitation: “Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d with your Personality?”

I looked in the rearview mirror of my 2004 Volvo and adjusted my round, tortoise-shell glasses. My eyes were dark from lack of sleep. I didn't exude an “atmosphere of desire” so much as an atmosphere of mild insomnia and caffeine dependency.

I needed a reset. I needed to take a leak, stretch my legs, and get a little air before the performance began.

I stepped out of the car and stretched. My loafers clicked on the steel deck as I navigated between the rows of idling SUVs toward the fire doors of the stairwell.

Climbing the vibrating metal stairs up to the passenger deck, I kept my head down, bypassing the crowded cafeteria and the rows of vinyl booths where tourists were glued to their phones or staring out at the gray horizon. I made a beeline for the men's room.

Inside, it smelled of industrial mint cleaning solvent and the faint, sharp odor of urine it was intended to cover up.

And there he was.

At the long, communal trough stood a man who looked like he’d been dragged straight out of a rugged Pacific Northwest myth. He was a ginger, with a messy shock of hair—not a polite strawberry blond, but an eye-catching burnt orange—and unshaven scruff on his jaw to match.

His ass and thighs were wrapped in a pair of tan Carhartts, topped by a matching canvas jacket, pumpkin-colored, doing a heroic job of containing a pair of shoulders that spread as wide as his stance.

I swallowed, staring at the man's broad back. There it was. Whitman’s "Atmosphere of Desire and Command," currently relieving itself in a urinal trough.

I took a spot at the far end of the trough, eyes locked forward. The ginger was taking his time—standing there, pissing, hands on hips, perfectly balanced against the roll of the ship. My gaze couldn’t help but drift to his pale cock, and I snapped it back.

I finished and washed my hands with frantic precision. As I turned to leave, I caught the man's eye in the mirror and felt a sudden, sharp panic—and a twist in my briefs.

I exited the restroom and hurried back to the stairwell, half-expecting to see the ginger follow. No luck. Of course. Right guy, wrong moment. Probably for the best.

I descended back into the gloom of the car deck. I should be thinking about docking. My car. Not… that.

Back in the Volvo, the silence of the car deck swallowed me. The image of the man at the trough—the sheer, unbothered stance, the color of him—lingered in my mind like a stubborn, unfinished sentence.

Looking around, I saw the car level was nearly empty of foot traffic. Everyone was still upstairs, watching the view. If I dropped my seat, I might have the privacy for a little relief—a quick, solitary moment to ground myself before the ferry docked.

I reclined the seat, unbuckled my belt, and unzipped. I shoved my pants and boxer briefs down, just low enough. I had just closed my eyes, trying to picture the ginger, my hand wrapped tight around my erection in a very un-scholarly rhythm, when the passenger door—the one I’d been certain, mostly certain, was locked—swung wide open.

I bolted upright. “I’m not—”

The Volvo’s suspension let out a rusty groan as two hundred pounds of canvas-clad ginger dropped into the passenger seat. He dragged a large, scuffed hiking backpack in with him, wedging it into the footwell between his boots before slamming the door.

“What—what are you doing?” I blurted, trying to cover myself.

The man didn't look shocked. He didn't even look like he was in the wrong car. He leaned back, his muddy boots on the floor mat. He turned to meet my shocked gaze, grinning wide.

“Saw you in the head,” he rumbled. His voice was as rough as the scruff on his jaw.

Up close, he was even better looking—blunt nose, boyish grin, blond eyebrows, and ruddy cheeks. His eyes slid down my body, landing on my exposed cock, standing at attention in my fist.

"Right on," he murmured, in a low, gravelly hum.

He licked his palm with the flat of his tongue, then reached out and wrapped his fist around me. His grip was warm and calloused, replacing my own with the confidence of someone used to getting what he wants.

"Looks like you could use a hand."

---

Chapter 2: Oral Tradition

Before I could process the offer, the ginger simply leaned forward. His shoulders filled the space between us as he buried his face in my lap.

My breath turned into a strangled whine as I felt the wet, hot shock of the man's mouth engulfing me. The stranger swirled his tongue around the sensitive ridge of the head, his rough hand pumping the shaft, before sliding down to take the full length. It wasn't frantic or messy. It was skilled. 

"Oh god," I gasped, my hands gripping the leather seat like a life preserver.

The man knew exactly what he was doing. He was maddeningly slow at first, wetting the shaft with spit. Then his lips tightened against my skin. He tightened the suction, his cheek hollowed, and he began to bob his head with a piston-like efficiency, sending jolts straight to my spine.

The Volvo’s suspension echoed the wet, slurping smacks coming from my lap with a rhythmic squeak-squeak-squeak in perfect sync. I was in a sensory overload—the friction of the coarse beard grazing my thighs, the sight of the burnt orange curls rising and falling, and that unbelievable, tight heat.

The stranger worked me with a gluttonous enthusiasm I’d never been on the receiving end of before, driving me closer to the edge with incredible speed. I usually found oral sex a nice but insufficient appetizer, but now I felt the world narrowing down to the heat of this man's throat.

"I'm—I'm gonna—" I stammered, my hips twitching involuntarily.

He groaned, a sound of encouragement, and took me deeper. I broke.

I arched off the seat, seeing a blank white page behind my eyes. I shot a full load into the hot, wet vice of the stranger's throat. The ginger took it all, swallowing frantically, slowing only as my release did. He held me there through the aftershocks, until finally pulling back with a wet, audible pop.

He sat up, wiping his wet, scruffy chin with the back of his hand. His eyes were wet, bleary. He licked his lips and cleared his throat with a loud, satisfied snort.

"Knew you had a big dick," the man said. His voice was rougher, but his tone was casual, as if commenting on the weather.

He tapped his own blunt nose, then pointed a calloused finger at mine.

"Long," he noted. "Telltale sign."

I sat there, slumped and disoriented, touching my nose just under my fogged glasses. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. Blinking through the haze, my manners finally rebooted.

"I... " I wheezed. I reached for the stranger's belt, my hand trembling. "Let me..."

The man caught my wrist. His grip was firm, stopping me cold.

"Save it, bro," he said, tilting his head outside to the car deck.

There were a few passengers milling about, returning from the upper decks. Two were getting into the SUV next to us, perched high with a near eagle-eye view into the Volvo.

"Unless you want an audience for the main event, you better zip up," the man said

I looked down, realized I was still fully exposed to the world, and scrambled to rearrange my clothing with frantic, fumbling fingers. 

"Right. Yes. Of course." I zipped up and buckled my belt, feeling flushed and thoroughly debauched.

"Finn," the ginger said, leaning back and offering a huge fist.

I stared at it for a second, confused, before realizing what was happening. I awkwardly bumped my knuckles against his—Finn’s.

"Ian," I breathed.

"Nice to meet you, Ian."

Finn reached into the center console and grabbed my half-finished bottle of water. He cracked the cap and downed the rest in one long pull. I watched, mesmerized, as Finn’s thick throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed the water as a chaser to what he’d swallowed out of me.

He capped the empty plastic bottle in one hand and twisted in the seat to toss it into the back. His arm paused mid-throw. He stared for a moment at the backseat.

"What's with the library?"

Lying on the rear seat was an open cardboard box filled with slim, identical paperbacks. Next to it sat my overnight bag, and beside that hung a garment bag, the black fabric of a tuxedo visible through the plastic windowpane.

"And a tux?" Finn asked, squinting at the titles. " You heading to a wedding or a funeral?"

"Neither," I said, straightening my glasses, trying to regain some semblance of dignity as I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. "It’s... a work trip. Well. A party, I suppose.” I gestured to the box of books. “And those are mine."

"Yours?" Finn’s blond eyebrows shot up. "You're a writer?"

"I… yeah."

He reached into the back, the heavy canvas of his pumpkin-colored jacket straining across his shoulder, and snagged one of the softbound books. It looked small in his hand.

"The Silver String," Finn read aloud, tracing the title with a rough thumb. "Ian Smith." He looked at me, impressed. "Your novel?"

"Novella, really," I corrected automatically.

---

Chapter 3: Exposition

“What’s it about?” Finn asked, his thumb fanning the pages of the trade paperback.

I shifted into the elevator pitch I’d rehearsed in front of my bathroom mirror for weeks.

“It’s a modern gay take on Orpheus and Eurydice—do you know Greek mythology?” I asked, immediately regretting the condescension in my tone. I was talking to a stranger who had just swallowed me whole on the car deck; he probably wasn’t looking for a lecture on the classics. “Anyway, it’s about an older gay couple. They’ve been together for forty years, and when one of them dies, his husband goes to the underworld to get him back.”

Finn nodded slowly, studying the cover art—a stylized image of a silver thread disappearing into darkness. His jaw jutted forward, chin bunching. His lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared into his whiskers.

When he relaxed his mouth, his lips were pale for a second before flushing with color again—a deep rush of blood that made them look bruised and soft.

I felt a sudden, dangerous urge to lean across the console and kiss them. I wanted to taste that flush.

“Say more,” Finn murmured, nodding again, fanning the pages.

“It’s told in alternating chapters,” I pressed on, filling the silence. “Back and forth between the underworld journey and flashbacks—how they met as young guys, before the plague years, all the way to now.”

Finn flipped to the back cover, reading the bio again. “Heavy stuff.”

He leaned forward and popped the latch on the glove compartment. He rummaged for a second, shoving aside a tire gauge and a stack of napkins

"You have any—"

His hand froze on a tin of Altoids. He popped the lid, tossed two into his mouth, and offered the tin to me. I shook my head. He snapped the tin shut, slid it back, and clicked the compartment closed.

“Yeah. It's a risk,” I said, watching Finn crunch the mints. “I printed them myself. That box in the back? That's my savings account, liquidated and printed on cream wove paper. No publisher would touch a novella about geriatric grief. So I had to bet on myself.”

"Bold," Finn said. 

"Desperate," I corrected. I should have stopped, but I couldn’t help myself. "That's where this weekend comes in."

I grabbed the cream invitation from the dashboard. Finn took it, scanning the embossed text while the scent of peppermint drifted across the console.

"The Whitman Society," Finn read. "That’s the guys throwing the party?"

"Exactly," I sighed. "They’re a bunch of gay men, mostly older, who moved to the Northwest to make their money in tech decades ago. Software, hardware, early internet stuff." I waved a hand vaguely, gesturing to the island looming in the windshield. "They’re older now, mostly childless, and without heirs. They consider themselves patrons of the arts. They want to leave a legacy.”

Finn tapped the cover of the book in his lap. “Older like the guys in the story?”

I blinked. I hadn’t made that connection explicit, but Finn had drawn the line instantly. “I guess.”

The submission of The Silver String had been a strategy, if I was honest. Giving them their own lives in fiction.

"I’m a finalist," I said, the anxiety creeping back in. "For a five-year fellowship. If I get it, I get a stipend. Enough to live on, to travel. Research. I could just focus on the real work. No substitute teaching, no freelance copy editing. Just... writing."

"Seems like you got the right bait for the right fish," Finn said.

"The book is the bait," I admitted. "The problem is the rest of it. It's not just a reading. It's an audition. A popularity contest."

I pointed to the card in Finn's hand. "Read the quote inside. That's what I'm up against."

I didn't need to look at it; I recited it from memory, the words having haunted me for weeks: “Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d with your Personality?”

"Atmosphere of Desire," Finn repeated, weighing the words in his mouth.

"I'm good at the sentences,” I muttered. “I'm bad at the... 'Desire and Command' part."

Finn looked at me. His mossy green eyes slid from my nervous hands to my tired eyes.

"I don't know," Finn said softly. "You seem to be doing okay in that department today."

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks again. I cleared my throat, desperate to shift the focus back to the cardboard box in the back seat.

Finn weighed the book in his hand, looking from the cover to me.

“Spare one?” he asked, already sliding the slim paperback into the inner pocket of his canvas jacket, right against his chest.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Yeah. Sure. I have a whole box.”

Finn patted the lump under his jacket once, securing it. “Cool.” 

He settled back into the seat, stretching his legs out, his boots bracketing the backpack in the footwell. He checked the line of cars through the windshield; they were still stationary.

“Mind if I hang here till we dock?” Finn asked. “Foot passengers have to wait for the ramp to clear anyway. Better than standing in the wind.”

Unsure of the protocol for hosting one’s casual sexual partner in a confined space post-encounter, I just shrugged. “Sure.”

“Right on.”

Finn folded his hands over his stomach and stared out the window. I sat back, the adrenaline finally drained out of me, leaving me heavy and loose. The car was warm, smelling of peppermint and the musk of sex. For the first time in days I felt relaxed.

I closed my eyes, just for a minute, letting the hum of the ferry lull me into the dark.

---

Chapter 4: Plot Twist

I jerked awake to a cacophony.

HONK. HONK. HOOOOOONK.

My head slammed back against the headrest. For a second, I didn't know where I was—only that my neck hurt, my mouth tasted stale peppermint, and the world was vibrating around me.

I scrambled for my glasses, which had gone completely sideways, and shoved them back up my nose. The blur resolved into a terrifying reality: The ferry gate was down. The cars in front of me were gone. And directly in front of my Volvo stood a ferry worker in a high-vis yellow vest, waving his arms with the manic energy of a man who had been trying to get my attention for a solid forty-five seconds.

His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated judgment. The Stinkeye.

"Oh god," I gasped, fumbling for the ignition.

I twisted the key. The Volvo sputtered, coughed, and finally roared to life. 

The memory crashed around me and I turned to the passenger side.

"Finn, we need to—"

But I was alone.

Where the ginger had been, filling the passenger seat with long, sturdy legs and broad shoulders, sat my overnight bag.

My foot hovered over the gas. I’d packed that bag with military precision—rolled socks and briefs, neatly folded shirts and sweaters, and placed it on the floor of the backseat for safety. Now, it was sitting squarely on the passenger seat. Unzipped. The flap was thrown back like a tongue. A pair of my boxer briefs was draping over the edge.

Thump-thump-thump.

The ferry worker was now beside the door, rapping his knuckles against the glass. "Buddy! Let’s go! You’re holding up the whole boat!"

I rolled down the window, panic making my voice shrill. "I was robbed!"

"God damn it," the worker groaned. The Stinkeye vanished, replaced by the slumped shoulders of a man who just wanted his shift to end. He sighed, pointing a gloved finger toward the exit ramp. "Go. Pull over in the turnout past the booth. I’ll call security. Just get off my boat."

I slammed the car into drive and lurched forward, the Volvo swaying as I rolled down the metal ramp and onto the island. I made it just as far as the gravel turnout, where I slammed the car into park and dove into the bag.

"No, no, no... no, no, no..."

I ripped open the side pocket. My phone was there, wallet mag-safed to the back. Safe. I checked inside: ID, cards, the emergency fifty-dollar bill. I grabbed the laptop case wedged in the back of the bag. Still heavy.

Then I checked the main compartment of my overnight bag.

Gone was my merino wool v-neck—the one I’d planned to wear that night to project what I hoped would pass for an effortless intellectual air.

Gone were the three organic almond-butter protein bars I’d packed just in case.

I stared at the disarray. What kind of thief takes a sweater and protein bars, leaving everything of value?

A sharp rap on the window made me jump so hard I nearly headbutted the roof.

A Port Security officer, a heavyset woman with a high-and-tight ponytail and a utility belt, was peering in. I rolled down the window, my face a portrait of tragic violation.

"Everything okay, sir?" she asked. "Deck crew said you were shouting about a robbery?"

"I was," I blurted out. "On the vessel."

She pulled a notepad from her pocket. "Did you see the perpetrator?"

"It was..." I hesitated. I couldn't very well say 'The ginger with a mouth that could suck the sap out of a tree.' I adjusted my glasses, trying to look like a victim rather than an accomplice. "A hitchhiker. Sort of. He asked to sit in my car to get out of the wind. I... I fell asleep. And when I woke up, he was gone."

She shook her head, clicking her pen. “Well, that was your first mistake.” She looked at me. "Can I see your license, sir?"

I fumbled for my wallet, extracting the plastic card with shaking fingers. The officer took it, comparing the photo—Ian, serious and turtlenecked—to the flushed, disheveled man currently near hyperventilating in the driver's seat.

"Okay, Mr. Smith," she said. She handed the license back. "I'll need a full statement."

