Chapter 1: Partner in Crime
Two and a half weeks into his tenure at Axiom Communications, Alex had achieved the impossible: he was perfectly invisible.
He sat in one of the overflow chairs against the back wall of the glass-paneled conference room, positioned behind his supervisor and well away from the main mahogany table. He’d been brought into the business development review strictly to shadow as part of his new-hire onboarding.
His primary directive was to take notes, absorb the culture, and under no circumstances speak.
He kept his back straight, dark hair neatly in place, round glasses adjusted with two careful fingers. He’d spent twenty minutes that morning choosing the navy button-down and tailored chinos. Fitted enough to look intentional, but not desperate. He was slim but with a taper from his shoulders to hips in that effortless way that actually took years of effort.
He looked exactly like someone who belonged in the role of junior communications strategist.
No one seemed to have noticed.
The office had that studied Seattle casualness—reclaimed wood, expensive coffee, exposed brick. Davis, the CEO, stood at the whiteboard like a corporate magazine cover—as if the job had been designed around him, which in fact it had.
At forty-five, he was still in absurdly good shape, dressed down in a painfully expensive, perfectly draped cashmere knit polo and tailored trousers. He wore strings of dark beads around his right wrist—masculine, popular among men of a certain age. He radiated the kind of effortless, aggressively handsome energy that made people want to perform for him. He took branding seriously.
Davis tapped the whiteboard where STARLING ACCOUNT was underlined in two red lines.
“We aren't just looking at a bad Q3 if we lose our anchor client,” Davis said, his voice carrying the weight of a threat. “We're looking at a bloodbath for the entire fiscal year. Their contract is up for renewal, and Starling is already restless. We need to show them we’re not just reheating the same old, same old.”
Morgan sat perfectly still. The senior accounts executive. She had a precise dark bob and wore impeccable, high-end designer menswear tailored flawlessly for women. Sharp in a way that made Alex slightly nervous.
“The sharks smell blood in the water,” she said, tracing her stylus over her red lips. “Which means we need to be the faster sharks.”
"Exactly," Davis said, pointing the marker at her in grim agreement. "We need an edge. We need an in. Something that shows we actually get Starling."
Davis and Morgan went back and forth for a minute. Alex tried to project the right amount of interest. He nodded at the right moments. He even opened his mouth once, but Morgan spoke over him without noticing.
Taylor, Davis’s executive assistant and the second newest employee after Alex, tapped her iPad with a gentle ahem. Taylor was a recent transplant from a Utah town where the tallest building was a grain silo, and she approached keeping things on track as if it were a personal mission.
"And finally," Davis continued, clapping his hands together. "A quick housekeeping note. June is officially upon us. So, on behalf of leadership, I want to wish a very happy Pride Month to those who observe."
It was delivered with the same emotional weight as a reminder to clean the breakroom microwave.
"Thank you, Davis," Taylor said, pressing a hand to her heart. "It’s so incredibly important that we, as a corporate family, make space for visibility."
Morgan made a small, noncommittal sound. Others picked up their phones and began to stand.
Alex looked at the circle. He looked at the red underlined words on the whiteboard, STARLING ACCOUNT.
He was twenty-five, drowning in student debt, and terrified that if he didn't make an impression soon, he was going to be quietly let go before his probation period ended. He needed a foothold.
He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.
“I’m going to Pride.”
Seven sets of eyes turned toward him.
For the first time in eighteen days, the guy who was just there to shadow was suddenly the most interesting person in the room.
Taylor’s stylus stopped mid-stroke. Even Morgan looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised.
“You are going to Pride?” Morgan asked, like the words didn’t quite fit together in her mouth.
"Sure," he said, trying to project casual confidence. "Yeah. The energy is always fantastic. I'm going with Ryan."
"Ryan?" Davis asked, as if trying the feel of the name on his tongue. A warm, catalog-perfect smile spread across his handsome face.
This was the moment. The exact fork in the road of Alex’s career.
"Ryan," Alex chuckled, a fastidious, self-deprecating little sound that he had practiced in his bathroom mirror. "My partner, really. Partner in crime, I guess you could say."
Taylor let out a soft, delighted gasp, pressing both hands to her cheeks.
Davis’s expression shifted into something warmer. He glanced at the whiteboard, at STERLING underlined in red, then back at Alex.
“Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent.” He adjusted the cuff of his cashmere polo. “Okay, team. Let’s hit the ground running.”
Even the way the meeting broke up was with a different energy than usual. Davis gave him a firm, validating pat on the shoulder. Morgan lingered by the door, dragging her eyes slowly up and down Alex’s body, her bob swinging slightly as she offered him a slow, calculating smirk before sauntering away.
Alex walked back to his cubicle feeling strangely light.
He’d done it. He’d read the room, found the right moment, and landed the message. Right audience, right timing. Classic communications strategy. He’d even deployed the perfect, folksy idiom, Partner in crime.
He was practically Don Draper, just with crippling student debt and a better skincare routine.
He rounded the corner into his cubicle—a standard-issue, gray fabric-lined box that suddenly felt far too small for a man of his rising status. He dropped into his mesh ergonomic chair, already outlining a follow-up email to Davis in his head, ready to secure actual face time on the Starling account.
But first, he pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb poised to text Ryan, when a soft shadow fell over his keyboard.
Taylor stood at the edge of his desk, clutching her iPad to her chest like a shield.
“I didn’t want to make a fuss in the meeting,” she said, her voice trembling with sincerity. “But Alex… that was outstanding.”
Alex leaned back, offering a modest, self-effacing smile. “Thanks, Taylor. I’m just trying to get my footing here.”
She shook her head.
“Coming out in the corporate world in 2026 is an act of bravery.” She lowered her voice even more, leaning over his dying succulent. “I’ve been telling Davis we need to expand our hiring net. And now we have our very own gay. And partnered, too!”
Alex’s thumbs froze over his phone screen.
A sudden, low-grade sweat broke out across his back. His button-down instantly felt like a straitjacket shrinking against his skin.
"What?"
Taylor kept going, her words blurring together into a cheerful, terrifying hum about going shopping together. Something about getting him a better desk succulent. How incredibly nice it was to finally have another person in the office who gets it.
Alex nodded along, on pure autopilot.
He had done it.
He was finally visible. Finally someone at Axiom. The official gay guy on the team.
There was just one problem.
He wasn’t gay.
Chapter 2: Drop 'Em If You Want 'Em
Even standing on the edge of the parade route, Alex could feel the bass from the floats vibrating up through the soles of his sneakers. Music clashed from different directions, layered over screaming voices, whistles, and bursts of laughter. Bodies were everywhere—shirtless men, women in body paint, drag queens in full hair and makeup, groups of friends already half-drunk and screaming at each other over the music.
Alex stood near the barricade in black shorts and a plain white tee he’d actually ironed that morning. He felt overdressed the second he arrived.
Ryan was twenty minutes late.
When he finally pushed through the crowd, he looked like he always did—brick-colored hair flopping haphazardly over his forehead, a day’s worth of stubble along his jaw, and those same drowsy eyes. He wore an aggressively oversized basketball tank top and a pair of loose gym shorts that hung low on his hips, a basketball tucked casually under one arm.
He looked like he had taken a wrong turn on his way to a pickup game and somehow ended up in the epicenter of gay culture.
“Light rail was fucked so I walked,” Ryan shouted over the thumping bass of a passing corporate float. His voice was that familiar, gravelly baritone that always sounded like he’d just woken up.
Alex stared at him. “You missed Dykes on Bikes. And you brought a basketball?”
Ryan shrugged. “Got a game at four. Wanna come?” He looked up at the sun, his drowsy eyes squinting against the glare. “Jesus. It’s a sauna out here.”
Without another word, Ryan reached down, grabbed the hem of his mesh tank, and pulled it over his head. He used it to wipe the sweat from his forehead before stuffing it casually into the waistband of his gym shorts, making them ride a little lower.
Ryan was built like a retired collegiate athlete—broad in the chest and shoulders, but surprisingly slim in the waist and hips. Stripping off the shirt revealed a smattering of brick-colored hair spreading over his pecs and trailing all the way down his stomach.
The immediate vicinity of the curb seemed to take notice; a group of guys in matching neon speedos turned their heads as Ryan positioned the ball against his hip.
"Looking good, hoops!" one shouted as they passed.
"Thanks, man," Ryan said, flashing a lazy, effortless grin. He didn’t seem to register the attention as anything unusual.