For the next thirty agonizing minutes, she stood by my window, methodically filling out a triplicate form.  She asked about timestamps. What was taken. What he wore. His appearance. 

“Red,” I said about his hair, not having the words to describe a shade that sat somewhere between burnished copper and a smoldering, controlled forest fire.

I spun a story that detoured around the facts but ended in the same place as reality—the theft—taking a more respectable path to get there. I was a naive good samaritan, not a nervous author picking up a drifter in the men’s room.

I checked my watch, my pulse ticking in time with the second hand. I was going to be late. 

"Okay, Mr. Smith" she said. 

She pointed back toward the massive white ferry docked behind them.

"We’ve got full CCTV coverage on the car deck," she said, her voice full of helpful authority. "If he was in your vehicle, we’ll have it on tape. Especially if you were parked near the center lane. Cameras pick up right through the windshields these days. We can pull the footage right now, get a clear shot of his face."

She looked at me expectantly. "We can circulate it to the island police. Probably pick him up before the weekend’s out."

I froze.

My brain helpfully replayed the last hour. The open zipper. The head bobbing. The sheer, undeniable enthusiasm of Finn’s performance. My first sex tape— "Atmosphere of Desire"—played out for the Washington State Department of Transportation.

Not a good look for a fellowship finalist.

"NO!" I yelped—too quick, too loud. My hand flailed, accidentally smashing against the steering wheel.

HOOOOOONK.

A seagull on a nearby piling took flight, screeching.

The officer took a step back, hand hovering near her belt. "Sir?"

"I mean... no," I said, my voice strangling into a squeak. I waved my hands frantically. "It’s... it’s not necessary. Really. It was just... protein bars. And an old sweater. Moth-eaten, really. Barely a sweater. More of a rag. Certainly not worth your time. Or the island police."

"Sir, if a crime was committed—"

"I’m late!" I yelled, throwing the car into drive. "I am incredibly late! The Whitman Society is expecting me! Thank you for your service!"

I punched the gas. The Volvo sprayed gravel, fishtailing slightly as I merged back onto the main road, leaving the bewildered security officer staring at my taillights.

---

Chapter 5: Setting the Scene

I drove, hands tight on the wheel, for two miles before my heart rate dropped below triple digits. The winding island road was lined with towering Douglas firs that cast long, dramatic shadows across the asphalt. It was beautiful. It was peaceful.

I felt like I was going to vomit.

I reached for the dashboard to grab the invitation to double-check the address—and grabbed a handful of empty air.

The invitation. Gone.

The ginger hadn’t just taken my sweater and my dignity; he’d taken my directions.

"Perfect," I hissed.

I pulled onto the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires, and frantically punched "Whitman Grove" into my phone’s GPS. It popped up immediately. 

I dialed the contact saved as WHITMAN LIAISON - MR. CHOI.

It rang four times before a breathless voice answered.

"Mr. Smith? Ian? Oh! We expected you some time ago."

"Mr. Choi! Yes!" I tried to put on my 'Professional Author' voice, but it crackled like dry parchment. "So sorry. Ferry trouble. Not the boat itself, there was a theft… everything is fine. Couldn’t be better. I’m driving in now."

"Oh, dear. Well, you’re missing the Welcome Toast," Mr. Choi said, his voice fluttering. "But oh, it's nothing at all, really! Just a few words from the Board Chair. Barely a speech. Hard to hear over the chatter anyway. Just—get here when you can!"

"I’ll be there in twenty minutes," I promised, putting the car back in drive.

I hung up and threw the phone onto the passenger seat—right where Finn had sat.

Even then, amidst the panic and the theft and the looming professional disaster, I looked at the empty seat and had a singular, stupid thought: I wished I’d at least kissed the guy.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the campus of The Whitman Grove.

Once a seminary built in the 1930s to prepare young men for religious service, it had been purchased and renovated by the Whitman Society a decade ago. Now, it was a lavish retreat for the elite gay elders of the Pacific Northwest—a place to stage their events, hold their retreats, and—most importantly—give away fellowships to aspiring creatives.

It was handsome, surrounded by towering evergreens and winding paths, so isolated it was hard to believe it was just a ferry ride from the noise and grit of the city.

Looking up at the main building, a massive stone structure with glowing stained glass windows, I couldn’t help but wonder how many seminarians must have walked these halls, using the priesthood to hide their desires—only to have those same halls now celebrating gayness with an open bar and high-thread-count sheets.

There was a joke there somewhere, something about transubstantiation and vodka tonics, but I was too anxious to make it.

I found a spot in the gravel lot, parked the Volvo, and killed the engine. I pulled on my blazer—acutely aware of the absence of my merino v-neck—knotted my tie, and stepped toward the grand central building.

I took a deep breath. I practiced introducing myself in my head. Ian Smith. The Silver String. A study of love and endurance.

I pushed through the tall oak doors.

The main hall was exquisite—glossy wood floors, sparkling chandeliers, and leaded glass letting in the last of the evening light. The renovation costs must have been staggering, I imagined, but the Whitman Society clearly had the tech dollars to back up their aesthetics.

An attractive young man at the reception desk looked up and beamed.

“Oh, you’re one of the finalists,” the man said in a lilting, enthusiastic voice. He glanced at a list. “How exciting for you!”

“But look at how late I am,” I replied, breathless. “What a bum.”

We both laughed, though mine was mostly hyperventilation.

“Mr. Smith,” the man said, sliding a key card across the marble counter. “I'm Kevin. And you’re just on time. Please don’t worry. And I’m so sorry about the mix-up with the other Mr. Smith. We’ve taken care of it all, and the addition will be seamless.”

I blinked. “The other Mr. Smith?”

“You are in Room 214. We made sure it has the King-sized bed, as requested.” Kevin winked. “Plenty of space. The reception tonight is in the foyer to your left, and we’ll bring your bag up to the room while you're at dinner. Welcome to Whitman Grove.”

I left my overnight bag and tuxedo, and started to turn away, confused but eager to get a drink. King-sized bed? Was Kevin flirting with me? What was with this day?

“Mr. Smith,” Kevin called out. I turned back. The young man winked again. “Good luck.”

I smiled tightly and walked away. The other Mr. Smith. It was such a common name; I wasn't surprised there was a mix-up. I mentally tucked the anecdote away—if I met the other Mr. Smith, we’d have something to chuckle about over canapés.

As turned into the foyer, the wall of sound hit me instantly.

The room was buzzing with chatter, chuckles, and roaring laughter that climbed to the vaulted ceiling. About a hundred men filled the space—mostly older, distinguished, white-haired or bald. These were the trustees of the Whitman Society: men who had invented apps, patented microchips, and retired to islands to fund the arts.

They were in good spirits, hugging, laughing, and passing champagne flutes as a pianist in the corner played a jaunty, uptempo Cole Porter tune.

I adjusted my glasses. I ran through my mental checklist again: Smile. Ask questions. Be curious. Don't mention the self-publishing yet. Smile some more.

At the far end of the room, near the massive stone fireplace, a growing circle of men was laughing louder than the rest. It seemed to be the center of gravity for the party. A good place to break in, I hoped. Or at least to hide in the crowd.

As I approached, a familiar voice—rough, booming—cut through the din.

“And I said threesome? Gentlemen, we can barely agree on what’s for dinner, much less who to have for a threesome!”

Raucous laughter erupted—surprisingly genuine for a semi formal affair.

Before I could get closer, I was intercepted by a kinetic blur of expensive tailoring.

Mr. Choi, the program officer I knew only from virtual interviews, materialized in front of me. He was about forty, wearing an iridescent suit that shimmered like the throat of a peacock—less business professional and more ceremonial plumage. He was wearing a pair of thick, hexagonal spectacles, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Mr. Smith! Ian!” Mr. Choi gasped, shaking my hand with a grip that was damp and just a little too enthusiastic. “I’m so glad you could be here. We were terribly sorry to hear about your delay. But rest assured, everything is under control.”

The laughter from the fireplace roared again. Mr. Choi did too, throwing his head back—though he’d plainly not heard the joke.

“I must say,” Choi continued. He raised his hands to make air quotes. “The ‘other Mr. Smith’ has made quite a splash in your absence. Delightful. Just delightful! The trustees are eating him up.”

I blinked. I stared at the hexagonal frames. “I’m sorry, Mr. Choi... the other Mr. Smith?”

“Your husband,” Mr. Choi repeated, fumbling with his clipboard, looking thrilled and terrified all at once. “Finn.”

---

Chapter 6: Character Development

I didn't walk toward the fireplace—I was pulled, drawn by a mixture of curiosity and horror. The crowd seemed to part for me, beaming with the indulgence people usually reserve for newlyweds or lottery winners.

And there was Finn.

He was holding court, a crystal tumbler in one hand, leaning an elbow on the mantlepiece like he’d been born to inherit the estate. The charcoal merino wool v-neck—my charcoal merino wool v-neck—was stretched tight across his chest, the fabric struggling valiantly to contain the breadth of his shoulders. It looked infuriatingly good on him.

Clipped precariously to the neck was a generic nametag, on which someone—possibly Finn himself—had scrawled FINN in thick, black Sharpie.

He spotted me approaching. His face lit up with a grin that was half-angel, half-arsonist.

"There he is!" Finn boomed, raising his glass. "The man of the hour. Finally decided to join us."

The circle of elderly trustees turned to me, their faces wreathed in smiles.

"Mr. Smith!" an older gentleman with a monocle—an actual monocle—beamed. "We were just hearing about your most... harrowing journey over."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper of admiration. "Fending off an armed car burglar? Valiant. Truly valiant."

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Armed car burglar? I felt like I was watching a play where I was the lead actor, but no one had given me the script.

I stepped into the circle, my eyes locking onto the neckline stretched across Finn’s collarbone.

"That's..." I hissed, "that's my sweater."

Finn didn't blink. He just laughed, loud and warm, and draped a heavy arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a side-hug that felt disturbingly solid.

"See?" Finn told the crowd, giving me a squeeze. "What's the fun of being married if you can't borrow what's in the closet? Even if it is a little tight in the lats."

He flexed slightly. The wool seemed to groan. The trustees nodded and murmured in agreement, sipping their drinks.

I looked down at my own chest, flipping my name badge over to make sure it actually said Ian Smith. It did. I looked at Finn’s chest. Just the Sharpie scrawl and the strained wool.

"I think I'm in trouble," Finn whispered theatrically to the group. 

"You got that right," I muttered through a clenched jaw. "You are in so much trouble."

“Honey, walk with me? I think I need a refill." Finn steered me away from the fireplace with a firm hand on my lower back, guiding me toward a secluded alcove. 

Mr. Choi, who had been hovering nervously at the edge of the interaction, looked between us from behind wide, hexagonal lenses.

"Oh! Domestic tension!" he chirped. "I'll... I'll just go get us all some drinks! Gin? Vodka? Both? I’ll get both!"

He didn't wait for an answer, skittering away toward the bar like a beetle.

The moment we were alone, I slapped Finn’s hand away from my back and spun on him.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed, keeping my voice down to a furious whisper. "Are you... are you even supposed to be here?"

"Relax, Ian," Finn said, leaning back against the wainscoting and taking a sip of his whiskey. "This place is great. The booze is free. Have you seen the shrimp bar? They have these little prawns on ice that are bigger than my thumb. It’s endless."

"The shrimp bar?" I sputtered. "No, I have not seen the shrimp bar!"

"And these guys are great." Finn gestured with his glass. "Barry—the monocle? Dude invented the scroll wheel. Sparky, over by the piano—fiber optics. And The Duchess—guy in the velvet blazer? He owns half of Bainbridge Island."

"You stole my clothes. You—"

"Borrowed," Finn corrected. “And honestly, you need to get some color in your wardrobe. You dress like a black and white picture.”

"You need to get out of here," I said, pointing a shaking finger at the door. "Right now. Before I call the police."

"Get out?" Finn laughed, a low rumble in his chest. "Buddy, I was here first."

“Here first? HERE FIRST? On my invitation that you stole—”

"I didn't steal your invite. You gave it to me. In the car. Remember?"

"To read! Not to use as a... a pass to crash a fellowship gala!"

"Technically, I was invited," Finn pointed out. "It says 'Plus One.' I…”— he spread his arms out—”am the One."

"You... you..." I shoved a hand into my pocket. “I’m calling the police.”

"And besides," Finn took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. "I don't think you want to call the police."

"Watch me," I said.

"Really?" Finn raised a blond eyebrow. "You want to spoil the party? You want to explain to all these nice, rich, legacy-obsessed old men how we met? You want to tell Barry the Scroll Wheel King that you're late because you were getting blown by a stranger on a tugboat?"

I froze. 

"It was a ferry," I whispered weakly.

"Whatever," Finn grinned, swirling his ice. “Doesn't sound very Fellowship material to me."

I stared at him. The logic was diabolical. It was blackmail. It was perfect.

“Here,” Finn said, reaching into his pocket.

He took my left hand, his grip warm and rough, and pushed something onto my ring finger. I looked down, blinking. It was a plain, gold band. It fit perfectly.

Finn held up his own left hand, wiggling his fingers to show off an identical band that gleamed in the ambient light.

“Matching.”

“No! NO matching!” I said, yanking at the ring, trying to twist it off.

"Point is, we're here now," Finn said, clinking his glass against my new ring. "We're the Smiths. And I look great in this sweater. So smile, Professor. Mr. Choi is coming back with the gin."

---

Chapter 7: The McGuffin

I stared at the gold band on my ring finger.

"Get it off," I whimpered, clawing at the metal. "Get it off of me."

Mr. Choi was approaching us again, beaming, holding two fresh drinks high like trophies. He took in the tableau before him: The rugged ginger husband leaning back with a smug grin, and the frantic author clawing at his own hand as if trying to rip his finger off.

The smile slid off Mr. Choi’s face like a fried egg off a non-stick pan. “Not a good time.”

Without breaking stride, he simply pivoted on his heel, executing a perfect, fluid U-turn, looping away from the alcove and marching briskly back toward the safety of the bar.

"He’s gone," I hissed. "You scared him away. Where did you even get this ring? Did you steal it from a trustee? Is that… what’s his name? Barry’s ring?"

"Dude. Relax," Finn said, snagging two champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray. "It’s not from here."

He held a glass out. I snatched it and downed it in one desperate  gulp.

"Why?" I whispered, the bubbles burning my throat. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Finn looked genuinely offended. "Ian, I just want to help."

I stared at him, dumbfounded. "Help? You stole my clothes, crashed my career-defining event, and handcuffed me with a gold ring. How are you helping?"

A sly smile spread across his face. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the cream invitation and snapped it open.

"Because you didn't read the assignment," he said. He cleared his throat and read aloud:

“‘Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command enters with you, and every one is impress’d with your Personality?’”

"That’s my invitation!" I snapped, swiping at the card.

Finn held it high, just out of reach, forcing me to hop slightly before I finally surrendered it.

“Bro, have you not been paying attention?" Finn grinned, gesturing to the room at large. "Those old dudes love me. I am the Atmosphere."

Finn flexed his bicep. The charcoal merino wool, already pushed to its limit, strained tight across the swelling muscle. I thought I could hear the seam at the shoulder give a faint gasp.

"Oh my God," I gasped, reaching out to pull Finn’s arm down before the fabric exploded. “You ARE crazy!”

Crazy hot, my brain traitorously supplied.

"This is serious," I hissed, shaking my head to dislodge the thought. "This is about my book! My life!"

“You think too much,” Finn grinned. “Here.”

He handed me his own empty champagne flute. I accepted it reflexively.

I stood there, paralyzed, holding two empty glasses and a battered invitation, just as Mr. Choi materialized for a second attempt. This time, he was armed with two fresh flutes of champagne, his smile rebooted and firmly in place.

"Maybe bubbles!" Choi chirped, thrusting the fresh drinks forward.

I looked at Choi’s hands. Then I looked at my own hands—full of crystal and cardstock. Logic dictated I should find a place to put the empties down. Social panic dictated I simply accept the offering.

I wedged the stems of the two empty glasses between the fingers of my left hand, shoved the invitation under my thumb, and reached out to accept the fresh, full flute with my right.

I was holding three glasses and a card. I looked like a waiter who had lost his tray.

Mr. Choi tilted his head, his hexagonal glasses magnifying his confusion.

"Mr. Smith..." Choi said softly. "You're upside down."

I looked down at my chest. The name tag I had frantically flipped over to check my identity was still facing me. At least I was still myself.

"Oh," I squeaked.

I tried to flip it with my thumb, but the full champagne glass sloshed dangerously near the rim. The empty glasses in my other hand clinked together with a chiming ting-ting.

"Want some help?" Finn asked, leaning in.

"NO," I snapped, taking a step back. The glasses clinked in my grip. "I do NOT need your help."

I gave one more push with my thumb, and the name tag finally turned over, right side up. Ian Smith.

Just as I stabilized the glassware, the crystal chandeliers above us flickered. Once. Twice. The room dimmed to a warm, intimate glow.

"What now?" I groaned.

"Dinner is served, gentlemen," Mr. Choi announced, looking relieved to have a reason to stop watching me struggle. He gestured grandly toward the double doors at the end of the hall. "If you'll follow me."

Choi turned and led the way. The crowd of trustees began to migrate, a sea of blazers and expensive cologne.

I grabbed Finn’s arm—the thick bicep encased in my favorite wool—and dragged him back a step, letting the crowd pass.

"Okay, listen to me," I whispered frantically. I downed the champagne without tasting it. "I'm going to fix this."

"Fix what?" Finn asked. "It's going great."

"I am going to wait until we’re seated," I hissed. "And then I’m going to explain to the trustees that this was all a joke. A prank that got out of hand. I will tell the… truth. Sort of."

Finn looked skeptical. "What do I say?"

I stopped. "You? You say nothing. You just agree with whatever I say. 100%. Got it?"

Finn looked at me. He looked at my frantic eyes, my crooked glasses, and the precarious tower of glassware clutched in my hands. He grinned.

"Oookay," he answered.

"Good." I exhaled. "Let's go."

We turned and headed into the dining hall.

---

Chapter 8: Suspension of Disbelief

The dining hall smelled of roasted garlic and expensive cologne, and—I imagined—tech money to burn, rising up to the vaulted ceiling. 

We three finalists were each seated at our own tables of ten, with our designated liaisons and clutches of trustees.

At my table, Mr. Choi handled the introductions with the breathless energy of a Tony Awards presenter. "And here we have Mr. Ian Smith, one of our distinguished finalists, and his husband, Mr. Finn Smith."

It quickly became evident that Finn had not only befriended them all in the span of passed appetizers, but he’d gone beyond first-names to a nickname basis.

"So, Sully," Finn asked, leaning across the table to the cloud storage tycoon, a man with dimpled cheeks and a full whitebeard, "does a yacht that size come with a full crew, or do you have to vacuum the carpets yourself?"

Sullivan roared with laughter, slapping the table. "I haven't held a vacuum since 1990!"

I found myself sandwiched between Mr. Choi, who was vibrating with nervous energy, and Sullivan, who was shaking with a Finn-induced belly laugh.

Finn was seated directly across from me. He had already pulled his chair out to create more legroom, manspreading so wide it defied manners and physics both.

As a server passed with a silver tray of crudités, he reached out and swiped a few long, peeled carrots without the server even breaking stride. He leaned back and bit into one with a loud CRUNCH.

I winced. I cleared my throat, turning to the trustee seated beside me to salvage the dignity of the Smith name.

"Mr. Sullivan," I said, pitching my voice to a serious, intellectual register. "I was hoping to ask about the Society's strategic plan regarding digital rights management in the coming..."

Thwump.

The salads landed, all served simultaneously at the table by a ring of waitstaff.

Finn snatched three cherry tomatoes from his plate and launched them into a lazy, aerial rotation—a perfect three-point juggle. 

Sullivan’s eyes turned as Finn snapped each one out of the air in rhythmic, juice-spraying bites.

I lost Sullivan completely. He grabbed a tomato from his own salad and tossed it across the table.

Finn caught it in a wide-open mouth and snapped it shut, the juice squirting audibly.

"Bravo!" Sullivan cheered, with an  exuberance that sounded wrong coming from a man of his net worth.

I grimaced. I had written a novella about the intricate, painful nuances of love and endurance, and I was being upstaged by a human seal act. 

It was time to turn things around.

I took a sip of water and adjusted my glasses. I could do this. I knew how to do this—I was a writer, and this was storytelling. All I had to do was craft a narrative that detoured around the truth but dovetailed nicely with it in the present.

I opened my mouth to speak, but was cut off by Finn’s booming voice.

"But it wasn't just a cat," he said, commanding the table. "It was a leopard. Escaped the zoo enclosure. And there’s Ian, reading a book, sitting right in the danger zone."

I blinked. A leopard?

Finn rested his big hands on the shoulders of Mr. Kenneth Mackenzie—a gray haired man who controlled half the real estate in Portland.

"Now, you're Ian," Finn said. “The leopard is pouncing. I didn't have time to think."

Finn yanked, pulling Mackenzie back against the charcoal wool of my sweater, tipping the trustee’s chair, until their faces were inches apart. Finn held him there, faces side by side, in a frozen moment.

"Oh, my," Mackenzie muttered, as Finn’s dragon-hot breath ran down his neck. He looked like he was having a religious experience.

"So romantic," Mr. Choi sighed, clapping his hands. "A literal life-saver."

"And then," Finn continued, releasing Mackenzie, whose chair legs clacked back to the floor, "the leopard looks at me. And I look at the leopard. And I realize... he's not hungry. He's just lonely."

"Oh, Good Lord," I muttered loudly.

The table went silent. Eight heads turned toward me.

"I'm sorry?" Sullivan asked, peering over his spectacles. "Did you have a comment on the leopard, Mr. Smith?"

"I..." I froze. I looked at Finn, who was grinning over a half-eaten carrot. "I… it may have been a jaguar. Technically."

The table stared at me blankly. Then they turned back to Finn, who picked up where he left off.

It was time to change tacks—I needed a beta reader to test my narrative on. I leaned in close to Mr. Choi.

"Mr. Choi," I whispered. "I need to tell you something. I owe you an apology. About Finn—"

Mr. Choi jumped, his spoon clattering. "An apology? Oh, Ian, no. I couldn’t help but notice—but spats are part of married life! Conflict is healthy. Not that I'd know. Chronically single. My therapist says I have an anxious attachment style, which makes it difficult to form intimate relationships."

"I... I'm sorry to hear that. But—"

Mr. Choi sighed, looking wistful. "You know, from what I've heard, finalists tend to overprepare. They get stiff. Stodgy. But look at you two! You're the life of the party."

“Yes, but, you see—Finn isn’t—” I stopped, catching up. "From what you've heard? Mr. Choi... how many times have you done this?"

Mr. Choi adjusted his hexagonal glasses. "Managed a Fellowship finalist?"

"Yes."

"Counting this time?" Choi patted his linen napkin on his lap. He waited a long, uncomfortable moment. "Once.”

“So… never?”

“Never before. I was in Accounts Receivable until last month. But I think it's going swimmingly, don't you?"

I sank back in my seat, ready to hit my head on the table, but was interrupted by a loud groan from across the table.

Finn was leaning back in his chair, rubbing his stomach with both hands.

"That was awesome," he announced to the table. "But my belly's doing a number. Hear it?"

“Oh no. No. Not at all,” said Lawrence, a tiny gray-haired man with a lisp who had made his fortune in semiconductors.

"It’s like a furnace in there,” Finn continued. “Larry, you don’t hear that?"

To my absolute horror, Finn reached over and gently guided Lawrence’s head closer, and then down. He rested the trustee’s ear right at his stomach, Lawrence’s nose dangerously close to Finn’s crotch.

Finn bit his bottom lip, shooting me a filthy glance. 

"Oh!" Lawrence gasped, popping back up with surprising spryness. He was red faced and dewy. "Oh! I do hear something! It’s quite active!"

"Anyone else want to hear?" Finn offered, lifting his shirt and my sweater slightly.

He didn’t have the washboard abs of an underwear model. His belly slightly rounded—a solid, well-fed curve that spoke of the all-you-can-eat shrimp, the squab, the whiskey, and the general gluttony of the evening. It was the stomach of a man enjoying the night.

The trustees rose to their feet as if the Queen herself had arrived and was holding court in Finn's navel. Their napkins sliding as they gazed at Finn’s midsection.

---

Chapter 9: Deus Ex Machina

I stood up so abruptly my chair screeched backward, tipping over and hitting the floor with a deafening CLATTER.

The dining hall fell silent. Everyone at the nearest tables turned to look. The trustees at my table grasped at their falling napkins as they turned from Finn's rumbling stomach to my frantic face.

"I have an announcement," I said, my voice the worst possible combination: trembling but loud.

They waited. Expectant. Joyless.

They sank back to their seats, as a waiter pulled my own seat up from the floor behind me.

“Yes, Mr. Smith?” asked Sullivan, the trustee nearest to me, looking concerned.

"Finn..." I choked out. "Finn can't... he can't stay."

A gasp went around the table. Mr. Choi fanned himself.

"Why not?" Sullivan demanded, looking affronted. "Why can't he stay, Mr. Smith?”

“Finnie, are you ill?” tiny Lawrence asked directly, leaning in. “Is it your belly? I travel with Mylanta."

I twisted the ring on my finger. "He… he…"

I knew this feeling. I had felt it in the middle of Chapter 9 of The Silver String. It was the sickening realization that I had written myself into a corner, trapped in a narrative dead end with no exit strategy.

My breath came in short, sudden gasps, not enough to fill my lungs. I could feel the damp at my hairline and down my back. I dropped to my chair.

The room began to list. The chandeliers were swaying. To my panic-stricken brain, the dining hall wasn't a building anymore; it was the Titanic, and the bow was pitching down. I was trying to raise the alarm while everyone else rearranged the deck chairs.

I grabbed the edge of the table, looked for something—anything—solid.

And there he was.

While the room tipped around him, Finn was leaning back, hands behind his head, watching me with twinkling eyes. He wasn't sinking. He was the iceberg.

“Finn can’t…” I muttered. There were so many eyes on me. Mr. Choi’s distress was building. 

Finn’s bicep flexed beside his face—bulging against the sleeve of the stolen merino wool. And then, as the seasickness overtook me, I saw a single thread, dangling right under the armpit. As the seam slowly split, the thread began to twist—spiraling like a fuse.

The ship was going down.

I met Finn’s gaze, my eyebrows knitting together as I mouthed a silent plea across the table.

“Help.”

Finn’s grin widened. He kicked into gear, dropping his chair legs back onto the floor with a loud CLACK, drawing the table’s attention. 

“What Ian means,” he volunteered, resting his elbows on the tablecloth, “is when his car got burgled, they took my tux. So I’d be super underdressed for dinner tomorrow.”

The table gasped again.

"They took your dinner jacket?" Lawrence asked, horrified.

"Everything," Finn said, casting a forlorn look at his canvas pants. "I can't go to dinner tomorrow night in Ian’s sweater. Look."

He raised his arm and flexed again, just a little—enough to make the wool strain, the loose thread twisting.

"You wouldn't want me bursting out of my clothes right in the middle of dinner," Finn drawled. 

Lawrence fanned himself with a napkin. "Someone might get hurt," he declared.

"That won't do at all," Sullivan slammed his hand on the table. "Your husband is a finalist! We can't lose you over a suit!"

Another trustee spoke up. Hiro was densely built, but had a voice made for Broadway. He held up one meaty hand dramatically.

"Wait!"

"Hiro?" Sullivan asked. "What is it?"

"There’s a tailor on the island," Hiro announced. "Rivera. The Society keeps him on retainer.”

“A tailor?” I asked, blinking sweat from my eyes, the room slowly righting itself.

“Not just a tailor,” Hiro corrected. He spoke low, drawing the rest of the table in, as if it were a very gay campfire tale. “He is a retired costume designer. He has a massive archive of pieces right here on the island. The man is an artist! It was 2018… the touring cast of Mamma Mia! luggage was lost at SeaTac. Their… costumes!”

There were gasps around the table.

“Rivera outfitted them from his own collection in twenty-four hours. Do you understand? The spandex? The sequins? The structural engineering of those jumpsuits? If he can handle ABBA under pressure with what he has in his barn, a tuxedo is child's play!"

He raised his hands as if he were taking a standing ovation.

"On it!" Choi squeaked, his thumb flying over his phone screen.

“Mr. Choi,” Hiro said with dramatic effect, “tell him it is a Level One Sartorial Emergency.”

“Hiro-San, you’re my man,” Finn grinned, reaching over to hug the trustee and slapping his back.

“Young man,” Mackenzie offered, patting Finn's shoulder, “there’s little that can’t be solved with enough time or enough money.”

"Rivera will take care of everything. Your husband shall be clothed." Sullivan turned to me. “Does that settle everything, Mr. Smith?"

I stood there, my heart hammering, adrenaline crashing. I looked at the table of relieved faces.

I looked at Finn, who was grinning at me. I imagined him in a Super Trouper-inspired dinner jacket, shirtless.

"Yes," I breathed, the crisis averted. "It certainly does."

"I agree," Finn said, looking straight into my eyes. "100%."

He spread his arms over the backs of the trustees’ chairs and winked at me.

“You know,” he announced, “I love a morning run. Don’t you?"

He looked around the table.

"I would like to propose a morning run. I’ll be ready to hit the trail by 8 a.m. and hope you can all join me.”

Nods rippled around the table. Even Lawrence looked ready to lace up.

Just then, the servers returned, bearing massive, glistening plates of Tiramisu.

Finn’s eyes lit up. He sat up straight, the belly rumble miraculously cured. He picked up his spoon.

"Oh," Finn whispered to the rich dessert, licking his lips. "Hello, gorgeous."

I sank back into my seat. That went well.

---

Chapter 10: Internal Monologue

Finn walked beside me down the plush hallway of the Whitman Grove West Wing, his loose-limbed saunter somehow keeping pace with my stomping march.

“So far, so good,” Finn said, bringing his thumb to his mouth to lick away a stray fleck of cocoa powder from the tiramisu.

“Good? GOOD? This is definitely not good. I had trustees to impress about my work, and I spent two hours talking about your digestive system. I’m so far behind, and it’s just the first night!”

“Relax,” Finn said, stepping comfortably into my personal space. “It’s not a race.”

I spun around, my blazer flaring. “Everything. Is. A. Race.”

He deftly swiped my tortoise-shell glasses from my head, holding them up to his own eyes, squinting through the prescription lenses.

“I’m Ian,” Finn droned, pitching his voice into a clipped, anxious register. “I’m very serious. What are your feelings on the semicolon?”

I reached to snatch my glasses back, but Finn held them just out of reach, grinning.

“I don’t sound like that,” I snapped. I turned toward the fuzzy, impressionistic blur of the hallway. “And now I can’t even find the room.”

“You’re literally standing in front of it,” Finn said.

He turned me around and gently rested the glasses back on my nose. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping to his lower, warmer rumble. "The 'brooding genius' look? It's working for you."

I blinked, trying to read the blurry brass plate until the world snapped back into focus: the number 214.

I scowled as I fumbled with the key card, trying to ignore the warm wall of Finn’s solid form directly behind me.

The lock buzzed green and I stepped inside, Finn walking in lockstep, his chest to my back.

“Quit that,” I said, breaking free and stumbling into the dark room.

He just laughed. 

He was making it so hard to stay mad at him.

“Why are you even doing this?” I muttered. “I just want to get my fellowship and go somewhere quiet to write.”

“Cause I like you,” Finn replied.

He crowded me, backing me up until my shoulders hit the wall, pinning me there, noses touching. I caught the scent of him—cedar soap trying to mask underlying sweat. When was the last time he showered? I wondered, alarmed by how much I liked the smell.

“Except when you act like a stiff,” Finn murmured. “Ah, who am I kidding? I like it when you’re a stiff, too.”

He reached down, his huge hand cupping my crotch, finding the erection that had been plaguing me since the salad course.

“And when you are stiff.”

“Stop,” I groaned.

I ducked under his arm to escape the magnetic pull, putting the width of the room between us. I picked up my overnight bag, resting it on the dresser, my underwear bunching uncomfortably. I cursed my body’s weakness and the heat rushing through me.