Alex, suddenly feeling stifled in his freshly ironed tee, pulled his own shirt off and tucked it into the back of his shorts. He’d spent months curating a lean, sculpted physique at the gym, and he wasn't about to be the only guy in a three-block radius dying of heatstroke.
"Alright," Ryan yelled, leaning in so his shoulder brushed Alex’s to be heard over the brass section of a marching band of queer accountants. "Tell me again! Slower this time!"
"I didn't plan it!" Alex screamed back. He batted away a sudden, aggressive shower of branded hard candies thrown from Sweet Tooth Dental’s giant papier-mâché bi-cuspid. "I just wanted to contribute! I wanted to be part of the banter!"
"So you told them you were gay!" Ryan shouted, catching a rogue candy mid-air and pocketing it for later.
"I said I was going with my partner!" Alex corrected, gesturing wildly. "As in, partner in crime! A colloquialism, Ryan! But Taylor—the EA—gasped. And Davis smiled at me. Ryan, Davis smiled at me! For nearly three weeks he has looked at me like I was an HR paperwork mistake. The CFO held the elevator for me at the end of the day! Taylor brought me a matcha latte!”
Ryan let out a bark of laughter. "Alex, this is insane! Even for you! What happens when they find out you’re straight?"
Alex’s stomach tightened. He cupped his hands around his mouth to project over the noise. “I have to tell Davis on Monday! I’ll probably get fired! They’re a communications firm! The first time I opened my mouth in a meeting, I completely miscommunicated! How does that look?”
Before Ryan could answer, a deafening roar went up from the crowd down the block. A massive float shaped like a pirate ship was rolling slowly down the street, completely covered in men wearing tricorn hats, black rubber shorts and body glitter. The bass from their speakers rattled Alex's teeth. At the bow of the ship, a burly, hairy-chested man with a fake parrot pinned to his shoulder was screaming into a megaphone.
“SHOW US WHAT YOU’RE WORKING WITH, BOYS!” he bellowed, plunging his hands into a massive wooden treasure chest. “DROP ‘EM IF YOU WANT ‘EM!”
"Anyway!" Alex yelled, turning back to Ryan, desperately trying to maintain his train of thought despite the megaphone blaring directly in his ear. "I just needed to vent! It's a total disaster!"
Plastic strands of beads started flying toward the crowd. "HERE YOU GO, BOYS!" the pirate roared, pointing directly at them. "LET’S SEE IT!"
All around them, a sudden wave of guys at the barricade eagerly dropped their shorts to reveal their junk.
Ryan pushed his basketball higher under his left arm. Without breaking eye contact with Alex, he smoothly hooked his right thumb into the front of his loose shorts and pulled them down. His cock and balls spilled out—thick, heavy, and slightly paler than the rest of him, resting over a neat patch of brick-colored pubes.
“WELL, GOOD LUCK ON MONDAY!” Ryan yelled over the roaring crowd, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather.
Alex unbuttoned his own shorts and did exactly the same, unzipping and yanking his briefs down . His cock and balls came free—darker than Ryan’s, with neatly trimmed dark pubes above them. The afternoon sun hit everything.
Three heavy strands of purple and gold beads came sailing through the air. One smacked Ryan in the bare chest before he caught it, and the other two draped perfectly over Alex's shoulder.
“THANKS!” Alex yelled back.
More beads pelted them as the pirate screamed encouragement. It should have felt ridiculous, standing with their dicks out in the middle of the street while a galleon of men threw plastic jewelry at him, but somehow, doing this with Ryan was like doing everything else with Ryan—easy and completely aligned.
Ryan pulled his shorts back up, adjusting his junk with one hand, letting the rainbow beads hang over his chest. He wiped a stray smear of someone else's body glitter off his shoulder.
The afternoon heat was beginning to bake the pavement, and the pirate float rumbled down the avenue, taking its booming bass with it. The sudden drop in decibels left a hollow, high-pitched ringing in Alex's ears.
Ryan sighed, his volume dropping back to normal as the music faded slightly. "I'm parched. And I need to get out of this sun before I cook. Let's find a bar."
"A bar?" Alex asked, buttoning and zipping his own shorts back up. "It's one in the afternoon. You have a game at four."
"It's Pride, man," Ryan said, his drowsy grin returning. "Time isn't real today. Let's go get a drink."
Chapter 3: It’s My First Time
The Anvil was dark, aggressively air-conditioned, and already crowded even in the middle of the afternoon. The floor stuck slightly in places, and the air smelled of spilled beer and poppers.
They claimed a wobbly high-top in the very back, right next to the entrance of the back room. Insulated by the length of the building, the booming street bass was reduced to a distant, muffled thud, making it quiet enough to actually hear each other talk. Every minute or so, a guy would squeeze past the table and slip through the partially open door, while others emerged, casually adjusting their belts or wiping sweat from their foreheads.
The table was positioned at an angle that gave Alex a direct, practically unavoidable line of sight through the partially open door. He immediately shifted his stool and adjusted his glasses, fixing his gaze squarely on the sticky tabletop to actively avoid looking into the dimly lit shadows just a few feet away.
Alex wiped the sticky surface with a crumpled cocktail napkin while Ryan squeezed in against the bar to order two beers. Within three minutes of sitting down, at least five different guys had already tried to catch Ryan’s eye.
Alex leaned in, his voice low but clear. “The thing is, it’s not just a job. It’s the job. An actual, salaried communications strategist position. Do you know how hard it is to get one of those without a master's degree? I don’t want to have to go back to selling shoes because I got fired from my first real position after barely three weeks.”
Ryan slid one of the beers across the table to him without comment. "You're overthinking it.” He took a slow sip of his beer. "Just go in on Monday and tell the truth. You said a dumb thing. They'll get over it."
"You don't understand the corporate ecosystem,” Alex said, taking a draw. "You’re a custom carpenter. You build high-end cabinetry for wealthy tech bros. You’re not accountable to anyone but yourself.”
Before Ryan could answer, a muscular guy in a baseball cap and a mustache approached their table. He looked freshly pumped—huge pecs and shoulders that clearly came from months of gym work and some questionable supplements specifically to go shirtless at Pride.
His eyes tracked the broad, muscular slope of Ryan's shoulders and the smattering of brick-colored chest hair visible through the mesh tank, eventually traveling up to land on Ryan's unkempt hair and sleepy, witless look. He smiled like he’d already decided something.
"You look a little lost,” the guy said.
Ryan immediately slipped into character.
"Oh. Yeah," Ryan said, rubbing the back of his neck and offering a slightly dense smile. He looked around the bar as if confused by his surroundings. "It's, uh... it's really loud out there. It's my first time at one of these things, honestly. I’m just here to support my gay friend.” He nodded toward Alex. “Alex.”
The guy’s interest sharpened immediately—not on Alex, but on Ryan.
“First time at Pride?” he asked, already angling closer. “It can be a lot if you're not used to it. I’m Marcus. I can show you the back room. It’s quieter back there."
Ryan glanced at Alex, silently asking his buddy for permission to wander off. "Uh, maybe just for a minute. Let me finish my drink first, though."
“See you there,” Marcus said, indicating the nearby door with his chin before slipping inside.
The second he was out of earshot, Alex leaned over the table. "You’re doing it again.”
"Doing what?" Ryan asked innocently.
"The straight routine." Alex folded his arms on the table. "The wide eyes, the deep voice, the whole 'I'm just a lost, dumb heterosexual adrift in a sea of homosexuality' act. And your gay buddy? I'm not gay. And you're not straight. You’re a big gay slut."
Ryan leaned forward. "You know that, and I know that, but he doesn't know that. It's an established dynamic, Alex. Gay guys love the fantasy of bagging a straight guy who just wants to 'see what it's like.' Who am I to deny them that joy?"
"It's false advertising."
"It's ten minutes and a happy memory for everyone," Ryan corrected. He stood up and set his basketball squarely in the middle of the table. "Hold this."
Alex watched in profound irritation as Ryan rounded the table and followed Marcus through the door right next to him.
If he turned his head, he could just make out Ryan through the partially open doorway standing with his back against the dimly lit wall.
“Just relax, man,” Marcus murmured, his voice low and eager. “Let me show you how it's done.”
He dropped to his knees in front of Ryan and reached up, turning his baseball cap around, brim to the back. There was the rustle of heavy gym shorts being pulled down and the soft snap of an elastic waistband carried out into the quiet corner of the bar.