In the mirror, I saw him grab the hem of his sweater—my sweater—and peel it off, tossing it to me.

I turned to catch it. Underneath, Finn’s gingham shirt was wrinkled, stained—well past simply overdue for a cleaning.

Smart of him to cover it up, I noted, clutching the wool.

“That’s a funny way to say thanks,” Finn muttered.

“Thanks? THANKS?” I gasped, fighting the urge to bury my face in the wool, to take in the scent Finn had left on it.

“You’re welcome,” Finn grinned.

He unbuttoned his shirt just enough to yank it over his head, thick fingers in the open collar. He tossed it toward a chair but missed completely. It landed in a heap on the carpeted floor.

“I’m not thanking you, you crazy himbo!” I groaned.

I looked into my bag. Everything I’d so carefully packed—color-coded, folded, complete with backups just in case—was now a mess.

“This fellowship means everything to me,” I said, my back to him, aggressively reorganizing a stack of socks.

“I know,” Finn said.

He’d kicked off his canvas work pants and was standing in nothing but white cotton briefs and socks.

I swallowed hard. 

Finn wasn't the sculpted, hairless mannequin of a gym ad. He was athletic, solid—built for use—with a chest covered in downy, red-gold hair that trailed down a stomach that was firm, but not ridged—a manly core that only made him look stronger.

“That’s why I’m helping you,” Finn said, scratching his chest. “Or were you not paying attention back there?”

“Look,” I said, forcing my eyes up to Finn’s face. “Maybe you’re a nice guy when you’re not... I don’t know, committing crimes. But I don’t need your help. I can do this. I don’t need to lie.”

Finn plopped onto the bed and slid back against the headboard, resting his arms behind his head. His biceps peaked, the golden hair in his pits on full display.

“What are you so worked up about?” Finn asked. “You’re the writer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m a writer, not a serial liar.”

Finn stretched, yawning like a lion. “What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies?”

I stared at him, mouth agape. It was an infuriatingly astute observation coming from a man in his underwear.

“I don’t even have the patience to tell you how wrong you are,” I sputtered. “You’re… exasperating.”

I waved a hand helplessly at Finn’s form—the muscled golden limbs, the pink nipples, the full package under white cotton.

“Have you always been like… this?”

Like a leprechaun crossed with a centaur, I nearly said.

“Mostly since puberty,” Finn shrugged again, his biceps subtly flexing.

“Well, the rest of us need to get by in other ways,” I replied, turning away to pull my t-shirt over my smooth torso. “Not with… tricks.”

“Like writing?” Finn asked gleefully.

“That is not at all the same.”

His eyes ran over my bare torso in a way that made my knees weak.

I grabbed my toiletry kit and marched into the bathroom. I needed to clean something. I needed boundaries. I needed a door with a lock.

I squeezed paste onto my brush and began scrubbing furiously. Through the open bathroom door, I watched Finn in the bed.

He was rummaging through the drawer of the bedside table.

“Hey,” I mumbled around the brush. “What are you doing?”

“Checking the amenities,” Finn said.

He held up a small bottle. “‘Whitman Grove Complimentary Lubricant. Scented with cedar and clove.” He uncapped it, sniffed, and read the rest of the label. “'I Sing the Body Electric.'”

I spat into the sink. “It’s a literary retreat. They take the theme seriously.”

Finn grinned, dropping the bottle onto the table.

Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, he rolled off the bed. He crossed the room in three long strides and crowded into the bathroom, pressing me against the porcelain vanity.

“Hey!” I protested as my hip hit the edge of the sink.

He reached out and took the wet, foaming toothbrush right out of my hand. He popped it into his own mouth and started scrubbing, grinning around the handle.

“That was in my mouth!” I squeaked.

Finn leaned in. I could feel the hard, undeniable ridge of his erection straining against the white cotton briefs. As his arm worked back and forth, the muscles of his chest jumped and twitched under the mat of red-gold hair.

I gripped the edge of the sink, watching the foam gather on Finn’s lip, watching the pec muscles dance.

“You weren’t so worried when I was swallowing your load on the ferry,” Finn mumbled through the foam. He spat and bared his teeth in the mirror. “A little late to be squeamish now, Professor.”

---

Chapter 11: Show, Don’t Tell

I fled the bathroom, my face burning, and crawled into bed. I yanked the duvet up to my chin, creating a barricade of goose down, and stared at the ceiling.

A moment later, the bathroom light flicked off, plunging the room into shadows.

The mattress dipped as Finn climbed in. He lifted the edge of my carefully constructed barricade and slid right underneath the duvet with me. He stretched out in his white cotton briefs, taking up an obscene amount of space.

Within thirty seconds, the trapped air beneath the thick blankets felt like a sauna. The heat radiating off his body was overwhelming.

"Are you secretly a combustion engine?" I muttered, shifting toward the very edge of the mattress, kicking a leg out from under the covers. "You're going to roast me alive."

"I run hot," Finn said. He shifted, his bare knee casually bumping against my thigh. "You should take off your underwear."

"I need layers," I stammered, gripping the duvet tight. "In the absence of a straightjacket or an iron lung, I require a physical barrier."

"Come on," Finn whispered. He threw one muscular, hairy thigh over my hips, pinning me. "Don't you want to have fun?"

"Fun?" I gasped. "We are committing fraud."

"We'll get some free grub," Finn murmured, lowering his head to nuzzle my neck, his beard scratching deliciously. "We'll get a fellowship. Take a trip.”

“WE aren’t getting anything. There is no we. I am getting a fellowship.” I lay flat on my back, rigid, staring at the ceiling. “And between the fraud and the body heat, I am never going to be able to sleep.”

“Relax,” he whispered again, the vibration low in my ear. “We'll walk away. Happily ever after. What could go wrong?"

He rolled his weight onto me, settling his broad chest flush against mine. The physical contrast was staggering—the abrasive scratch of his chest hair against my smooth skin, the density of him.

"Don't YOU ask that," I groaned, trying to push him away, but finding my hands clutching his pecs instead. "You are the Inciting Incident. You are the chaos bringer. You are Loki."

Finn shut me up with a kiss—a deep, wet bite against my bottom lip that cut off my citations.

"You're so sexy when you talk dirty,” Finn growled against my mouth.

His erection pressed right through the cotton of his briefs, trapping my own aching, painfully hard cock against my lower stomach.

"I'm not..." I started, but Finn bit my lip again, harder this time.

"More," he whispered against my mouth.

He rolled his hips in a slow, brutal circle, catching the ultra-sensitive underside of my cock against the fabric.

My head fell back into the pillow, my glasses knocked askew, hanging off one ear. I tried to invoke the seminarians who’d slept there decades ago, stifling their desires.

Finn’s mouth found my lips, his tongue pressing in, wrestling with mine as his hips ground in harder with slow thrusts. The cotton caught and dragged against my erection, creating a maddening friction that made my toes curl.

Who was I kidding? I thought dizzily. Those seminarians probably had record-breaking orgies. He buried his face in my neck and ground down, humping hard, and the bed groaned.

Squee. Squee. Squee. “You’re Heathcliff,” I panted into his neck. With every word he thrust harder, increasing the friction between us. “You’re the reason Rochester's house burned down...”

Squee-squee. Squee-squee-squee. Squee-squee. “Grendel,” I gasped. “Puck.”

"That’s it," Finn panted, his face buried in my shoulder.

We were rubbing raw, the sensation building too fast to stop.

Squee-squee-squee-squee-squee!

His hips snapped forward with athletic intensity, and I clutched his ass, pulling him closer, needing more pressure, more weight.

He drove his hips down one final, devastating time, grinding his erection against mine with just the thin, damp fabric between us, my hips thrusting up to meet him.

Squee-squee-SQUEE! “You’re… Chekhov’s… FUCK.”

I broke entirely, shooting hard into my own briefs. The hot, messy release ripped through my core. My back arched off the bed and my thighs clamped helplessly around his thick leg as the aftershocks ran through my body.

Finn groaned, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. His chest hair scraped against my skin and our hearts thudded against each other.

He stayed there for a long time, letting his weight crush the frantic, lingering tremors out of me.

Slowly, our breathing leveled out. He pressed a warm, damp kiss against my neck, and rolled off me.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my chest heaving.

I turned my head. Finn was lying on his back, looking back at me. His chest was covered in a sheen of sweat. Beneath the white cotton of his briefs, his erection was still visibly, painfully rigid, a sturdy tent in the fabric. He hadn't finished.

His mossy green eyes caught mine in the dim light. A wicked, strained grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You're welcome, Professor," he rasped.

My glasses were half-off and fogged, my brain completely offline, and my boxer briefs were a disaster zone. I could feel the wet, warm, sticky reality of what we’d just done in my pubes. It was the kind of sensory nightmare that usually sent me sprinting for a shower and a bottle of bleach.

But the bed was soft, and my limbs felt like lead.

Beside me, the mattress shifted. Finn turned onto his side, facing me. He punched a pillow into a ball, shoved it under his head, and propped himself up. He lay there, watching me, a lazy, satisfied grin plastered across his face.

"Don't get too comfortable," I said, my resolve returning, but making no move to address the mess in my pants. "As soon as I can figure out how to extract you, you are out of here. Tomorrow morning."

Finn’s grin didn't falter.

"After the morning run?" he asked, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

I froze. I’d forgotten the run—that the lie had already grown roots. I couldn't just kick Finn out. He was locked into an activity. He had a fan base.

I groaned. "Ugh. Yes. After the morning run. Go to sleep."

I turned away from his grinning face, curling onto my side and facing the wall. I pulled my knees up, the wet cotton clinging to me, a tactile reminder of my loss of control.

An arm—dense and furry—draped over my waist. Finn pulled me back until we were flush, curling around me, the ginger-haired big spoon to my reluctant little spoon, the thick, unresolved heft of his erection resting heavily against my rear through our underwear.

I should have gotten up and showered. Should have scrubbed myself clean. Burned my boxers. But the heat radiating from Finn’s chest soaked into my back, numbing the neurosis.

"Hey, Ian?" Finn whispered against my hair, as my eyes drifted closed.

"What?"

"You think I'm a himbo?"

---

Chapter 12: The Subplot

As a rule, I did not sleep through the night. I was a writer. I usually woke at 3:00 a.m. with dialogue loops running through my head, or a sudden, panic-induced solution to a second-act plot hole.

But for the first time in my adult life, I blinked awake to the morning sun, facing an unfamiliar wall. On the bedside table, an alarm clock blinked 7:33 a.m.

There was a reassuring pressure against my back. When I reached behind me, my hand hit a wall of softness. Pillows. It hadn’t been a dream—not all of it, anyway. Finn had pressed a bolster and two down pillows against my back to mimic the weight of a body before slipping away.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, the man had vanished like a ginger ninja.

I sat up, rubbing my face.

I scanned the room, briefly wondering if he’d made off after a hearty free meal and a warm bed. But Finn’s battered canvas backpack was still on the floor near the wardrobe. He wasn't gone gone.

I considered opening the bag. I could unzip that canvas and find out exactly who I was dealing with. Was there a stolen ID? A weapon? Another set of wedding rings?

No, I decided, pulling my hand back. I don't need to know. I’m already an accessory. Plausible deniability is the only asset I have left.

I rose, disoriented by the room and by the fact that I had—for a change—slept like the dead. Or the thoroughly, exhaustively satisfied. When I peeled my boxers off and looked at my matted, still-damp pubes, I was reminded in graphic detail of the ginger’s exact effect on me.

I showered quickly, turning the water as hot as I could stand. I scrubbed at my groin, washing away the dried evidence of my lapse in judgment, watching the suds swirl down the drain.

The ring Finn had shoved on my finger, however, was a more permanent fixture. I lathered my left hand with the Grove’s complimentary verbena soap, scrubbing like Lady Macbeth, twisting and pulling at the gold band until my knuckle turned raw and red. It didn't budge.

I surrendered. I dressed in my academic-casual armor—a crisp, light-blue Oxford tucked into sharply tailored navy chinos, topped with a lightweight merino wool sweater—and went out looking for coffee.

The main lobby of the West Wing had been converted into a breakfast bistro. The long, wood-paneled hall was now lined with small wrought-iron tables. While a lavish buffet boasted tiered trays of artisanal pastries and gleaming silver urns of drip coffee, a sleek, pop-up espresso bar had been set up near the sweeping staircase.

I was halfway through the line to place my order with Raul—a dreadfully young, distractingly handsome barista with a sharp jawline and a linen apron tied snug around his waist—when I heard a voice. It was booming, cheerful, and—now—painfully familiar.

"Finnegan? No, sir. It’s just Finn. For Huckleberry Finn. My dad swam the entire length of the Mississippi River back in '92. Mark Twain was his Bible."

I froze. Swam the Mississippi? Was that a career? Was he fleeing a crime?

Finn turned the corner near the entrance, followed by a gaggle of trustees in various states of readiness. There had only been seven trustees at our table last night when Finn charmed them into a "morning detox" over tiramisu, but looking at the crowd, the idea had clearly spread.

Some were in relatively good shape, even in their sixties and seventies, dressed in slick, expensive running gear. Others were in baggy t-shirts and walking shorts. A few looked like they hadn’t broken a sweat since the fire alarm went off at The Saint in 1984.

Then there was Finn.

He was wearing sunny yellow running shorts that were barely a suggestion of fabric—high-cut, nylon, and revealing a scandalous amount of hairy, muscular thigh. He walked with an easy athletic stride that made the severely cut-off armholes of his t-shirt sway, exposing his entire ribcage and the sides of his pecs.

"Alright, people!" he shouted, clapping his hands. "Knees up! We’re burning off that dinner!"

He didn’t stop when he spotted me across the lobby.

Instead, he hooked a thumb into the low-hanging armhole of his cut-off shirt and gave it a deliberate tug, widening the gap to flash a taunting peek of pec muscle and a ginger-ringed pink nipple. He held my gaze, a wicked smudge of a grin on his face, before turning back to his team.

"Alright, let's move!" Finn commanded, gesturing toward the double doors. "Hiro, pace yourself! Duchess, keep those arms pumping! And Artie, I want to see those buns up front! Let’s goooo!"

Finn took off out the double doors, bringing up the rear of the pack of elderly millionaires.

“Sir? Sir?”

I blinked, realizing the barista was waiting for me. I asked for an Americano—black, bitter—and a slice of dry toast.

I sat at a table next to a tall, floor-to-ceiling window that offered a panoramic view of the manicured grounds.

Outside, Finn was leading laps through the winding paths of the Grove. With each successive loop, his band of followers grew. More trustees were abandoning their breakfasts to join in.

It looked like a trail of geriatric goslings trotting behind their mother—their unbelievably hot, handsome, chaotic mother.

"Good morning, Mr. Smith."

I jumped. Mr. Choi was standing there, holding a plate of perfectly spherical melon balls. He’d changed his eyewear—now sporting a pair of thick, architectural, bright red circles that made him look like an owl with a design degree—and wore a crimson cashmere cardigan.

"Oh—Mr. Choi," I managed, staring at the frames.

"You don't run with your husband?" he asked, sitting down opposite me.

I moved my plate to make room for him, and glanced out the window. Finn was currently trotting backward, facing the pack, clapping his hands to keep the rhythm.

"He doesn't look like he's hurting for company," I said dryly.

We watched in silence for a moment as Finn jogged backward past the window, swatting the butt of a venture capitalist to encourage him up a small incline.

"Hmm. There must be almost a third of the trustees out there," Mr. Choi remarked. His voice was low, calculating. He adjusted his red glasses. "By my count."

I looked around. The café seemed barren. The other two finalists were eating with their own liaisons and a few trustees, while more of the decision-makers gathered at the windows to watch, or migrated outside to join an impromptu conga line behind my fraudulent husband.

"As I believe you know," Mr. Choi said, drawing my attention. His eyes were focused downward, turning over a melon ball. "All trustees can recommend candidates to the Awards Committee—to decide who wins the fellowship."

He looked left, then right, checking for eavesdroppers.

"Technically, the rubric is confidential," he whispered, his eyes wide behind the red circles. "I really shouldn't say..." He paused for dramatic effect, leaning so close I could smell his melon-scented breath. "...BUT, peer recommendations carry a significant weight.”

What Mr. Choi was saying hit me.

I’d told Finn the weekend was a popularity contest, but hadn’t realized just how quantifiable it was. And it was a calculus Finn was actively rigging. He wasn't just exercising. He was campaigning. He was securing the vote, one swat at a time—winning the fellowship for me, using nothing but sweat, charisma, and a pair of nylon shorts.

“That’s a lot of votes,” I said, looking at the approaching Finn parade.

"Indeed," Choi said, popping a melon ball into his mouth with a satisfied smirk.

The runners looped several more times before Finn finally led them back toward the building. The double doors burst open. Trustees flooded into the hall, red-faced, panting, and flushed with endorphins.

Their sandy running shoes tramped over the long, antique Persian rug that ran the length of the hall.

I winced. That’ll cost a fortune to clean.

I sighed. I began drafting my confession in my head. Mr. Choi, I regret to tell you that the man leading the run is a drifter I met in a men’s room...

"Mr. Choi," I said, steeling myself. "I have to tell you something."

Mr. Choi didn't look at me. He was watching the door.

Finn didn't come in with the pack. He stood at the open threshold, holding the heavy door with one arm, ushering them inside.

He’d stripped off the bro tank and tucked it into the back of his waistband, where it hung like a tail. He was shirtless, his skin flushed, the downy golden fur on his heaving chest dewy with sweat that caught the light of the crystal chandelier. He looked less like a morning jogger and more like a victorious Celtic warrior returning from a particularly sweaty raid.

"Shower time, bros!" Finn called out cheerfully, clapping his free hand. "Don’t stink up the joint!"

"Yes, Finn!" a chorus of trustees replied as they headed for the elevators.

I started to speak again, gathering my courage to blow the whistle. "Mr. Choi, I regret to tell you—"

"It must be difficult," Mr. Choi interrupted gently.

I stopped. "What?"

The trustees crowded around the elevator, laughing and high-fiving.

"Though the trustees are wealthy and have lived full lives," Choi said softly, "past a certain age… we often treat our own as if they are invisible. As if all that living was for nothing. As if they are just checkbooks with a pulse."

I sipped my coffee, absorbing the words.

"In that sense," Choi continued, turning to me, the red glasses magnifying his earnestness, "you and Finn must have made this weekend for some of them. Don’t you think?"

"I do," I admitted, a reluctant nod. "But Mr. Choi—"

Suddenly, I saw the tiny trustee—Arthur, who had been at my table last night—stumble into the doorway. He was lagging behind, and his foot caught on the edge of the rug. He pitched forward.

Finn moved faster than thought. He caught the man under the elbow, steadying him with an effortless grace, and then gently released him once he was sure of his footing.

The touch was brief—barely perceptible—but I was caught by the sight of it. Finn’s hand, large and strong, supporting the thin, papery skin of the trustee’s frail arm.

"Easy does it, Artie," Finn said, his voice carrying across the lobby. "You crushed that last mile. Absolute beast."

Arthur straightened up, beaming. “I do feel more… sprightly!”

Finn draped his arm around the older man’s shoulders, pulling him into his side like a teammate after a big game.

"Come on," Finn said, guiding him toward the elevators. "Let's get you some hydration."

As they passed the lavish breakfast buffet, Finn casually reached out his free hand and snatched an entire chocolate croissant from a silver tray, taking a massive bite without breaking stride.

"Mr. Smith?" Mr. Choi asked, a worried note in his voice, touching my arm. “I interrupted you.”

I blinked, shaken out of my thoughts. I felt a lump in my throat I couldn't name.

"Nothing," I whispered. "Thank you."

"Very good," Mr. Choi said, rising and smoothing his suit. "Mr. Rivera will be here by noon. Details are left at your door. Interviews start shortly."

Finn and Arthur reached the archway leading to the elevators. Before they disappeared, Finn glanced back over his shoulder.

He had a massive bite of the chocolate croissant shoved into his cheek, hisjaw working rhythmically as a goofy, utterly unrepentant grin spread across his face. He caught me watching from across the empty lobby.

He winked.

Then he kept walking, his arm still wrapped around the tiny millionaire, the bro tank tucked into his waistband swaying over his rear, loose-hipped and unbothered.

I swallowed hard, the line between truth and fiction blurring even in my own mind.

Ian, Ian, I thought, watching the empty hallway. What are you doing?

---

Chapter 13: The Pitch

I sat at the head of a long mahogany table in the Whitman Grove Library, facing the Awards Committee. They were the gatekeepers—their sole purpose was to interview the finalists and make the official recommendation to the board.

There were five of them. They weren't just wealthy; they were the gay founding fathers of the Pacific Northwest tech boom. Men who had written the code that ran the world in the nineties, cashed out before the bubble burst, and now spent their fortunes on art, philanthropy, and doling out fellowships. 

Unlike the dinner the night before, they wore the casual uniform of the region’s rich: high-end fleece vests, quarter-zip pullovers, and sensible denim. 

In contrast, Mr. Choi, sitting in the corner, wore his bright red architectural glasses scarlet cardigan, taking meticulous notes on a legal pad with a brightly dyed ostrich-plume pen. The feather bobbed with every frantic stroke of his hand.

"Mr. Smith," the Chairman began. He was a silver-haired man who had been one of the first employees at Microsoft, currently wearing a faded, forest-green zip-up. "Let’s discuss The Silver String. It is, ostensibly, a romance. But the context is… sobering."

I straightened my posture. This was the easy part. This was the truth.

"It is a romance," I said, my voice finding its footing. "But I wanted it to be an archive. I wanted to capture the dramatic, violent shift in what it meant to be a gay man in those specific decades."

The room was silent.

"We began in the shadows," I said. "The characters start there. We were invisible, and safety meant silence. And then..." My hands moved as I spoke, tracing the history in the air. "Then the lights turned on. But it wasn't a celebration. It was an interrogation."

The Chairman nodded slowly, his expression unreadable but intent.

"I wanted to chart that vertigo," I continued. "To go from being hidden and ignored to being despised. The sudden, terrifying visibility of the plague years, where the indifference of the government turned into active malice."

I took a breath.

"And in the middle of that vertigo, I wanted to place two boys. Just twenty. Meeting in a bar, falling in love as if the world wasn't burning down around them."

I looked around the table. There was no response, but I pressed on.

"But the book isn't about the tragedy," I said firmly. "It's about the response. It’s about how gay men stepped out of the shadows to care for one another when no one else would, when everything was against them. Then later—the way they fought for the right to have their loves recognized."

"What I wanted to show was how underlying it all," I said quietly, "was just love. Not heroism. Not a political statement. Just the terrifying, mundane, radical act of loving someone and being loved when the world tells you it’s less, but you know it’s more."

The room was completely silent. The only sound was the frantic, scratching skritch-skritch of Mr. Choi's ostrich-plume pen against his legal pad.

A man halfway down the table—a pioneer in early search algorithms—leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Let’s shift topics. Mr. Smith, if you were awarded the Whitman Grove Fellowship, how would you uphold our values?"

"Wholeheartedly," I responded eagerly, leaning forward. "This would be my life. No distractions. No romantic entanglements. Just the work."

"No entanglements?" asked the trustee in the Patagonia vest.

"Of any kind" I said firmly.

"Except for your husband, presumably," the Chairman chuckled.

I froze.

"What?"

"Your husband," the Chairman smiled, a thin, amused expression. "Finn. He seems... quite spirited. A force of nature, really. A distraction in his own right, surely?"

"Oh," I said.

The transition from the sacred truth of my work to the profane lie of my life was too sharp.

"Yes. Finn. Of course."

I smiled, but I felt the first dampness at my hairline. The air in the library seemed to suck out of the room.

The mahogany table didn't just tilt; it listed violently. The floorboards felt like they were turning into water. The room was no longer a library; it was a sinking ship, and I was unmoored.

The sensation from dinner returned with a vengeance.

My vision tunneled, and the faces of the tech millionaires stretched and elongated.

I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white, trying to keep from sliding off the earth.

"Mr. Smith?" The Chairman’s voice sounded miles away.

I dropped my head between my knees, gasping.

"Oh! Oh dear!"

Mr. Choi was suddenly there, his presence a flurry of crimson cashmere and bobbing ostrich feather.

“Mr. Smith…?”

“A minute,” I wheezed. “Just a—”

Mr. Choi reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of Altoids. He pressed one into my palm, and I threw it into my mouth.

"Is it your glycemic index?" Choi asked, his voice high and frantic. "Is it your heart? I once read—”

Even in my state, my head spun to face him. I was thirty. I exercised. I was the picture of health—what could be wrong with my heart?

"It's just nerves," I gasped, looking up at Choi, desperate for a lifeline. "This must happen all the time, right? The pressure?"

Choi froze. The giant ostrich feather stilled. He offered a pained, tight-lipped grimace and gave a microscopic shrug.

A cold splash of reality hit me. There was no rescue team coming.  I had to get this together myself.

"Mr. Smith—" the Chairman started.

I could hear the crunch of the Altoid between my teeth even if I couldn’t feel it. The peppermint explosion was sharp, burning, and exactly what I needed.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I inhaled. I forced the floor to stop spinning. I forced the table to be solid wood, not a life raft.

I sat up. I was clammy, my hair sticking to my forehead. I must have looked like I’d just seen a ghost, but I was upright.

"Apologies," I said to the committee, my voice trembling but audible. "Mr. Choi is right. My... glucose levels."

The Chairman looked concerned, but he checked his smartwatch.

"We have time for one last question, Mr. Smith," he said gently. "Is there anything you think is important for us to know? Anything we didn't ask?"

The room went quiet. Mr. Choi watched, his pen still.

I looked at them.

This was it. This was the off-ramp.

I had them. They were sympathetic. They admired my work. If I confessed now—if I told them I let a handsome drifter play my husband because I was terrified of being inadequate—I could spin it. I could make it a story about the crushing pressure of excellence.

I opened my mouth.

All I had to do was explain Finn.

All I had to do was explain the way he dropped into my car uninvited. The way he tossed cherry tomatoes into the air and caught them with a snap. His deep, booming laugh. The way he caught Arhur by the elbow—steadying him when he stumbled.

All I had to do was explain Finn’s dumb grin in the bathroom mirror, foaming with stolen toothpaste.

That was all.

I inhaled deeply. The air felt thin, but clear.

"No," I said.

I looked the Chairman in the eye.

"Nothing."

---

Chapter 14: Backstory

I burst into the room, tugging at the collar of my Oxford shirt beneath my wool sweater, gasping for air. All the way down the hall, a singular, sickening panic had been looping in my head: He’s gone. While I was in the interview of my life he was pilfering the place and  bolting.

I pulled the door shut behind me and leaned my weight against it. I closed my eyes for a second, bracing myself for the silence of an empty room.

Then, I opened them. 

Finn was still there.

He was sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed in nothing but his white briefs. The afternoon light filtering through the window illuminated the thick muscle of his chest and the broad, relaxed sweep of his shoulders. His skin was flushed and ruddy, the golden-red hair catching the light like kindling, trailing down his stomach and disappearing right into the stark white cotton of his waistband.

A completely unbothered, unapologetic, ruddy-skinned brute casually burning up the oxygen in my guest room.

And right next to the sprawling himbo was a delicate, floral china teacup resting on the nightstand.

He had a manila folder gripped in his enormous hand—one of several scattered across the duvet.

"Hey," Finn said, looking up, a goofy, blinding grin breaking across his face. "How’d it go?"

I pushed off the door. "What is this? What are you doing?"

"Market research," Finn said. He tapped a folder. "These guys are good, Ian. This guy from Brooklyn? A little heavy on the adverbs, but the pacing is solid."

I walked closer. I recognized the logo on the folders: The Whitman Grove Fellowship. And beneath that a bold CONFIDENTIAL. 

In the face of something plainly illicit I did what any competitor would do: I picked one up and flipped through the pages.

"These are the other finalists' applications," I whispered, horror dawning. "Finn... you stole them!"

"Don’t insult me," Finn corrected, shrugging it off. "They’re borrowed. They were on a table. I have hands. It's a gray area."

I snatched the folder from Finn’s lap. I scanned the first page. I read the opening paragraph of the submission. Then the second.

"Fuck," I breathed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "These are good."

"You're better," Finn said instantly.

I looked up. Finn picked up the slim book from the nightstand. The Silver String.

"You read it?" I asked, my voice small.

"Of course I did," Finn said, flipping it open to a dog-eared page near the end. "In the tub, while you were snoring.”

His eyes dropped to the page. 

"He didn't know how to save the world," Finn read softly, his thumb tracing the margin. "He only knew how to stay." His deep, rumbling voice stripped my prose of its usual neurotic rhythm, giving the words a different kind of gravity.

He looked back up at me, a warm, steady smile playing on his lips. "What kind of husband would I be if I didn't read your book?"

"The... non-existent kind," I murmured. “And I don’t snore.

“Who’s lying now?” he mugged.

I looked at him—really looked at him. The man was a criminal, a liar, and a chaos agent, but he was holding my book in a way that made my chest ache.

Then, I noticed something else.

Beside the fortress of pillows, my laptop was open. The screen was glowing blue in the dim light.

"How did you—" I started, pointing at the screen. I had a password. It wasn't complex, but it wasn't nothing.

I stared at his smug grin. I decided I didn't want to know. I really, really didn't want to know.

"Look at this," Finn said, scooting over and turning the laptop so I could see.

The browser was open with dozens of tabs.

"I’ve been looking them up," Finn said. "I wanted to know who we were dealing with."

I had done the surface work—the board positions, the net worth, the philanthropy. Finn went deeper.

Finn clicked a tab. It was a grainy black-and-white photo from a newspaper archive. It showed a group of young men linking arms in front of a government building, screaming at a line of police officers. In the center, young, fierce, and thin, was Sullivan. He was wearing a shirt that said SILENCE = DEATH.

"That’s Sully," Finn said softly. "ACT UP. 1989."

He clicked another tab. A local news article from a small town in Oregon: First Openly Gay Councilman Elected. The photo showed a young man with bad hair and a hopeful smile.

"That’s Mackie," Finn said. "Before he made his money. Regulation hottie, right?"

He clicked again. A color photo this time—a pride parade from the early nineties. A young man with glitter on his cheeks and very short shorts was sitting on someone's shoulders, laughing.

"And look at Artie," Finn pointed at the screen.

"He was a twink," I grinned. "A total baby twink."

He clicked one last tab. A photo of Hiro, sitting in a garage surrounded by servers that looked like refrigerators.

"He invented the software you use to write your stories," Finn said, shaking his head. "Total genius."

Finn scrolled through the images. They weren't trustees or even millionaires. They were just young guys—no older than Finn and I were now—with no idea what was coming for them.

Finn’s voice softened, losing its usual playful edge, taking on a kind of awe.

"You know what?" Finn asked, looking at the photo of Sullivan screaming. "Sully told me that he and his husband are the only guys each other knows from when they were young in the 70s. Because they lost all their friends. Every one of them. Can you believe it?"

Finn looked at me. His eyes were stripped of the con. He looked like a man who had just discovered a history he didn't know he belonged to.

I felt a lump in my throat. I reached out and touched the screen, tracing the image of the young, angry Sullivan.

"You know it’s too late to affect the decision," I told Finn gently. "The trustees are already voting. The interview was the last step."

"I know," he shrugged. He turned back to the screen, scrolling down the timeline of a stranger’s life. "Just curious."

"You’re quite the detective," I said.

Finn closed the laptop with a snap. He grinned, the mask sliding back into place, but the warmth remained in his eyes.

"We’re a good team, you and me."

"You and I," I sighed, correcting him automatically.

I stood up. I felt dizzy from the interview, the stolen folders, and the weight of the history Finn had just unearthed.

"I need to… take a shower," I said, unbuttoning the cuffs of my Oxford. "I need to wash the committee off me."

I walked toward the bathroom. I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror. I looked tired. I looked messy.

I paused.

I looked at Finn in the reflection. He was sitting on the bed in his briefs, surrounded by stolen files and an empty teacup. He didn't know I could see him. His eyes were locked on my back, tracking the line of my spine.

I watched him slowly bite his bottom lip, his chest rising and falling a little faster.

The air in the room suddenly felt dangerously hot. The lingering panic from the interview had burned away, replaced by a rush of blood in my ears.