“I don't know,” Ryan stammered, his voice laced with a perfectly calibrated tremor of hesitation. “I mean, I've never… you're sure this is cool?”
“Oh yeah. I got you. Just lean back.”
Through the gap in the door, Alex could see Ryan’s hand shoot out and brace against the wall as Marcus pulled his cock out. A low, appreciative groan came from the back room—Ryan, fully committing to the bit.
“Oh my god,” Ryan’s voice drifted out, sounding slightly rough and overwhelmed. “You’re doing it. Oh fuck… I don’t even know what to do right now.”
Alex could hear the wet sounds clearly—the guy taking Ryan into his mouth, working him steadily with wet gulps. Ryan’s breathing was getting heavier. “Your mustache… tickles.”
Then Ryan’s knees buckled, and he caught himself, hips gliding forward.
“Jesus,” he groaned. “None of my girlfriends could ever take the whole thing like that…”
Through the gap in the partially open door, Ryan briefly shifted his gaze, locking eyes with Alex sitting at the high-top. Without missing a single beat of his heavy breathing, and with his face still fixed in an expression of overwhelmed straight-guy panic, Ryan gave his best friend a slow, perfectly deadpan wink.
Marcus reached up to secure his cap and redoubled his efforts, with a soft, throaty gag.
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. He had been listening to variations of this exact performance since they shared a dorm room in sophomore year. The breathy shock, the feigned inexperience, the endless loop of I've never let a guy do this to me.
He exhaled slowly and took a sip of his beer. He could see Ryan shift again, one hand coming down to rest on the back of Marcus’s head.
“Yeah… just like that,” Ryan muttered, his voice strained in that specific way he always used when he was playing it up. “Fuck, you’re good at this…”
Alex sat there in the quiet back corner of the bar, fingers strumming on Ryan’s basketball.
He could hear Ryan’s breathing getting rougher. The occasional slurp when the guy pulled off for air. Ryan’s low, punched-out groans as he fed Marcus more of his cock.
Alex emptied his bottle and settled in to wait for his best friend to finish getting a very loud, very enthusiastic blowjob.
Chapter 4: Aren’t You Full of Surprises?
Alex arrived at the office nearly thirty minutes early, carrying a Bellroy tech backpack and a heavy knot in his stomach.
His plan for the day was simple: march into Davis’s office, confess to the mix-up with professional grace. No blaming Taylor, no saying the room had jumped to conclusions. Just a clean, professional admission that he’d misspoken and created confusion.
Then he could resume his life as an invisible, entirely heterosexual, junior comms strategist.
He’d rehearsed the apology for an hour on the Peloton at his gym that morning, blinking sweat out of his eyelashes.
But he wasn’t naive enough to think a spoken apology would be enough on its own. He came prepared with a backup plan. Evidence that even if he wasn’t gay, he was at least a deeply supportive, culturally engaged ally.
It wasn’t doubling down on the lie. It was strategic risk mitigation.
He reached into his backpack and, one by one, pulled out the items he’d panic-bought over the weekend, arranging them on his desk with deliberate care.
First came the new ceramic mug featuring a geometric rainbow design. He placed it next to his monitor so it was visible from the main aisle. Next, he set a small Pride flag in his mesh pen holder. Then came the enamel Pride pin, which he pressed into the gray fabric padding of his cubicle wall until it sat straight. Deciding "straight" sent a mixed signal, he adjusted it to a jaunty angle.
Finally, he took out the framed photo.
It was from last summer—a spontaneous selfie on a sunny afternoon on the outer deck of a ferry to the San Juans. Alex stood in a tailored navy polo, looking neat and composed against the backdrop of the Puget Sound. Ryan was the one holding the phone, wearing a faded gray t-shirt, his brick-colored hair whipped into a messy halo by the wind. He was squinting against the sun but grinning, one arm over Alex’s shoulder. Two people so at ease together that they could fold right into each other’s bodies.
Alex angled the silver frame on his desk so anyone walking past could see it clearly.
There, he thought. See? I have real proximity to the culture. I’m not just pretending. I’m practically an honorary member.
He was still adjusting the angle of the frame when a voice cut through the quiet office.
“Well, well. Good morning, Comms.”
Alex startled so hard he nearly knocked the photo over.
Morgan stood at the edge of his cubicle. Her dark bob was perfectly smooth, and she wore a menswear suit in a muted leopard print. She took in the new additions on his desk, one by one, before her eyes landed on the framed photo.
She leaned over his desk, bringing the faint, intimidating scent of expensive perfume, and tapped the glass of the photo with a glossy red nail. When she tilted her head, the even cascade of her bob fell across the sharp angle of her cheekbone.
“Is this the partner?” she asked.
“That’s Ryan,” Alex answered, his voice cracking slightly. He was careful not to use the "P" word, though he wasn't ready to outright deny it. Not until he spoke with Davis first.
Morgan stared at the photo for a long, silent moment. "Pronounced V-taper with an highly marketable shoulder-to-waist ratio," she noted, her tone entirely analytical, as if evaluating a campaign asset. "Blue-collar craftsman aesthetic. Handsome... in a disheveled sort of way."
“He’s amazing,” Alex blurted out.
He didn’t mean to say it. The words simply started slipping out before his higher brain functions could catch them. A sudden protective reflex flared in his chest.
“He can do anything. He can crush a beer can against his forehead and then build you a mid-century credenza without using a single nail. He snores a little when he sleeps on his right side. But he… always smells exactly like cedar and clean cotton. And he never lets anyone walk to their car alone. We’ve been... well... together since college.”
He snapped his mouth shut, his teeth clicking together to physically trap the rest of the words. He was half a second away from telling her about Ryan’s opinions on geopolitics. But at least, amidst the whole ridiculous, accidental lie, that last part was true. They had been together since college.
Morgan’s eyebrows lifted, the corner of her mouth curving into a slow, calculating smirk. She looked at Alex in her leopard print in a way that made him feel like a baby gazelle on the Discovery Channel.
“Aren’t you full of surprises?”
She didn’t wait for a response. Her heels somehow didn’t click at all against the polished hardwood floor as she walked away, leaving Alex standing there with his pulse strangely racing.
He took a steadying breath and started to push his mesh chair back, ready to head toward Davis’s office before he lost his nerve entirely. But a blur of pastel motion suddenly blocked his exit.
"Oh my gosh!"
Taylor was standing at the edge of his desk, clutching her iPad to her chest. Her eyes were wide as they took in the new desk accessories. She gasped, dropping one hand to cover her mouth.
"The mug. The pin. Oh, Alex... the visibility of it all," Taylor whispered. "You are taking up your space today, and I am so incredibly here for it."
"Taylor, thanks, but I actually really need to go talk to Davis," Alex interrupted, trying to edge past her.
Taylor blinked, her supportive smile faltering for a microsecond. "Oh! Right. He said he wanted to see you, too.”
“He did? When?”
She tapped her iPad stylus against her chin, thinking for a second. “Ten minutes ago.”
Alex felt the floor tilt out from under him. "Ten minutes ago?"
"Don’t panic. I told Davis that queer time is a highly valid cultural construct," Taylor said earnestly, gesturing toward the glass-walled executive suites with her iPad.
As she went on, Alex stood frozen. He stared past her down the long hallway toward Davis's office. The safety net of the geometric mug and the silver frame suddenly felt entirely useless.
His fingers twitched toward his pocket. He pulled out his phone and fired off a text to Ryan.
If I don't survive this meeting, please clear out the bottom drawer of my nightstand before my mother gets to it.
He hit send. It didn't solve his impending unemployment, but it made him feel marginally less alone.
Three seconds later, his phone vibrated in his palm.
Ryan: Already sold it on Craigslist. Good luck.
Alex exhaled a shaky breath, shoved the phone back into his pocket, straightened his shoulders, and started walking down the aisle like a man heading to his own execution.
Chapter 5: A Hundred Percent Increase
Davis’s corner office was a monument to two things: mid-century modern furniture and Davis.
The walls were primarily glass, offering a sweeping view of the Seattle skyline, but the solid wall across from the mahogany desk was entirely dedicated to Davis’s glory days. It was a perfectly curated gallery wall of framed, black-and-white photographs from his early twenties, when he’d been a moderately successful Abercrombie & Fitch catalog model.
Everywhere Alex looked, a younger, eternally youthful version of his boss was staring back at him, wrestling a golden retriever on a beach or wearing nothing more than a tan line while holding a football, resting against a similarly underdressed model.
Davis was sitting behind his desk, leaning back in his ergonomic leather chair. At forty-five, he still had the masculine jawline and voluminous hair of his modeling days, though he had traded the shirtless look for custom-tailored shirts and slacks that fit like a dream.
"Alex," Davis said warmly as Alex hovered in the doorway. He stood up, gesturing expansively. "Come in, come in. Have a seat."
Alex gripped the straps of his backpack, his heart hammering against his ribs. This is it, he told himself. Deep breath. Professional grace.
"Davis, thank you," Alex began, stepping forward and taking a seat in one of the sculptural guest chairs. "There’s actually something I really need to clear up regarding Friday’s meeting—"
"Hold that thought," Davis interrupted, holding up a manicured hand. "I actually have something I need to tell you, too."
Alex blinked. "You do?"
"I do." Davis reached across his desk and picked up something flat. He walked around to the front of the desk and presented it to Alex with both hands. "Congratulations, Alex."
Alex stared down at the object now resting in his hands. It was a block of clear, frosted acrylic. Engraved at the top in a minimalist sans-serif font were the words Employee of the Month. Beneath that was a large, bold Axiom logo, and below that, in a much smaller font, Alex's name.
"That's amazing," Alex said, his voice coming out thin and reedy. He ran a thumb over the cold steel edge. "I mean... I've only been on the job three weeks. And I didn't even know we had an Employee of the Month. I haven't seen any other plaques around the office."
"We didn't until today," Davis said, waving a hand dismissively. "But when culture shifts, you have to pivot. I had the art department come in on Sunday to manufacture it."
"Sunday?" Alex gulped, looking closer at the engraving. "And... you had them put the... full-color rainbow flag emojis right around my name."
This was going to make coming out as straight a lot harder.
"Visibility matters, Alex. It matters to me, and it matters to Axiom Communications." Davis leaned back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. "Do you realize that by simply walking through our doors and living your truth, you have increased our LGBTQA-plus diversity target by one hundred percent?"
Alex swallowed dryly. Going from zero to one was technically a one-hundred-percent increase, but pointing that out felt like career suicide.
"I’m incredibly flattered, Davis," Alex tried again. As he adjusted his glasses, he could practically see that mocking look on Ryan’s face. Well? "But about the context of my truth—"
"Your truth," Davis cut in smoothly, "is exactly what we need for the Starling account. Richard Starling isn't just a finance whale, Alex. He's a very wealthy, very powerful gay man. And a little touch of the... Velvet Mafia, might be just what we need to close the deal. That's why we're putting you on the account."
Alex's jaw clicked shut. The Starling account. Getting put on it meant immediate job security, a guaranteed bonus, and actual, meaningful resume building—as long as Starling renewed the contract.
"The Starling account," Alex repeated softly. He immediately tried to pivot to his actual skillset. "I actually have some thoughts on their strategy. Their current messaging is leaning heavily into passive wealth transfers. If we shift the focus toward active strategic partnerships—maybe drafting a high-visibility co-funding initiative with a regional endowment or a public advocacy board—we can reframe their entire brand from a traditional portfolio manager to an active community—"
Davis wasn't looking at him. His gaze had drifted up and over Alex's head, landing on the gallery wall behind them. He was staring wistfully at a large, framed print of himself looking brooding and damp while standing next to a vintage surfboard.
"Bruce Weber," Davis murmured, his voice softening with genuine, profound reverence. "He really knew the business. The lighting. The texture." Davis sighed, tapping his chin. "But more importantly, he knew how to sell. Do you know, before that, Alex—no one had thought to sell menswear with photos of men who don’t even wear clothes. It's like selling cars by showing pictures of people walking. Selling hetero teens clothes with softcore homoerotica makes no logical sense, but it worked. Nobody captures the male form—or the consumer's wallet—quite like Bruce."
Davis snapped out of his reverie, turning back to Alex with a sharp glint in his eye. He leaned forward, resting his hands flat on the desk.
"Which brings us to Starling," Davis said, dropping his voice to a theatrical murmur. "Richard is in town this week. I'm taking him out to the golf course on Friday, and I'm bringing you with me. We'll show him our fresh, inclusive new face."
Alex blinked, the logistical reality momentarily overriding his panic. "I... I should probably clear that with my supervisor—"
"Don't worry about that. For now, you're reporting directly to me," Davis said smoothly, waving a manicured hand as if erasing the company's entire organizational chart.
He looked Alex up and down, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Alex's standard, neatly ironed button-down. "And Alex? Wear something... short-sleeved. Form-fitting."
Davis gestured vaguely at Alex's chest in his off-the-rack button down. "Show off those pecs. You've got a fine form under all… that. It never hurts to give the client exactly what he likes to look at. Let's use every asset we have."
"Right. Assets."
A fresh wave of horror washed over Alex. He's pimping me out. My straight boss is literally using me as gay bait.
"See you out there—Employee of the Month," Davis beamed.
Alex stood up, clutching his plaque.
He was supposed to tell the truth. He was supposed to walk out of here an honest, gym-going, salad-eating, HGTV-watching heterosexual man.
But as he looked at the gleaming acrylic plaque in his hands, and thought about his boss essentially handing him the Starling account on a silver platter, the thought of going back to being a silent, overlooked junior strategist was suddenly unbearable.
He couldn't tell him now.
He could wait. Just another day. Maybe two.
Better yet, he would tell him after golf.
Alex forced a tight, professional smile. "Thank you, Davis. I won't let you down."
Chapter 6: Unfinished Business
The private dressing room at Haven & Co. was quiet and expensive, larger than Alex’s first apartment. It featured cedar-paneled walls, a massive three-way mirror, and a plush leather bench where Ryan was currently sprawling.
He watched Alex fight for his life against a performance polo made of a moisture-wicking synthetic blend that clung to his torso like a second skin. Every hour he had spent at the gym, every mile on the Peloton over the last year was visible. So was his belly button.
“I look like a bratwurst,” Alex said flatly, pulling at the suffocating fabric around his ribs. Beside him, all of his rejected items were meticulously re-hung or folded into neat, sharp squares on the edge of the bench. “A gay bratwurst.”
“It’s not that bad,” Ryan said, pulling a textured store henley over his head and tossing it onto a heap of discarded clothes on the floor. He’d come along with no real intention of buying anything, but they’d been in the room long enough to cycle through half the racks, and he was already stripped down between changes to a pair of plain white cotton briefs that screamed standard-issue straight jock. “It definitely shows off your tits. Your boss will be thrilled.”
As Alex grabbed a handful of his own pec, testing it, the louvered door swung open and Julian, the personal shopper, glided in. He was late twenties, fit, sleeves rolled impeccably up his forearms. He barely glanced at Alex—his eyes locked squarely on the broad slope of Ryan’s shoulders and the smattering of brick-red chest hair across his chest and thighs.
Without a word, Julian handed Alex another impossibly tight golf shirt, then turned to Ryan.
“We just got this in for an exclusive trunk show,” Julian murmured, pushing a wooden hanger under Ryan’s chin, with a three piece suit in forest green with a subtle, rust-colored windowpane check. “It is a masterclass in tailoring. Honestly, it’s not something everyone can wear—but that rust accent is going to play perfectly off your hair. And I simply must see the drape of this wool on that ridiculous V-taper. No shirt required.”
Ryan offered an amiable shrug. He completely ignored the jacket and the trousers, sliding only the vest off the hanger. He slipped his arms through the armholes, leaving it completely unbuttoned over his bare chest, the structured green wool contrasting with his plain white briefs.
“Remarkable,” Julian breathed. He slowly backed out of the room. “I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said, entirely unfazed by the aggressive flirting. He rolled his shoulders to test the mobility.
He stood there in nothing but the open vest and his briefs, his bare limbs, broad shoulders, and package on full display. The three-way mirror gave too many angles at once. Alex’s eyes locked in for a second before he caught himself.
“It’s giving Tom of Finland leprechaun,” Alex muttered.
He stripped out of the first polo and tried another. It breathed a little better, and when he raised an arm and flexed, the sleeve stretched over the firm peak of his bicep. He was wearing a pair of Tom Ford black silk-blend boxer briefs that screamed high-end gay, sitting perfectly low on his hips, the expensive fabric doing nothing to hide the shape of him.
“So when are you going to come out as straight?” Ryan asked, turning to check out his ass in the reflection, the white cotton briefs cupping his glutes snugly.