There’s literature, I thought, my defenses completely disintegrating. And then there is THIS.

A ruddy-cheeked himbo with mossy green eyes who looked like he could devour me whole.

I slowly turned back around.

Finn's eyes snapped up to mine. The playful, chaotic energy was gone. His gaze was darker and completely fixed on me.

I shrugged the wool sweater off my shoulders and let it drop to the carpet, my fingers moving to the top button of my shirt.

"Unless," I said, my voice dropping an octave, my heart thumping an unfamiliar rhythm, "you want to join."

---

Chapter 15: Rising Action

I turned the handle, and the shower hissed to life, steam instantly filling the small glass enclosure. I stepped under the spray, letting the scalding water beat against the back of my neck, washing away the cold sweat of the library.

A moment later, the glass door opened.

Finn stepped in. He instantly filled the space, pressing me back against the cool tile. He was magnificent in the steam—his skin flushed with heat, water sluicing down the architecture of his chest and catching in the dark, wet copper of his body hair.

Without a word, he reached for the bar of verbena soap. He lathered his enormous hands and began to wash my shoulders. His touch was firm but surprisingly tender, his slick palms sliding down my arms, over my chest, scrubbing away the lingering traces of my flop sweat.

But even as I closed my eyes, leaning into his warmth, I felt a sudden, sharp spike of panic.

He’s going to leave, I thought, my heart seizing. The weekend ends, the con ends, and he vanishes back into the ether. I needed to anchor him. I needed to make him want to stay.

I took the soap from him, my hands shaking slightly, and washed him in return. I slid the lather over the solid core of his stomach. I kissed him right there under the spray—a wet, messy collision of teeth and lips, tasting of hot water and desperate intent.

Then, I sank to my knees.

The water cascaded over him, streaming down his torso and off the sharp cut of his hips. His cock was thick, pale, and beautiful against the dark, wet tangle of his bush.

I took him into my mouth.

I went deep, feeling the texture of him, the way his cock twitched and hardened—surging from partially to fully, aggressively stiff. He filled my mouth and I went deeper, feeling the broad head scrape against the back of my throat.

He shuddered and his massive hands dropped to my head. “Jesus, Ian…” he breathed, the words punching out of him, as his fingers tangled in my wet hair.

I cupped his balls with one hand, anchoring him, holding his thick thigh steady with the other while I swallowed him down.

My head corkscrewed as I moved up and down, wetting him with spit and shower water on the upstroke and plunging down again. His slicked cock went down more easily and I groaned as I swallowed him, vibrating on the thick shaft.

I heard something like a whimper above and I redoubled my effort—working harder and with more frantic focus than I had ever worked on a manuscript, drawing him into a deep throat fuck.

"Oh shit," Finn groaned, a rough, guttural sound low in his throat. "Ian, slow down."

He dropped back against the tiled wall, hands slapping at the wet surface, fingers clasping. A tremble wracked his thighs. "You're gonna tear me in half."

Stay, I thought with every movement, drawing him deeper, ignoring the plea. Stay. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth. Suddenly, his hands dropped from the wall and gripped my shoulders—pushing me back, his cock slipping from my lips. I leaned forward, chasing the heat, desperate to take him again, but his grip was unyielding.

"Ian," Finn gasped, his chest heaving. "Up. Get up."

He pulled me to my feet. I stood, blinking shower water from my eyelashes, my lips slick and puffy. As our bodies came together, our erections pressed flush against each other. Finn's was perfectly upright, trapped between us, throbbing so hard against my stomach that I knew he was just a few strokes away from release.

I reached for his waist, my hands sliding over his wet skin. I wanted to finish what I started. I wanted to lose myself in the heat until there was no room left for him to leave.

"Don't you want to?" I asked, breathless, pressing my naked body flush against his. “I owe you for the ferry,” I weakly joked, my voice bordering on a plea.

He kissed me hard, a wet, consuming smash of lips, and then pulled back just a fraction, his huge hands framing my face.

"Yeah," Finn breathed, resting his forehead against mine, water dripping from the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I want to. But I have to get to the tailor."

I chased his lips, trying to kiss him again, my brain entirely turned to mush by the heat and the desperation. "What tailor?" I murmured against his wet mouth.

"THE tailor," Finn said, his voice rough, fighting for control. He caught my shoulders, gently but firmly giving me a shake to break the spell. "Ian. Hey. For the dinner. We’re on the clock."

I froze.

The gentle shake rattled my bones just enough to wake me up. The clock. The haze of lust fell back instantly, leaving behind a cold, sharp reminder: I was clinging to a stranger. A drifter. A fraud.

I had spent the last twenty-four hours watching this man lie to a room full of brilliant, millionaires. I had watched him charm them, manipulate them, and wrap them completely around his finger with nothing but a bright smile, a flex and a fabricated backstory. And here I was, naked, wet, and panting against him, falling for the exact same scam. I wasn't his husband. I was just another mark.

"Right," I mumbled, my arms dropping to my sides. "Don't keep him waiting."

Finn squeezed my bare arm—a quick, firm touch that felt maddeningly like a goodbye. Then he opened the glass door and stepped out into the cooler air of the bathroom.

I stood alone in the shower. The water was still scalding, but the warmth had entirely vanished with Finn. I leaned the back of my head against the wet tile, closing my eyes, letting the spray hit my face.

I waited a minute. Two.

I turned off the water. The hiss died, and a ringing silence rushed back into the small room.

"Finn?" I called out, reaching blindly for a towel.

There was no answer.

I wrapped the thick white terrycloth around my waist and stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind me like a ghost.

"Finn, did you—"

The bed was smooth. The chair where Finn had tossed his clothes was empty. The battered canvas backpack that had been sitting on the floor near the wardrobe was gone.

"Finn?"

The manila folders—the stolen fellowship applications—were gone.

My heart thudded hard.

My laptop sat closed on the desk. Next to it was the delicate teacup, and fanned open on the bedside table, right where he had left it, was my copy of The Silver String.

It was almost as if he’d never been there at all.

"Finn," I whispered to the empty room.

---

Chapter 16: The Set Piece

I stood in the Grand Ballroom of Whitman Grove, near a towering arrangement of white calla lilies, clutching a flute of champagne hard enough to snap the stem.

The room was a swirl of older men hugging, laughing, and slapping backs—a reunion of people who had made fortunes they’d never expected, and lived long enough to enjoy spending them.

I was currently embedded with a gaggle of trustees—my assigned dinner companions for the evening. Mr. Choi had shepherded me toward them the moment I arrived, tapping the seating chart with a manicured finger and whispering, "Table One, Mr. Smith. The creative wing. Try not to mention Brutalism, they’re sensitive."

So I was mixing, nodding, and smiling until my cheeks hurt. But my eyes kept darting to the massive double doors, scanning the crowd for a messy shock of burnt orange hair.

"I hate the commodification of desire—don’t like the apps," the trustee next to me said, swirling his bubbles. This was Julian, a lithe, elegant man in his seventies wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo and a single string of real pearls around his neck. He turned to me, his expression apologetic. "I’m sorry, don’t mean to offend, if that’s how you two met."

"What? Oh no," I responded, snapping to attention. "We met… on a ferry."

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it, trying to weave some thread of truth into the weekend’s tapestry of lies.

"A chance meeting." Roger, a burly retired architect, nodded approvingly. "Now that’s very romantic. That’s a story you can tell your children."

I choked. I coughed, sputtering up a little of my drink into my napkin. The image flashed through my mind: sitting down a pair of hypothetical, cherubic children to explain that Daddy met Papa in the men's room of the MV Puyallup because Papa was a homeless grifter who needed a ride to a felony.

"We might need to change up some details," I wheezed, dabbing my mouth.

"I see!" Julian laughed, clutching his pearls.

"That’s how we used to do it, before the apps," Roger chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder so hard I almost spilled my drink again. "Signaling to one another, wondering is he, isn’t he? Will it even matter?"

"It wasn’t all great. Don’t get nostalgic," said the third trustee, Elias, a cynic with a sharp bob of white hair and a face carved from granite. He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "It was mostly just a lot of awkward eye contact and fear."

"True," Roger conceded. He looked at me. "So, was it love at first sight? Or lust?"

I opened my mouth to respond—to give the polite, literary answer—but a familiar, rumbling voice cut through the air behind me.

"A little of each, I reckon. But Ian took a little convincing."

I turned.

The air left my lungs.

It was Finn. But it wasn't the Finn of the ferry, or the Finn of the gym shorts. His jawline was clean, shaved to a marble finish. His shock of hair had been tamed into a stylish, swept-back coif.

And the tuxedo.

It wasn't black. It wasn't midnight blue.

It was red. Fire engine red.

It was a tailored, single-breasted jacket made of some silk blend that caught the chandelier light. It had satin lapels and a matching bow tie that blazed against his crisp white shirt. It was a look that walked the razor's edge between Mamma Mia! finale and high-fashion runway, and on Finn, it was devastating.

“I thought he was only gorgeous,” Finn continued, stepping into the circle, commanding the space with an ease that made me dizzy. “But it was his writing that got me, like…”

He mimicked shooting a bow and arrow. He clutched his chest, eyes rolling up, and staggered backward dramatically—nearly toppling a waiter carrying a tray of crab cakes.

"Like Cupid’s arrow!" Roger delighted, clapping his hands.

"Just like," Finn grinned, righting himself with a wink at the terrified waiter.

Forgetting we weren't alone, I reached out and tugged at Finn’s elbow, pulling him slightly closer.

"Where were you?" I whispered, my relief warring with my anxiety.

He turned to look me in the face, squinting slightly, assessing the change in my affect. 

"Yeah, sorry," Finn murmured, low enough for only me to hear. "My tailor bro—Rivera? He was setting me up, and the back kept splitting. Too much delts. You like?"

He did a little half-turn to show it off. As he turned, I saw the center seam of the jacket pull tight, the red fabric straining dangerously across the broad expanse of his back. There was clearly no material to spare.

I couldn't help myself; I reached out, running a hand over the smooth fabric on the brick of Finn’s shoulder, feeling the tension in the cloth.

"What’s not to like?" I said, my voice breathless.

All around us the ballroom was a sea of monochrome—a hundred men in black tuxedos, charcoal suits, and midnight blue velvet. 

And then there was Finn, in a blaze of scarlet and locks that were more like licks of flame.

The words slipped out before I could check them. "’It seems he hangs upon the cheek of night / Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear.’"

"Hey, Shakespeare! Right?" Finn asked, looking pleased.

When I nodded, yeah, Finn beamed. "Right on."

Good lord, he was adorable when he smiled.

A warmth spread through me—not just gratitude for the save. 

It was the feeling of being completely unmoored, drifting into the open ocean without a life vest, and maybe, just maybe, liking it.

Suddenly, the massive crystal chandeliers above us dimmed. They flickered once, twice—the gentle signal that cocktail hour was dead and the real event was beginning.

"Ah," Roger said, finishing his drink in one gulp. "The summoning."

"Saved by the lights," drawled Elias.

I grabbed Finn’s elbow and steered him toward the dining hall.

---

Chapter 17: Reversal

We took our seats at a table set with too many silver forks, and a centerpiece of lilacs and calamus flowers.

Mr. Choi materialized at my elbow.

He had changed again. The red architectural circles were gone. In their place, he wore a pair of delicate gold frames that swirled around his eyes like climbing ivy. They were pure Art Nouveau, with lenses tinted a soft, romantic violet. He looked like a time-traveling poet.

"Where was your honeymoon?" Mr. Choi asked as the salads arrived, peering through his violet lenses and clutching his napkin. "I was just reading in The Conscious Couple that early shared travel is the ultimate metric for long-term compatibility."

Finn looked me in the eye, a silent check-in.

"Greece," Finn answered confidently. "That’s where a lot of Ian’s novella came from."

He launched into a yarn about our courtship and an impromptu wedding on a Greek island getaway. He spoke of blue domes, white sand, and stolen moments, weaving in little bits of The Silver String—details about the light, the food, the specific shade of the Aegean. 

It wast terrifyingly seamless. He was so clever, so warm and convincing, that even sitting right next to him, I found myself lulled into half-believing there was something to it.

"I have to ask," Elias, the cynical trustee, interrupted from across the centerpiece. "Where did you get the idea for Persephone being into boys kissing?"

"Well, who’s not, right?" Finn quipped, flashing a grin. He was quick to evade the questions he couldn't answer.

"Tumblr girls," I stepped in, finding my rhythm. "The ones online who gobble up gay romances. In Japan, they’re called Fujoshi. Female fans of manga about romantic relationships between men."

"That’s right," Finn said softly. He cocked his head slightly, looking at me with a sudden, gentle fondness that felt entirely too real.

"It’s just the right touch," Elias added, nodding. "And her love of dirty jokes. Just the right humor at the right time in the story."

Finn and I stole a glance at each other over the rim of my champagne glass. The red tux blazed. The piano played on.

We might actually pull this off.

As the plates were cleared for dessert, Mr. Choi tapped me on the shoulder again. The gold vines glinted in the candlelight.

"Mr. Smith," Choi said, his voice clipped and official. "A word regarding... an administrative discrepancy?"

My stomach dropped completely through the floorboards.

This is it, I thought, the champagne turning to battery acid in my gut. They figured it out. My mind instantly flashed back to my gaffe in the library interview—staring the Chairman dead in the eye and swearing I had "no romantic entanglements of any sort," completely forgetting I was supposed to have a husband. They must have reviewed their notes. My bio. They realized the narratives didn't match. The con was over.

"Of course," I said, my voice tight.

I stood up and followed Choi away from the table on numb legs, past the laughing trustees, toward a quiet, velvet-draped alcove near the kitchen service doors. It was the only place in the room where the clatter of silverware didn't reach.

"Mr. Choi?" I asked, bracing myself for the eviction notice.

Mr. Choi looked left, then right. He adjusted his antique frames. He leaned in close.

"The committee has made a decision," Choi said, his voice barely a whisper. "Provisionally."

I nodded, staring at the floor, accepting my fate.

"I understand," I said quietly. "How long do we have? To pack, I mean. I can be out of the room within the hour. I just ask that you don't make a scene with Finn. He... he just wanted to help."

Choi stared at me through the violet tint. He blinked.

"Pack?" Choi asked, confused. "Why would you pack?"

"Because... you said…" I whispered, looking up. "That there was a discrepancy?"

"Oh, the discrepancy," Choi said. He shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. "I just needed to get you away, discreetly."

“And that’s what you came up with?”

“Mr. Smith, it’s the decision. THE decision. The Committee decided on who to recommend for the fellowship.”

I stared at him. The words floated in the air, refusing to assemble into a coherent sentence.

"What?"

Choi smiled—a genuine, beaming smile that tightened the corners of his eyes behind the gold filigree.

"Mr. Smith. It’s you."

I stopped breathing. The sounds of the ballroom—the laughter, the piano, the clinking glass—faded into a dull roar.

"Me?"

"Yes," Choi hissed, looking delighted. "The committee was unanimous. The trustees... they adore you. And your husband. And your work, of course."

I stood there, mouth slightly open. My brain was still trying to process the eviction I had been bracing for.

"I won?" I whispered, my voice cracking.

"You won," Choi confirmed. "In the morning, the Board will vote on the committee's recommendation. It's not official until then, but that's mostly a technicality. We want the winner to know. And the other finalists... it would be unkind for them to learn at the reading tomorrow when the announcement is made."

Choi’s face turned serious.

"But listen to me, Ian. The news is embargoed. Strictly. Even most trustees don’t yet know. If you tell a soul—if this leaks before the signature in the morning—it could jeopardize the decision. It is not final until the ink is dry."

I nodded frantically. "I won't say a word. I swear. I am a vault. I am a tomb."

I paused. I looked back at the table, where a ginger in a red tuxedo was laughing at something the architect said, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

"What about..."

Choi followed my gaze. He sighed.

"Finn? Of course," Choi winked behind the Art Nouveau swirls. "Marriage has its benefits."

I walked back to the table in a daze. I sat down, but I couldn’t feel my legs.

Trustees spoke to me, but it all sounded distant. I thought of the money. I thought of my new life. Five years to do nothing but travel and write.

And then I looked up. There was Finn.

He looked back, raising an eyebrow. You okay?