“Soon,” Alex said under his breath, turning to see how the shirt hugged his torso. His abs were just visible, not saran-wrapped in. He turned to Ryan, almost giddy. “Oh, and get this—the head of the art department asked if I wanted to meet his wife. Whoever heard of a straight head of an art department? I’m rapidly becoming the office’s safe, gay confidant.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “But you’re not gay.”
“Give me a break. You play straight to get head. Why can’t I play gay for a little while to get ahead at work?”
Alex struggled to get the polo off his head, crossing the room just as Ryan turned, stripping out of the vest.
They collided.
The shirt dropped around Alex’s neck like a scarf. His hands instinctively shot out, catching Ryan by the waist to keep from tipping over. Ryan did the exact same, his huge hands shooting out to grip Alex firmly by the hips and steady him.
For a second, they were standing too close—both of them in nothing but their underwear, crotch to crotch, the unmistakable feel of Ryan’s cock through two thin layers of fabric. Alex’s eyes dropped all the way to Ryan’s collarbone before he forced them back up. Ryan didn’t move right away either.
Ryan’s gaze flicked down between them, then back up to Alex’s eyes. His grip tightened slightly, thumbs pressing into the bare skin just above the waistband of Alex’s boxer briefs.
“Whoa, Al—” His voice was a little rough.
He still didn’t let go.
“Spatial awareness,” Alex managed, his voice sounding entirely too thin. He didn’t move away. “My fault.”
Click.
The louvered door swung open, shattering the quiet.
Alex jerked backward, breaking apart from Ryan so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.
Julian stepped in, with a hanger held in two fingers over his shoulder. “I’m off the clock, but the vest was a triumph,” he announced, clearing his throat and zeroing in on Ryan’s legs. “And I hate to leave unfinished business. I have a private fitting suite right next door with much better lighting for the inseam. If you’d like me to… measure your inseam.”
Ryan paused. He slowly turned his head, looking back at Alex with a raised eyebrow—a silent request asking for permission.
Alex, still flushed, let out a long sigh and gave a subtle, eye-rolling flick of his wrist. Go ahead.
“Sure, man,” Ryan said, turning back to Julian. “Lead the way.”
He didn't even bother grabbing his jeans—just strolled out of the dressing room in nothing but his white cotton briefs, casually adjusting the front of his package as he followed Julian out the door.
A few moments later, the sounds started from the other fitting room.
Through the wall, Alex could hear the low murmur of voices—Julian’s coming through first.
“Fuck, you’re already so hard—”
Ryan’s rough laugh followed. “Yeah, well. You weren’t exactly subtle back there.”
Ten seconds later, a heavy thud shook the wall, followed immediately by a sharp gasp.
Alex closed his eyes.
“Jesus,” Julian whimpered.
Then came Ryan’s low, rumbling groan. “Yeah… just like that.”
The rhythm started almost immediately. Alex could hear the thud of a body hitting the wall again and again. The whole partition seemed to vibrate with it.
Alex sat down on the leather bench, still in just his higher-end black boxer briefs. The wall gave rhythmic jolts against his back. His head bobbed forward with the force of it.
Through the wall, Ryan’s voice came again, low and strained, but loud enough to carry.
“Al—I’ll be a minute here.”
Alex exhaled slowly through his nose. He lifted one hand and pressed his knuckles lightly against the shared wall, feeling every impact vibrate through the wood and into his bones.
“Okay.”
“Fuck yeah,” Ryan groaned from the other side, voice rougher now. “Do that again.”
Julian answered with another heavy thud against the wall. The rhythm picked up. Alex could feel every slam through the wall behind him against his spine. His head kept nodding forward in time with it.
He sat there and took it, knuckles still resting against the wood, head bobbing gently with the rhythm coming through the wall.
Ryan would be done sooner or later. It sounded like sooner.
Chapter 7: A Pathetic Retreat
The first tee box at the country club was bathed in the crisp, blinding light of a Friday morning.
Alex stood frozen near the golf cart, feeling the breeze off the lake slice right through his white performance polo. The shirt was doing exactly what it had been bought to do: wicking moisture, clinging to his ribs, and broadcasting the exact circumference of his biceps to anyone within a fifty-foot radius.
He watched Richard Starling step up to the tee.
Richard was sixty, his salt and pepper hair clipped short and completely unfussy. He had the build of a man who had spent decades lifting heavy things—broad through the chest and shoulders, thick through the arms and neck, a sturdy power-gut.
He wasn’t dressed in the baggy pastel golf uniform everyone else seemed to be wearing. He wore sharp navy performance slacks and a black polo that hugged his torso.
He looked like the kind of gay man who had survived this long by being bigger, louder, and meaner than anyone who tried to fuck with him—and had no intention of shrinking now.
Richard took a practice swing. The movement was a violent, mathematically perfect arc. He looked like he wanted to murder the golf ball.
"I despise this game," Richard said, not looking up as he adjusted his grip. His voice was a gruff, low rumble. "It’s a four-hour excuse for mediocre men to stand in a field and agree with each other. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a bunch of straight hedge fund managers whisper that I can’t drive a ball three hundred yards."
Richard stepped to the ball, swung with terrifying speed, and sent it vanishing into the distant center of the fairway.
Davis, leaning casually against his own titanium driver, let out a loud, appreciative whistle. He was wearing an unstructured linen polo that hung off his shoulders with effortless, Bruce Weber-esque grace.
"Incredible form, Richard," Davis praised, smooth as butter. "Though I’d expect nothing less. And I completely agree about the culture of the game. Axiom isn't interested in the old boys' club. We're looking to the future."
Richard handed his driver to a terrified-looking caddy and turned to look at Davis. His eyes, the color of wet slate, were entirely unimpressed.
"Are you?" Richard asked mildly, walking toward the golf carts. "Because from where I sit, corporate America is currently engaged in a rather pathetic retreat to the past. Half the firms in my portfolio are quietly scrubbing the diversity tabs off their websites the second a vocal minority on the internet complains."
Richard stopped near the cart, his gaze sweeping over the manicured green. "If people thought corporate pandering was insulting, wait till they get a full serving of corporate backtracking. I know exactly what it looks like when institutions decide we’re suddenly too much of a liability to stand next to."
A heavy, charged silence descended on the tee box.
Alex held his breath. He shifted his weight, desperately waiting for an opening to jump in and pitch his promotional strategy—the co-funding initiatives and strategic partnership framing he’d tried to bring up in Davis's office.
Instead, Alex saw a familiar calm settle on Davis's smile. Alex had only been on the job for three weeks, so he didn't know the CEO all that well, but he knew from years of watching Ryan exactly what a man looked like when he was smoothly improvising to save a deal.
Davis leaned back against his club, oozing a relaxed, unbothered confidence.
"We couldn't agree more, Richard," Davis said, his voice dropping into a smooth, assuring register. "Axiom doesn't back down. We aggressively champion our gay talent. In fact, look at Alex here."
Richard slowly turned his head, fixing his slate-grey gaze on Alex.
Alex froze. He tried to look relaxed, which only made his posture stiff. He offered Richard a tight, terrified smile.
"Alex," Davis continued, placing a heavy, patriarchal hand on Alex's shoulder, "is Axiom’s Employee of the Month. We awarded it to him just this week."
Alex’s stomach plummeted.
Richard’s eyes flicked up and down Alex’s frame. He took in the impossibly tight shirt, the rigid posture, and the sweat panic on Alex's skin.
"Employee of the Month," Richard repeated, his voice flat. "A title invented to make retail workers feel better about minimum wage. How... progressive of you, Davis."
"It's more than a title," Davis said, perfectly smooth, though his fingers dug slightly into Alex's shoulder. "It’s a whole initiative. We aren't just giving him a plaque. We are throwing a massive event for him. To really celebrate his... truth. And the community."
Alex felt the blood drain entirely from his face. A massive event?
"Is that so?" Richard asked, crossing his arms.
"Before the month is out," Davis promised, nodding with complete self-assurance. "A bash at the downtown office. Catered. Open bar. And we’re inviting all of our major clients. We’re willing to put it all on the line to honor our commitment to the LGBTQA-plus community." Davis slapped Alex’s shoulder again. "Right, Alex?"
Alex opened his mouth. His brain screamed at him to stop this. To pull the ripcord, tell the truth, and walk away with whatever dignity he had left in his Tom Ford underwear.