I waited as long as I could tolerate it: Exactly thirty seconds.

I kicked him under the table. Hard.

"Ow," Finn mouthed, eyes widening.

I jerked my head toward the exit. We need to go.

Finn didn't ask questions. He stood up, charming the table one last time. "Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us. It’s been a long day, and my husband looks like he’s about to faint from all this glamour."

"Goodnight, you two!" Roger called out, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

We walked out of the ballroom with dignified steps. But the moment the double doors swung shut behind us, the dignity vanished.

I grabbed Finn’s hand.

"Come on," I said.

We took off down the hallway, trotting and then running—past the portraits of dead poets, past the bewildered night staff. Our dress shoes slipped on the polished wood.

We approached the turn for the elevators, but Finn was moving too fast. He missed the turn, sprinting past the corner.

I reached out to grab the back of his jacket to steer him.

RRRRIIIP.

The strained seam, which had been fighting a losing battle against Finn’s lats all night, finally gave up the ghost. It split right up the middle, exposing a vertical strip of white dress shirt underneath.

I gasped, freezing in my tracks. I looked at the ruined, magnificent jacket, and heard a sound. Laughter. Bubbling up, snorting—hysterical.

It was me.

Finn stopped and looked over his shoulder, twisting his neck to see the damage. He looked at me, then at the split, then back at me.

"Well," Finn grinned. His face broke out into a wide, goofy grin. "It was nice while it lasted."

Our laughter echoed off the walls.

---

Chapter 18: The Payoff

We practically fell into Room 214, and Finn kicked the door shut behind us.

He was still wheezing with laughter, but I wasn’t. The adrenaline from what Mr. Choi had told me hit my bloodstream like a truth serum. I had won. My life was about to change. But all I really wanted was the chaotic, brilliant himbo who had charmed a room full of millionaires to make it happen.

I grabbed the lapels of his ruined red jacket and shoved us both against the wall. His back hit with a heavy THUD.

I crushed my mouth against his. He made a surprised, muffled sound in the back of his throat—a garbled, “Ian?” But as I groaned into his mouth, he kissed me back, his tongue hot and delicious. His arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me up onto my toes.

"What did you need to tell me?" he asked between smacks, his hands dropping to grip my rear.

"I need to get you out of these clothes," I gasped, biting the spot where his jaw met his throat. “Your jacket’s ripped.”

His head dropped back. "Right..."

I jerked the fabric off his shoulders. At the exact same time, Finn’s hands shoved my blazer off my arms, fumbling blindly with the buttons of my dress shirt.

The brilliant red jacket dropped to the carpet and I went for his collar next, cursing my clumsy fingers as I grabbed the red bow tie. I yanked at the silk to untie it, but instead of pulling loose, the fabric snarled into a tight, stubborn knot.

"Damn it," I hissed, picking frantically at the silk.

Finn’s fingers shoved in under mine, tugging at the tie. He turned his head right and left, but that only increased its resistance. "Hold on," he grunted.

He gripped his crisp shirt with both hands near the collarbone and ripped it open, tiny buttons popping and scattering across the carpet. Then, he grabbed the fabric at his chest and yanked down hard, tearing the collar out from under the stubborn tie.

He pulled it over his arms, tossed the crumpled shirt aside, and stood there bare-chested. His face was as scarlet as the discarded jacket. His broad shoulders and golden-furred chest heaved, the blazing red bow tie still perfectly snug around his thick neck.

I stopped dead and stared at him. The contrast of the formal silk against the hair curling up from his chest and jutting jaw was an aesthetic masterpiece. It was, much to my intense satisfaction, the hottest thing I had ever seen.

"Better?" Finn asked, his cheeks flaring.

"Infinitely," I breathed.

I threw my weight against him, tackling him. We pushed off the wall and turned, stepping backward until my legs hit the mattress. The springs groaned under our combined weight. We scrambled, shedding the rest of our clothes in a tangled blur—dress shoes kicked off, my shirt, his trousers, my slacks, shoving down our briefs and kicking them away until we were both completely bare.

Kneeling face to face, the lamp light caught the sharp contrast of a pale tan line cutting low across his hips, framing the thick jut of his cock. It was pale and bobbing and absolutely beautiful. My own erection was standing at absolute attention under his gaze.

We both froze, certain of our destination, but unsure of the route.

The great gay standoff.

"You top," we said in perfect, immediate unison.

We both paused, blinking.

"You bottom," we said simultaneously.

We stared at each other for one more second before trying a third time.

"Both," we said.

It was the vers curse—wanting to do everything, all at once.

"Both is good," he panted. "But who goes first?"

"My brain is on fire," I confessed, my hands trembling as I stroked his side. "My executive function is completely shot. Flip for it?"

"Say no more, Professor," Finn growled.

He didn't look for a coin. Instead, his huge hands clamped down on my hips, and he quite literally flipped me backward onto the mattress.

It wasn't exactly what I meant, but it worked perfectly.

He moved to kneel between my thighs. His thick erection was rigid, leaking a bead of pre-cum that glistened in the low light. He reached over to the bedside table and yanked open the drawer with a flex of his bicep. He pulled out the small bottle of Whitman Grove complimentary lubricant.

"'The Body Electric,'" Finn murmured, popping the cap. "Let's see if old Walt knew what he was talking about."

"Okay," I gasped, raising my hips. “But hurry.”

He poured a pool of the clear lube into his palm and nudged my legs wider apart with his knees. He leaned forward, hovering over me, resting his weight on one arm. His broad, gold-furred chest was just inches above mine as he reached down. His calloused fingers stroked my tight entrance before pressing one thick finger inside. I arched off the mattress with a deep, satisfied intake of breath. He added a second finger, stretching me with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made my toes curl.

"You're so tight," Finn rasped.

I reached right up and gripped the swell of his bicep, feeling the muscles bunch. My hips rose up to meet him, gripping his knuckles.

"Please," I groaned. "Just get in me."

He withdrew his fingers and hoisted my leg up over his shoulder.

"Hope you're ready to get wrecked, Professor," he murmured. His cheeks were flushed a deep, ruddy red, and his mossy eyes flashed down at me in the dim light.

I felt the blunt, hot head of his cock, angling just so, and then the push. He opened me, sliding in with one steady thrust.

“Fuck.”

I was breached; he was grinning. He reached forward, bracing one massive hand against the headboard right beside my ear, swaying over me as I instinctively wrapped my free leg around his waist, drawing him in closer.

His cock—the hood, the thick shaft, even the veined ridges—seemed to take up all the space in me.

“Fuckkk,” he chuckled. "You okay?" he whispered, his chest heaving, looking down at me.

"Don't stop," I begged, wrapping my leg tightly, locking him in.

Finn started to move. Slow at first, drawing almost all the way out before sinking back in. His jaw jutting forward, the veins in his thick neck standing out under the red bow tie as he buried himself to the root.

He picked up the pace, his hips snapping forward with an athletic, bruising intensity, setting every single nerve ending I had on fire.

The bed rocked under us, the headboard hitting the wall.

Squee-thud. Squee-thud.

I was lost in the sensory overload—the sight of his eyes boring into me, his chest swaying, the sheer, unrelenting weight of him pounding into me from above. The initial pressure of his cock had blurred into a profound pleasure—his withdrawals were torture and his returns were blinding.

“How’s that?” he asked, with a hard, punctuating thrust. “Use your words.”

My vocabulary was going up in flames, but I did my best.

"You’re the… barbarians... at the gate," I gasped, my hands clutching his sides.

Squee-thud. Squee-thud.

Finn let out a low, rough laugh. He dropped his weight down, crushing the breath from my lungs. He repositioned his hips and drove in, the new angle seeming to hit deeper than I thought anything could.

"That’s it," he growled right against my ear, the fine sandpaper of his whiskers scraping my cheek.

“You’re… the white whale…”

He drove his hips forward harder at that, his pace quickening.

Squee-thud, squee-thud, squee-thud.

The friction spiked—the heat emanated from my core, rising through my chest and rushing straight up behind my eyes like a thermometer about to burst. I was entirely out of control and could sense the coming, blinding release.

Squee-thud, squee-thud, squee-thud, squee-thud, squee-thud.

It felt too good, too fast. I had spent an entire weekend starving for this, and I wasn't ready for it to be over.

"Wait," I gasped, my hands flying up to grip his thick shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. "Finn. Stop. Stop."

His hips locked instantly—THUD!—freezing his full erection so deep inside me that it took every ounce of my willpower not to just completely give in right then and there.

Then he pulled back just a fraction, breathing hard, a bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose. "Shit. Too much? Am I hurting you?"

A breathless laugh erupted out of me. “Too much?” It was laughable.

"No," I panted, shaking my head. "God, no. You're just... you're about to make me cum. And I need… to get in you."

He looked down at me, his jaw working, the red bow tie stark against his flushed skin.

"Both?" he asked, his eyes gleaming with challenge.

"Both," I confirmed.

I pushed him upward, rolling us over in a tangle of limbs. I tried to stay attached, but Finn slipped out of me with a wet sound, leaving a sudden, hollow ache.

“Oh fuck,” I groaned, as his broad back hit the mattress.

Looking down, I saw his cock standing almost painfully hard. Glistening.

I fought my every impulse to straddle him, to slide him into me again. Instead, I grabbed the bottle of lube from the sheets. Finn wiggled his hips, pushing his back up against the pillows. His thick, muscular thighs fell wide, and he pulled his cheeks open, his entry lightly ringed with a crown of golden-red hair.

I was fast—slicking my fingers and working him open. His lips parted for a soft gasp, and his wet cock bounced lightly against his stomach. The second he was ready, I positioned myself between his thighs and his legs wrapped around me.

I gripped under his hips, and drove forward.

Finn's head snapped back, a guttural groan rattling from his chest as I buried myself in him. It was like being swallowed alive by a furnace, consuming me. My eyes pinched close, overwhelmed, until I felt his hips rise and lower, drawing the rhythm out of me.

I rested my hands on the headboard for leverage and slammed into him.

“Fuck yeah,” he grunted, pulling me in on the next slam.

The sheer triumph of pinning this massive, chaotic force of nature to the bed intoxicated me. I set a pounding pace.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

My hips snapping forward, plunging into him, as Finn’s strong legs locked around me. I wanted desperately to be deeper, to write myself into him.

"Tell me, Professor," Finn urged.

My stunned eyes ran over the red tie straining at his corded throat.

"You're the scarlet letter," I panted, leaning over him, my glasses knocked wildly askew as I drove into him. “The Tempest.”

I tightened my grip on the headboard for leverage, slamming into him. Finn reached down, his large hand wrapping around his own aching, dripping cock, stroking himself in time with my thrusts.

THUDTHUD. THUDTHUD. THUDTHUD.

"You’re the fall of Troy," I choked out, my vision blurring as the friction gathered at the base of my cock, my length throbbing in his heat. "Vesuvius."

“Fuck yeah,” he grunted, his grip on himself turning into a frantic blur.

He tightened around me, stripping away the very last of my defenses. The climax crested, completely out of control. Wildfire.

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD.

"You're the... Library of Alexandria... burning!" I cried out.

TH-THUD.

My vision completely whited out. I drove into him one final, devastating time as I released, hot and heavy inside him. My climax was the final trigger for Finn. He let out a raw, wordless gasp, his muscle-dense body bowing off the mattress as his own load splashed in white ropes across the red and gold of his stomach and chest.

I whimpered and collapsed forward, crushing him into the mattress. Our hearts hammered wildly against each other, a chaotic, biological dialog. The room was quiet but for our breathing.

We lay there for a long time, slick with sweat, cum, and the Grove lube, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Finn eventually shifted his heavy legs, and with a wet, slick sound, I slid out of him. His feet dropped to the mattress and he lazily wrapped his arms around my back to bring me flush against his chest. Our lips met—a deep, slow slide of my tongue into his mouth, and his into mine.

I gave the loose end of his tie the slightest tug, and the stubborn knot simply melted away, the two halves of red silk sliding apart. A breathy, exhausted snort escaped us both.

"So," Finn mumbled, his breath ghosting over my lips. "Not that I’m complaining about the hero's welcome, but what exactly set that off?"

Mr. Choi’s warning echoed in my head. Strictly embargoed. If you tell a soul, it could jeopardize the decision. I am a vault. I am a tomb.

And there was Finn, under me. A thief. A fraud.

Handing this chaotic, lying drifter the most important, fragile secret of my entire life was a crazy, irrational risk.

All I had to do was say nothing.

I tilted my head up and pressed my lips to his, grinding our spent cocks together. "I won. I got the fellowship."

Finn went completely still beneath me. He pulled his head back into the pillow, processing the words. His mossy green eyes snapped to meet mine.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“RIGHT ON!!” he roared, so loud I felt the vibration in my own head. He literally rolled my body off and to the side so he could scramble up. He didn't just stand—he jumped. His cock and balls swayed up and down, his bare feet sinking into the mattress as he bounced, buzzing with lunatic energy.

"MY HUSBAND IS A RICH AUTHOR!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. His booming voice echoed so loudly I swore it woke the portraits of dead poets out in the hallway. "HE IS THE BEST WRITER IN THE WORLD!"

"Finn! FINN!" I yelped, grabbing at his legs, pulling him down.

“Champagne, right? Let’s go!” he roared, reaching off the side of the bed for his scattered clothes.

"Shhhhh!" I hissed, pulling him back by his bicep. "It’s a secret! Just between us! Nobody else knows until tomorrow!"

Finn crashed, dropping back to the mattress, out of breath. A brilliant grin spread across his face.

"Well," he rumbled. "We gotta celebrate somehow."

Before I could say another word, he flipped over entirely, rolling onto his belly and burying his face in the pillows. His wide, muscular thighs fell apart, raising the pale, untanned curve of his ass cheeks, putting the flushed, inviting heat between them on full display.

He turned his head to look at me over his shoulder. "Get in me, Professor."

I smiled, reaching for the bottle of lube. Down in the ballroom, the trustees were likely sipping port and debating the future of American literature, but in our room the Library of Alexandria was burning to the ground, and I was going right back in.

---

Chapter 19: Falling Action

I should have known it couldn't be that easy.

There is no world in which Orpheus could make it out of the underworld with Eurydice; the narrative weight of the tragedy always snaps just before they reach the surface.

Reality returned with a sharp rap at the heavy wooden door.

I groaned, my body aching in spectacular, deeply specific ways—in my thighs and my insides—a physical testament to the fact that the Library of Alexandria had burned to the ground, not once but twice.

"Finn," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. "Get the door."

Silence.

I threw my arm behind me, and hit the pillows propped up against my back. 

I forced my eyes open and reached for the nightstand, where my fingers fumbled until they found my glasses. I shoved them onto my face, the room snapping into sharp, unforgiving focus.

The bed next to me was empty.

The knock came again. Louder this time.

I scrambled out of bed, grabbing the wrinkled slacks and dress shirt I had violently discarded the night before from the floor.

As I yanked the clothes on, my eyes darted around the room. It was clean. Too clean. The shredded white shirt that had been tossed on the floor? Gone. The ruined red tuxedo jacket? Gone.

I looked toward the corner for Finn’s battered backpack. And the copy of The Silver String that had sat on the nightstand all weekend.

Empty space.

Every trace of him had just vanished. The only evidence he’d ever been there at all was the lingering ache in my body.

I practically sprinted across the room, yanking the handle down and pulling the door open.

"Finn, where the—"

The words died in my throat.

Standing in the hallway wasn't my chaotic, moss-eyed himbo. It was Mr. Choi. The fanciful, architectural glasses he had worn to dinner last night had been replaced by no-nonsense, simple wire frames.

Standing right beside him were two men in crisp navy-blue uniforms, the shoulders of their jackets dark and damp with rain. Their silver badges caught the dim the hallway light.

"Mr. Choi?" I breathed.

"Ian. I apologize for waking you," Mr. Choi said quietly, his eyes darting briefly to my wrinkled, hastily buttoned shirt before looking away. "But we have a situation."

The lead uniformed man stepped forward, shaking a few drops of water from his uniform cap, his thumb resting casually on his utility belt. He had the weary look of a guy whose Sunday morning had just been entirely derailed by a downpour.