But Richard Starling was looking at him. The future of Axiom communications rested on his closeted straight shoulders, and with it his own future. He’d have to go back to selling women’s shoes in a department store.
For a second, Alex practically hallucinated Ryan standing right there beside them on the tee box. Ryan, with his windblown hair, wearing some ridiculous golfing outfit, just shaking his head in amusement.
Oh, buddy, the phantom Ryan muttered, before smoothly stepping up, driving a ball into the distance, and leaving Alex to deal with the mess.
Alex closed his eyes for a microsecond, letting the phantom image of Ryan fade. When he opened them, he forced his spine straight and locked his gaze directly onto Richard's.
"It's more than just a party, actually," Alex said. His voice started out slightly thin, but he cleared his throat and forced it into a polished, confident cadence. "It's about visibility. We want to make sure the entire firm—and our financial partners—understand that our commitment isn't conditional. It’s foundational."
Richard held his gaze for a long second, testing the weight of Alex's words. Then, a slow, appraising nod tipped his chin—a provisional acceptance.
"Well," Richard said, a small smirk finally touching the corner of his mouth. "It's rare to see a firm put its money where its mouth is. Send my assistant the details, Davis. I wouldn't miss it."
Richard turned on his heel, picking up his driver and striding purposefully toward his golf cart.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Davis leaned in close to Alex's ear.
"And that," Davis murmured, with smug satisfaction, "is how you do that."
Chapter 8: I’ll Call Robyn
When Alex made it back to the bullpen in the downtown office, exhausted, exhilarated, and still slightly damp with sweat under his performance polo, he found his desk completely empty.
For one heart-stopping second, he thought Davis had changed his mind and fired him on the drive back.
Instead, he’d been upgraded. The machinery of Axiom Communications had already moved at terrifying speed.
"Davis texted me from the road," Taylor said, a bright, manic smile on her face as she marched him away from the bullpen and toward the south wall of the office. There, basking in the natural light, was a pristine new cubicle—a motorized standing desk with an unobstructed view of the city skyline. His cheap mesh chair had been replaced by a sleek, ergonomic Herman Miller.
Scattered meticulously around the new monitors were the finishing touches: his geometric rainbow mug, the small Pride flag anchored in a pen cup, the enamel Pride pin resting on his keyboard, and the acrylic Employee of the Month plaque.
Placed dead center was his silver-framed photo of himself and Ryan, squinting into the sun.
Alex dropped into the chair. It adjusted to his lumbar spine like a warm hug. "Oh my god, that’s nice."
He pulled out his phone, staring blankly at the silver frame, and immediately fired off a text under the desk, telling him he survived.
Ryan: Did the polo work? Did the old guy re-up? And more importantly, did you finally come out as straight?
Alex: Coming out as straight is a process, Ryan. It’s a journey. I have to do it on my own timeline.
Ryan: My heart breaks for the marginalized heterosexual community. So what actually happened?
Alex: He hasn't renewed yet. But he's interested.
He waited a moment, and added:
Alex: I may have accidentally authorized a corporate Pride gala in my honor.
Ryan: Lmao. Buddy, you are in so deep.
"Sliders or mini crab cakes?"
Alex jumped, shoving his phone into his pocket. Taylor was standing at the end of his desk, tapping a stylus against an iPad.
"What?" Alex asked.
"For the catering," Taylor said, scrolling rapidly. "Davis gave me an unlimited budget, Alex. Unlimited budget. Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear those words? We’ve got the rooftop terrace booked for the last Friday of the month, and I am leaning hard into the theme."
She tapped her stylus against her chin, her eyes wide with earnest, small-town Utah inspiration.
"Obviously, we're doing signature cocktails with a hibiscus float, and an ice sculpture of the Axiom logo backlit with a tasteful rainbow," Taylor continued breathlessly. "But I was also thinking about live animals? Just to roam the party. I feel like peacocks are very... celebratory. Very visible."
"Peacocks?" Alex echoed, his voice hollowing out. "Taylor, isn't this a little... much?"
"Cancel the terrace." A new voice sliced through the air.
Morgan leaned against the glass partition of Alex’s new cubicle, a razor-sharp smile on her face. Her perfectly flat bob slid like silk against her jawline as she stepped into the space, flanked by two junior account coordinators carrying clipboards. She was wearing a dramatic, designer jacket and wide-leg trouser, textured with dark feathers.
Morgan folded her arms across her chest. "Book the Arctic Dome Room."
Taylor gasped, her stylus freezing mid-air. "The Arctic Dome Room? I’ll... see if it's available. It’s only two weeks' notice."
"Tell them it's for me," Morgan said smoothly, not even looking at her. "They owe me for burying the health inspector's report from their New Year's gala."
She turned her gaze onto Alex, her eyes scanning his new desk with thinly veiled calculation.
"Starling is one of our most important anchor clients," Morgan said, turning slightly to look out over the skyline. Framed against the glass and the city far below, the feathered silhouette made her look like a hawk perched high above its hunting grounds. She took a slow, deeply satisfied inhale. "If this little stunt is how we keep him, we’re doing it right."
"But it's just an Employee of the Month thing," Alex stammered. "Davis said—"
Morgan cut him off. "Davis thinks small. I want the Cascade venture capital bros there. I want the CFO of Horizon Tech. I want every single corporate heavyweight we can find in that room. When Starling walks in and sees the sheer gravity Axiom pulls—that we can casually assemble the city's elite just to celebrate—” she waved a palm at Alex—”this—he’ll be so impressed he'll renew his contract on the spot."
Alex felt the blood physically draining from his face. "Morgan, I don't know if we need to turn this into a whole—"
"We are weaponizing your ‘truth,’ Comms," Morgan purred, tapping her manicured nails on his pristine new desk. "Taylor, I'll send you the guest list by EOD."
"O-okay," Taylor stammered, frantically typing. "What about entertainment? I was thinking peacocks—"
"I'll handle the entertainment," Morgan said, ignoring the bird comment. "I’ll call Robyn. She’s just wrapping the North American leg of her tour."
Alex blinked. "Robyn? Like... the Robyn? The singer? Call Your Girlfriend Robyn?"
Morgan paused at the door. She took in a sudden breath, plainly offended. "What other Robyn is there?"
Morgan turned and glided away, followed by her minions.
Taylor finally exhaled, her stylus twitching against the screen. "Okay. So. Does Ryan have any dietary restrictions?"
"Ryan?" Alex asked weakly.
"Well, obviously," Taylor said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "Obviously, your partner, Ryan is coming."
Alex’s blood went cold. "My... partner."
Taylor leaned over the desk, admiring the silver frame next to his keyboard—Ryan’s messy halo of windblown hair, while Alex looked neat and composed against the water. "It’s giving golden retriever and black cat vibe. I love it. Does he have any dietary restrictions?"
Alex stared at her. The ambient noise of the office seemed to fade into a high-pitched ringing.
He looked down at his phone. The screen lit up with another text from Ryan.
Ryan: I'm looking at reclaimed walnut slabs. Tell your boss I’m billing him for it for my service as your emotional support fake-gay boyfriend actually gay best friend. Beers at 6?
Alex stared at the glowing text.
"No," he croaked to Taylor, his soul slowly leaving his body. "Ryan eats everything."
As Taylor added that to her notes, the words just started pouring out of him in a frantic ramble.
"He likes those... scallops, you know?" Alex breathed, holding up his hand, fingers curled to his thumb, mimicking the shape of the hors d'oeuvre. "Wrapped in bacon? He could eat them by the dozen. And he likes the little meatballs. Just... anything with meat, really. He's very... carnivorous."
"Scallops wrapped in bacon. Got it," Taylor said. Her eyes softened as she made a quick note on her iPad. "It is just so sweet the way your voice just completely shifts when you talk about him... it's really beautiful, Alex."
Alex frowned as Taylor walked away.
My voice doesn’t shift.
Then he looked back down at the glowing text message on his phone. The lie was entirely out of his hands now. The only thing left to do was figure out how to break the news to Ryan.
Chapter 9: A Genius Plan
Although they’d missed last week while Alex was frantically scouring Axiom’s employee portal to determine if accidentally claiming to be gay violated a corporate morality clause or technically constituted a hate crime, Friday nights were sacred.
It was the night Ryan didn’t go out carousing, didn't play the straight-acting himbo for free drinks and hookups, and didn't drag Alex to loud, sticky-floored dive bars. It was takeout, a six-pack of beer, and sprawling on Alex's apartment-sized sofa to watch a movie.
Tonight, with their bellies full of spicy Pad Thai and the coffee table cluttered with empty cartons and half-finished beers, they had officially transitioned to the sprawling phase.
Normally they were practically a knot of limbs side-by-side, but tonight they weren’t in their usual sprawl. Ryan was flat on his back, taking up the entire length of the cushions in long basketball shorts and an oversized white tee that somehow, infuriatingly, managed to show his build.
Alex was resting horizontally on top of him in faded sweatpants, his legs tangled completely with Ryan’s, his chin propped comfortably on Ryan’s chest. It was a comfortable, entirely platonic compression therapy they’d perfected over years of friendship.
“So,” Ryan said, his arm dropped behind his head. “Let me get this straight. Or, rather, let me get this gay.”
“Please don’t.”
“Your boss is throwing a corporate gala for you being Employee of the Month. The city’s heavy hitters will be there. And you told them I was your plus-one.”
“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds crazy,” Alex groaned, letting his forehead drop against Ryan’s sternum. “But I didn’t tell them. Taylor assumed. What would it look like if my partner of seven years wasn’t there? What are the optics on that? It’s just one night. Say you’ll do it. Say it. Say it. Say it.”
Ryan let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against Alex’s chest.
“And when do you come out as straight?”
“I have a genius plan,” Alex said, shifting his weight, tangling their legs further. “It’s a phased exit strategy. I can’t just drop the ‘I’m a hundred percent straight’ bomb now, it’s too jarring. So at the party I play the part of the office gay. But next month, I casually drop that I’m bisexual. I mean, I said you were my partner, but I never explicitly said gay.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow, looking down at him. “Bisexual.”
“Yes. It’s a bridge. It’s much more socially acceptable in this specific corporate scenario than being outright heterosexual. Then we have a very sad but very amicable breakup. Very Gwyneth Paltrow ‘Conscious Uncoupling.’ After an appropriate healing time, I might mention dating a girl. And then I just quietly slide into being non-explicitly straight. A year from now, this will all be forgotten.”
“You’re going to pretend to be bi to soften the stigma of being straight.”
“There’s going to be crab cakes. And those scallops with bacon. The ones you like.”
Ryan stared at him for a long moment, the blue light of the TV flickering across his face.
“Al,” he said flatly, “have you looked at me? I’m way too straight-passing. That’s literally my entire brand. They’re never going to believe I would date a twunk like you.”
“Oh yeah?” Alex asked, lifting his head and mock-flexing a bicep. The last year of working out had paid off. “You’re saying you don’t want a piece of this?”
Ryan laughed. He adjusted his weight on the couch, his thigh shifting warmly against Alex’s. When the laugh faded, he looked more drowsy-eyed than usual. His brick-colored hair was falling across his forehead and he was breathing through his mouth.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be your fake boyfriend. I’ll save your ridiculous career. But just for the scallops.”
“Thank you,” Alex breathed, dropping his head against Ryan’s shoulder in pure relief. “You’re the best fake-straight, fake-gay boyfriend gay best friend a guy could hope for.”
“But,” Ryan said, voice dropping slightly. He nudged Alex’s chin up with his knuckle, forcing Alex to look at him. “If I’m going to be your boyfriend in front of your fancy work friends, I need to know what I’m working with. I need a kiss.”
Alex blinked. “A kiss?”
“Practice,” Ryan said, a playful, challenging glint in his eyes. “Can’t go in cold, Al. They won’t buy it.”
Alex let out a nervous breath. It was a joke. It was just Ryan being Ryan.
Ryan’s face contorted. He tucked his chin back into his neck and let his eyes go vacant, patting Alex's ribs with his free hand. "I dunno, man," he mumbled, pitching his voice into a clueless frat-boy drawl. "I never kissed a guy before. Do we chest-bump first?"
Alex took a moment to look at his friend.
“Fine,” he said. “One practice kiss.”
Alex planted his hands on Ryan’s shoulders and wriggled upward until they were face-to-face. He tilted his head and closed the distance.
It was meant to be a playful peck. Just lips meeting lips.
But the second their mouths met, Ryan’s hand came up to cup the back of Alex’s neck, fingers sliding into his hair. The playful peck melted into something else. Ryan’s lips were warm and surprisingly soft, pressing firmly against Alex’s. Alex felt the solid wall of Ryan’s chest rising beneath him as Ryan tilted his head, opening his mouth just a fraction, the tip of his tongue brushing a slow, hot line against Alex’s lower lip.
A low, involuntary sound slipped out of Alex’s throat. He thought it was his. He wasn’t sure.
Without meaning to, he shifted his hips forward, and the line of Ryan’s cock pressed against his own through the fabric. Ryan answered by rolling his hips up once to meet him. Alex’s hands tightened on Ryan’s shoulders as he instinctively rocked back against him, chasing the friction before his brain could catch up.
They broke apart at the same time, both breathing harder than they should have been.
Ryan’s eyes were darker than usual, his chest rising and falling beneath Alex. There was no familiar smirk on his lips, just a slight wet spot. Alex could still feel the shape of him pressed against him, and the sudden, aching hardness between his legs was impossible to ignore. It felt like they stared at each other for a very, very long time.
“Not bad, Employee of the Month.”
“Right,” Alex rasped, lifting his hips up and off of his friend. “Practice.”
Biology, his brain rattled off. Friction. Biomechanics.
Ryan chuckled, low and warm like usual.
“Little spoon!”
With a sudden heave, he easily shifted Alex off his chest. He rolled onto his side, turning his broad back to Alex, and picked up the TV remote.
Alex settled in behind him automatically, one arm draped over Ryan’s waist. But now every point of contact felt loaded. His chest was pressed to Ryan’s back, their legs tangled, and—worst of all, his very hard cock was nestled right against the curve of Ryan’s ass.
He tried to shift his hips back, but there was nowhere to go. The couch was narrow and Ryan’s body was solid and warm in front of him. Every tiny adjustment only made his erection drag against his sweats, sending sparks through him.
He swallowed hard and stared at the back of Ryan’s neck, praying his anatomy settled down before Ryan thought it meant anything stupid.
It wasn’t working.
Not even a little.
Chapter 10: The Velvet Handcuffs
Monday morning arrived with a spring in Alex’s step.
For nearly three weeks, Alex had been the junior comms guy who refilled the printer paper and drafted press releases that were instantly rewritten by his superiors.
Since accidentally coming out, he’d become the office emotional support gay.
At 9:05, a senior copywriter dropped an iced coffee on his desk. It was good, too, just the way Alex liked it. At 9:30, a project manager stopped by his cubicle to ask his opinion about the latest episode of Drag Race. They agreed the Lip Sync for Your Life had been completely out of line.
The gay imposter syndrome was a problem... but the intoxicating drug of finally being seen in a corporate environment was impossible to resist.
At 9:45, Taylor called him into Davis’s glass-walled executive office.
They were already waiting for him. Morgan was leaning against the window in a silver-gray sharkskin suit. Her dark bob was so impeccable Alex was starting to suspect she had it precision-cut every single morning. Davis sat perched against his own desk, looking like a magazine cover in a slate-gray short-sleeved cashmere polo. Across from him, the framed photos of himself as a former Abercrombie model remained eternally homoerotic and youthful.
"Alex," Davis said. "Come in. Have a seat. Let's talk Starling."
Alex sat in one of the architectural guest chairs. His heart rate ticked up. He’d actually spent Sunday afternoon reviewing the account history, ready to prove he belonged in this room for reasons other than his fabricated sexuality.
"I was looking at the Q2 deliverables," Alex started eagerly. "If Starling wants an edge, I think we need to rethink the core messaging. Right now, it's a little safe. If we shift the focus toward active strategic partnerships—maybe a high-visibility co-funding initiative with—"
"Love the passion, Alex," Davis interrupted, holding up a hand with a warm, catalog-perfect smile. "Truly. But let's not get bogged down in the details right now. We need to focus on the strategy. What are you wearing to the gala?"
Alex blinked, his mouth still half-open. "What am I... what?"
"It’s about the optics," Morgan purred, her eyes on the cityscape below. "If you show up to this gala in Banana Republic and a pair of Cole Haan ‘dress sneakers,’ I will personally bar the door with my own hands. What exactly do you have in your closet?"