"Morning," the cop said, his voice a flat, authoritative rumble. "I'm Officer Frank with the Island Police. This is my partner, Officer Fitzpatrick."

"Police?" I managed to croak.

The hallway behind them tilted dangerously.

Mr. Choi cleared his throat. He looked at my pale face and my messy hair.

"Ian," Mr. Choi said in a careful, diplomatic murmur. "Perhaps it might be best if you joined us downstairs in the library?"

Five minutes later, I walked down the grand oak staircase on legs that felt like they were made of wet paper.

The library was gloomy and imposing in the stormy morning light. The walls were lined with centuries of literary history. It was entirely the wrong setting for a criminal interrogation. Standing back in the far corner, watching the proceedings with, was a cluster of the Whitman society trustees.

Mr. Choi gestured to a leather chair at the center table. I sat down.

Officer Frank and Officer Fitzpatrick stepped up to the opposite side of the table. Frank unclipped a manila folder, flipping it open.

"We're following up on a theft complaint filed with Washington State Ferries security two days ago. A few vehicles were hit on the Puyallup," Officer Frank said, sliding a grainy, color-printed still photo across the polished wood. "Ferry Security forwarded the CCTV footage."

I looked down. There he was. The ginger hair, the broad canvas covered shoulders, the unmistakable stride as he walked away from my Volvo, carrying a dark sweater and his backpack.

"Ran it through the local database," Officer Fitzpatrick chimed in, leaning over the table. "Got a hit."

Frank slid a second piece of paper over the first.

It was a grainy, black-and-white set of mugshots. The man staring back at the camera had shorter hair and a wilder, unkempt beard. The mossy green eyes that had looked at me with such warmth just hours ago were flat.

Under his chin, a booking placard read: LARRY BAKER.

Below that, a tidy, damning list of charges: Petty Theft. Criminal Trespass. Vagrancy.

"A half dozen cars were hit on that crossing, but your report was the only one that included an eye-witness description of the suspect," Officer Frank said, tapping a blunt finger against the mugshot. "We’re looking for a positive visual confirmation to move forward. Do you recognize him? Is this the man you saw?"

I stared at the picture of Larry Baker. 

I thought about Finn, ruddy cheeked and grinning, the red silk tie hanging at his collarbone.

I couldn’t square the two.

Even the name was so incredibly mundane. It sounded like a guy who rotated your tires or fixed your plumbing. It didn't sound like a muse in a ruined red jacket. It didn't sound like a leopard whisperer.

I looked up, meeting the cop's eyes with a completely flat expression.

"I've never seen that man before in my life," I said.

The lie came easily, maybe because in all the ways that mattered, it was true.

A silence fell over the library—the hush of a dozen highly intelligent people suddenly putting the puzzle pieces together. The ginger hair in the photo. The suspiciously absent husband.

Officer Frank frowned, looking like he wanted to press the issue, but Mr. Choi smoothly stepped in, turning the two officers toward the corner where the trustees were gathered.

"Gentlemen, as you have just heard, this is clearly not the man you are looking for," one of the trustees said. His voice dripped with polite dismissal, the underlying message clear: We are closing ranks. Get out of our house.

As the officers turned their backs, I slid my hand over the polished table, sweeping the CCTV still and the mugshot of Larry Baker right off the edge of the table. I folded them over and slipped them silently into the pocket of my slacks.

A moment later, Officer Frank turned back to the table, his brow furrowing. He patted the wood, looking under the manila folder. "Where did I... Fitz, did you grab the booking photos?"

Fitzpatrick patted his own pockets, looking utterly bewildered. "I thought you had them."

It was almost comical. They were a bungling lot, completely out of their depth in a room full of old, gay tech millionaires and one professional liar.

"Officers, we appreciate your diligence," the lead trustee said smoothly, guiding them firmly toward the library doors to prevent any further questions. "We will, of course, keep a vigilant eye out for any trespassers."

He reached into the inner pocket of his high-end fleece vest, produced a thick, cream colored envelope, and pressed it smoothly into Officer Frank’s hand.

"And the Whitman Society would love to make a generous donation to your Policeman’s Benevolent Fund for your trouble this morning."

Frank looked down at the envelope, weighed it for a fraction of a second, and tucked it discreetly into his uniform pocket.

Just like that, the unspoken agreement was struck. The ferry theft was officially a closed case. No witnesses, no suspects, and above all, no scandal for the Whitman Society.

Within sixty seconds, the doors closed, and the police were gone, leaving a very, very quiet library.

The trustees turned to face me, like a Greek chorus pushed one act too far. Mr. Choi clasped behind his back, his wire-rimmed glasses low on his nose.

"Mr. Smith," Choi said, the weight of the missing mugshot and the empty guest room settling on my shoulders. "Is there anything you would like to tell us?"

I sat there in the leather chair, the stolen mugshot of Larry Baker burning a hole in my pocket, my entire future hanging by a thread. I looked around the room at the people I had spent three days lying to.

The truth, when it came, was a relief.

---

Chapter 20: Narrative Physics

The reading was held in the solarium. The rain lashed against the glass roof, casting the room in a watery, gray light that felt appropriate for a funeral.

The trustees sat in rows of folding chairs, their faces set in stoic lines. There was no warmth left in the room, no "Atmosphere of Desire." The other two finalists sat in the front row with their legs crossed, their expressions hovering somewhere between pity and smug satisfaction.

By then, the gossip had filtered through the entire house. Someone had found a shredded dress shirt and a ruined red tuxedo jacket shoved unceremoniously into a trash bin near the service stairs—the physical remnants of a hasty, criminal exit.

My writer’s brain parsed the plot mechanics. The most obvious narrative was a conman’s survival instinct—the jig was up, time to run. Or perhaps the classic trope of a sympathetic staffer tipping him off as the police arrived.

I only knew I was left, reduced to a cautionary tale. 

I took the stage. I gripped the wooden sides of the podium. I adjusted the microphone, looking out at the sea of expectant, judgmental faces.

"Due to events I’m certain are now well understood to you all, I don't have a reading for you today," I said.

The room tilted. It was the same sensation from the dinner, and from the library. The floor listed to the left. The faces of the tech billionaires swam.

But this time, I didn't fight it.

I leaned into the tilt, stopped resisting. I finally aligned with the strange, off-kilter axis of the last three days. And slowly, the room righted itself.

"The man you met... Finn... he isn't my husband," I said, my voice carrying clearly over the sound of the rain. "He isn't even 'Finn,' really. And I didn't meet him in Greece. I met him in a ferry bathroom three days ago." A murmur went through the room. “It was a very tawdry affair.”

If you’ve ever wondered what the sound of a lie shattering is, it’s this: mostly silent, a throat clearing in a distant corner. A folding chair creaking.

"At first, I thought he was a con artist," I said, gripping the podium. "I thought he was trying to scam you and me both. I meant to get rid of him. I tried to cut him out of my story, but he kept writing himself back in."

I looked at the Chairman, then at the architect, Roger. I looked at the Duchess and his pearls. Then at Mackenzie, Sullivan, and Hiro. Arthur. Their expressions were flat.

"And then… you liked him. So much. You liked us. And I wanted the fellowship so badly. So I thought I could be the person I thought you wanted—the promising author with the charming husband. So I tried to cover the cracks with a white lie or two. No harm done, I told myself. As Finn said to me once: ‘What’s fiction but telling the truth with lies?’"

I looked down at my hands. They were steady.

"But here is the truth, without lies: I wrote a novella about enduring love, about bravery in the face of a hostile world. I locked myself in a room and wrote about a connection I didn't have the courage to risk, myself. I tried to lock the possibility out of my life. Until a drifter came into my life—by accident."

There was a slight echo: By accident.

"I want you to know Finn was honest, in his own way. I looked out at you all and saw rich trustees who would decide my fate. Finn saw the kid who faced off with the police at an ACT UP march, and the first openly gay Councilman of a small town in Oregon. The boy coding in a garage, not ready to be part of the scene. And the twink with sparkles on his cheeks at his first Pride parade.”

I looked out at the silent witnesses to my confession. “He walked into this terrifying place and made you laugh. So maybe you’ll understand this next part.”

I took a deep breath.

"When I found out last night that I was being recommended for this fellowship, my first thought wasn't about the money. It wasn't about the prestige, or even the writing. My absolute only instinct was that I needed to tell Finn. Sharing the most important, fragile secret of my life with a professional liar wasn't rational."

I looked at the finalists in the front row.

"But the myth of Orpheus isn't about a rational man. It’s about a man who walks into the dark because he simply can't do anything else. He knows the rules. How it has to end. And when he turns around and loses it all... he would still do it again. In every single retelling. I would do it all again."

The silence in the solarium was heavy, but I felt myself coming up out of it. I finally loosened my grip on the podium, letting go of the wood.

"I lied to you. And for that, I must forfeit the fellowship. I know that. But even now, standing here, I can't regret it. I think... I think Walt would have approved. He contained multitudes. He knew that sometimes you have to break the rules to find the poem."

I stepped back from the podium.

"Thank you for the opportunity. And for the best weekend of my life."

I walked off the stage. I didn't look at the trustees. I didn't look at the finalists. I didn't wait for the applause that wouldn't come. I felt lighter than air. My feet barely touched the stairs.

I walked straight out into the hall, grabbed my bags from where I'd left them by the foyer, and pushed through the heavy front doors.

Ten minutes later, I was outside.

The rain was coming down in sheets, a true Pacific Northwest deluge. I threw my overnight bag and my garment bag into the trunk of my Volvo. I got in, started the engine, and put the car in reverse.

I saw a figure in the rearview mirror, splashing through the puddles and waving frantically.

It was Mr. Choi. By the time he reached my car, he was drenched, holding a cream-colored envelope against his chest to protect it.

I rolled down the window.

"Mr. Choi?" I shouted over the drumming rain. "Go back inside!"

He leaned in, water dripping from his nose. His glasses fogged up instantly.

"Mr. Smith. You said something onstage," Choi panted. "You said Finn came into your life by accident."

"He did," I said. "He was a drifter. A thief. It was random."

"No," Mr. Choi said firmly, shaking his head, sending droplets flying. "I do not believe in accidents, Mr. Smith. I believe in the Law of Attraction."

I groaned, dropping my head to the steering wheel.

"Please, Mr. Choi," I said, exhausted. "Not a self-help book. I just tanked my career. I really can't do The Secret right now."

"Listen to me!" Choi insisted, adamant. "This isn't about positive thinking. It is about narrative physics!"

I turned to look up at him.

"You wrote a book about love. It occurs to me that you put that energy into the world, Mr. Smith. It occurs to me that Finn was not an accident at all. He was the response."

I lifted my head.

"The response?"

"To your novella," Mr. Choi said. "The universe reads what we write, Mr. Smith. Sometimes it writes back."

He thrust the envelope through the open window into my hand. It was a cream-colored envelope, rain-streaked, embossed with the gold Whitman Society logo.

"Good luck, Mr. Smith."

Before I could answer, Choi turned and ran back toward the mansion, a small figure skipping over the puddles, like e.e. cummings’s Pan.

I tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat—the seat where Finn should have been. I shifted gears and drove away, leaving the magic grove behind, heading back to the real world.

---

Chapter 21: The Rewrite

I sat on the upper deck of the ferry, watching the gray clouds fracture and drift apart. For the first time all day, the sun was breaking through. Weak shafts of light hit the deck, warming it.

A few rows over, a kid in a puffy jacket was glued to a smartphone, the volume turned up too high. The frantic sounds of Looney Tunes drifted on the salty breeze. It was the classic standoff: Daffy Duck, pushed to his absolute limit, ranting at a completely unbothered Bugs Bunny.

The duck sputtered, his lisp working overtime as he pointed an accusing, trembling finger.

"You're the plague! You are the straw that breaks my camel’s back! You're... you're dethpicable!"

I smiled faintly.

I had just spent a weekend rattling off my own litany of accusations to a chaotic, scenery-chewing drifter. I hadn’t even thought of dethpicable, though in the end, I too, had been completely, thoroughly defeated.

I can start over, I thought, watching the Seattle skyline get closer. I have a laptop. I have a brain. I can pick up the pen. I can...

“Right on.”

The voice wasn't coming from my head. It was too gravelly. Too real.

I looked up. There he was, standing at the end of the bench.

Finn.

He was in the battered canvas jacket, a yellow henley, and worn work pants. He looked exactly like a drifter.

He looked perfect.

He dropped onto the metal bench next to me.

"I missed you," I said. My voice caught on the words, cracking right in the middle.

Finn looked down at his muddy boots. "I know."

He scuffed his heel against the deck.

"Sorry about your fellowship," he murmured. "I didn't mean to blow it up."

"Yeah, well," I sighed, leaning back against the metal railing. "The Society frowns on fraud. They prefer their fiction in hardcover, not in person."

"I just wanted to help," Finn said, looking at me with those wide, earnest green eyes.

"I know," I answered.

I looked down at the plain gold band still on his finger—the mate to the one I was still wearing. The props of our performance now seemed lived-in.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the cream-colored envelope, and handed it to him.

I watched as Finn opened the flap, catching the check as it slid out. He squinted at it. Then his mouth dropped open.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Ian! You got it!"

"No," I laughed, shaking my head. "It’s ten thousand. It’s a stipend. Each of the losing finalists gets it for their time. It’s the consolation prize."

Finn wasn't listening to the nuance. He was staring at the zeros like they were magic beans.

"Ten grand?" Finn beamed, looking up. "Ian! You're rich!"

I laughed. We had very different definitions of rich.

"It’s not a fortune. But enough for a plane ticket and a stay in Greece," I said, looking out at the horizon. "Maybe two."

Finn went still. He looked at me, the check fluttering in the wind between his fingers.

"If you're free," I offered. "You can leave the country, can't you? Is there something I should know?"

Finn took it as a challenge. A confident grin spread across his face beneath his ginger whiskers.

"I know a guy in Tacoma," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I can get a passport made before this tub lands. Laminator in a van. Top quality."

"Oh, no," I said quickly. "Absolutely not. Island Police I can deal with, but I draw the line at Homeland Security. How about we do this the boring way? The legal way?"

Finn shrugged, shifting on the bench so his knee knocked against mine. "Okay."

"Besides," I added, keeping my face deadpan. "What would I tell the kids if you got in trouble?"

Finn blinked. He looked around the empty deck, then back at me.

"Kids?"

"Our kids," I explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A boy and a girl. She’s a handful," I continued, painting the picture. "She has your coloring. Absolute chaos. The boy has mine. He’s too serious. Reads too much. But I think they'll be okay."

"Oh," Finn said, nodding in agreement. "Right. Our kids."

He draped an arm across the bench back where I sat. "So, what do we tell them? About how we met?"

I looked at the city growing larger in front of us.

"The truth, of course," I answered. "We met on a ferry.” I waited a beat. “We had matching bags."

"Leopard skin?" Finn asked hopefully.

"What’s with you and leopards?" I asked, momentarily derailed.

Finn shrugged. "I just like leopards."

I sighed, quickly conceding. "Okay. Leopard skin. Check. But there was a mix-up."

"Huge mix-up," Finn nodded.

"A catastrophe," I said. "Mine had my manuscript. My only copy."

"And mine?" Finn asked.

"Yours had... gym clothes," I decided. "And a battered copy of Leaves of Grass."

Finn caught the thread of the story. "And I took yours by mistake. I opened it up and read the whole thing in one sitting. And I knew I had to figure out who you were."

"Classic," I said, utterly satisfied.

I looked at him. It wasn't the exact truth. It was a rewrite. It was a draft. But looking at Finn’s windblown hair flickering like a flame in the salty breeze, and the easy way we fit together, I realized it was the only version that mattered.

What's fiction, after all, but telling the truth with lies?

BING-BONG.

The loudspeaker crackled overhead, shattering the moment.

"Attention passengers, we are now preparing to dock at Colman Dock. Vehicle passengers, please return to your cars via the stairwells. For your safety, do not start your engines until directed by the crew."

Around us, tourists stood up, zipping jackets and gathering bags. The cartoon on the kid’s phone cut off.

Finn turned to me.

We sat there for a moment on the deck, suspended between the island and the city, between the story we had told and the life we hadn't started yet.

"So," Finn said. "What now?"

And for the first time in my meticulously planned existence, I didn't know at all.

END

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