Alex swallowed hard, feeling completely out of his depth. "I have a nice suit." Desperate to prove himself, he went a little further out on a limb, gesturing toward her outfit. "Like yours."
Morgan paused. She slowly turned to face Alex with a terrifying gaze, like a shark sizing up a meal. "Like mine? Tell me, Alex, what exactly do you think of the cut on this ensemble?"
"It's very sharp.” He took a mental roll of the fashion dice and guessed. “Armani, isn't it?"
"Armani," Morgan said, her eyes dropping slowly to Alex’s scuffed oxfords as he instinctively tucked his feet under his chair. “Right.”
"Anyway," Davis announced, completely ignoring the tension. "I've asked Richard Starling to say a few words at the party. A toast to our Employee of the Month. A celebration of our diverse, vibrant corporate family."
His gaze went distant, already seeing the future.
“Think about it, Alex. We get Richard Starling on stage. Get him photographed holding a microphone under a backlit rainbow Axiom logo, publicly endorsing our culture, and by extension, Axiom itself. Once he does that, he can’t leave. It’s the velvet handcuffs. We lock him in with his own goodwill.”
Before Alex could formulate a response to any of it, Taylor sat forward, iPad open, stylus in hand. "And Alex, I’m putting together a spotlight profile on you and Ryan for the company newsletter."
Alex frowned. "Don't we have, like, a whole internal communications team to do the newsletter?"
"Normally, yes," Davis interjected. "But given the strategic importance of this particular narrative, I feel I can oversee it personally. We need the optics flawlessly controlled."
"Exactly," Taylor beamed. "Now you guys have been together for seven years, right?"
“Yeah, we met in college—”
Morgan pounced. "Seven years? That's a gay century. You must have a very... evolved relationship dynamic.”
“I like to think—”
Morgan cut in again. “Tell me, where exactly do you two summer? P-Town? Fire Island? Or are you more of a Palm Springs couple?"
"Uh," Alex said, his brain scrambling to come up with the right answer. "We usually just go to the Colman public pool. Or play basketball."
Taylor dutifully scribbled her notes.
Alex looked back and forth between them. He was having three completely different conversations at once—Taylor mining his relationship for a profile, Davis monologuing about hostage-negotiating a multi-millionaire client, and Morgan cross-examining him like a hostile witness.
"Now I know you said Ryan is super carnivorous," Taylor continued, completely oblivious to Morgan's scrutiny. "But what is he really like? I just want to make sure the profile captures his essence."
"Essence?"
Morgan stopped pacing. She leaned back against the credenza, crossing her arms, waiting for him to fail.
Alex knew exactly how to handle this. It was public relations 101.
"Oh. Well, Ryan is great," Alex said, offering a practiced, breezy smile. "He’s incredibly supportive. We’re just, you know, standard guys. We like to stay active. He's a carpenter, very hard worker. We just balance each other out."
It was the perfect, sterile corporate answer. He should have stopped there. He should have taken a sip of his iced coffee and let the meeting move on.
But thinking about Ryan bypassed all his rational filters, slipping into free association.
"But also," Alex heard himself say, his voice softening. He looked past Taylor, staring blankly at the glass of Davis’s office door. "He has these massive hands. Like, genuinely huge. You’d think they’d be clumsy with all the woodwork, but they’re so precise. And the hair on his forearms is this gold color.” He chuckled. “It’s actually really bristly when it brushes against you."
He kept going, the room around him seeming very distant. "He pretends he doesn't care about things, but if it's raining, he always forces me to walk on the inside of the sidewalk. He makes coffee that could strip paint off a boat, but he always remembers to leave an inch of room in my mug for oat milk. He's just... he's just... the best person I know."
Taylor took a sharp breath, and Alex came to.
Davis nodded solemnly. "Authenticity. You can't fake that."
He immediately turned to Taylor. "Package it for the newsletter. Put 'the best person I know' in a pull-quote. Overlay it on a candid photo of the two of them. It humanizes the entire agency. Starling will eat it up."
And just like that, the meeting was over. Davis pulled his tablet across the desk, and he and Taylor instantly began hashing out graphics for the newsletter, seamlessly cutting Alex out of the conversation.
Morgan didn't say a word. She pushed off the window and walked slowly toward the glass door. There she turned, running a long-fingered hand over the lapels of her silver jacket, looking down at it, and then back to Alex.
“Alex. It's Balenciaga, darling."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Alex's stomach dropped. Balenciaga, damn it!
He’d guessed wrong, like a straight rube, and she knew it.
As he watched Morgan’s silhouette disappear down the hall and listened to Davis and Taylor plan the details of his Employee of the Month profile, the new peril crystallized.
His phased exit strategy had been so simple: just play it gay through this gala, orchestrate a quiet transition to bisexual next month, stage an amicable breakup with Ryan, and then the heterosexual corporate future was his.
But Morgan was on to him, actively hunting for a crack in the gay mask, and if he and Ryan didn't know exactly how to convincingly play the part of devoted boyfriends, he’d be straight-outed by that barracuda in Balenciaga.
Chapter 11: Natty or Juiced?
They came through the door still breathing hard, both of them shirtless and gleaming with sweat. Ryan bumped the front door shut with his hip and then shot a lazy fadeaway, the ball landing right into the center of Alex’s armchair.
"Swish," Ryan muttered, looking pleased with himself.
The game had been brutal in the late-afternoon heat, and neither of them had bothered putting their shirts back on for the walk home. Ryan’s plain white shorts sat low on his hips, the waistband of his briefs just visible. Alex’s were a little higher-end—black, fitted, and clinging to his thighs.
Alex rolled his eyes at the ball taking up his chair and went straight to the fridge, grabbing two bottles of water and tossing one to Ryan without looking. Ryan caught it one-handed and cracked it open. He tilted his head back to drink. Water ran down his throat and over his chest, catching in the brick-colored curls before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.
“Alright,” Ryan said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hit me.”
Alex leaned against the kitchen counter, still catching his breath, pushing a damp lock of dark hair off his forehead. His round glasses were already slightly fogged from the heat.
“Morgan’s going to ask how we met. We say college. Freshman year. You played club basketball, I was in the comms program. We lived on the same floor.”
“Easy,” Ryan said. He stepped closer and shoulder-checked Alex lightly as he reached past him to set his bottle on the counter.
“What about our first date?”
"Halloween party, same year," Ryan projected, as he kicked off his chunky sneakers. "You were dressed as Clark Kent. Your tie was yanked loose so your costume showed and the tail of your cape was hanging out of your pants. Great bit. I was a lumberjack. I held your hair back while you puked up blue jungle juice, and then we fell asleep on a pile of coats in a bedroom."
"Okay, yes, good story," Alex said, bending over to jerk his own sneakers off. "Let’s go with that."
"It's literally what happened," Ryan laughed. "Keep going."
Before Alex could continue, Ryan’s drowsy gaze dropped, tracking the sweat glistening across the defined muscles of Alex’s chest and abdomen.
"If I'm your boyfriend, Morgan is going to interrogate me about your gym routine," Ryan said, pitching his voice into a playfully serious interrogation. "Natty or juiced?"
Alex rolled his eyes, shifting his weight against the counter. "I'm too small to not be natty, Ryan. You know that."
Ryan let out a soft, dismissive snort. His eyes lingered on the lean, sculpted lines of Alex’s torso. "You're not small, Al. You're aesthetic as hell. Believe me, if I'm supposed to be dating you, I'm definitely bragging about that."
A sudden flush crept up Alex's neck. He quickly crossed his arms over his bare chest, clinging to the rehearsal to steady his pulse.
“Right. Anyway. We’ve been together seven years. We balance each other out. I’m the one who overthinks everything. You’re protective as hell but pretend you’re not. You’re always late. For everything. And my mom says you're her favorite son.”
“And you,” Ryan countered, pointing a finger at Alex, “are the only reason my parents know I'm still alive because I never return their texts. Oh, and when I blew out my knee sophomore year, you carried my laundry down three flights of stairs to the dorm basement for a month.”
The reality of their history hung in the warm air of the kitchen.
"When you put it all together like that..." Alex began.
"It's not much of a stretch, is it?" Ryan asked, his gaze tracking up to meet Alex's. "Our families already think we're basically married. We already do everything a couple does."
"Just... without the..." Alex waved a hand vaguely.
"The sex," Ryan provided smoothly.
Alex swallowed. "Right. That."
Ryan dropped back against the kitchen island on his elbows, still breathing hard from the game. Sweat was running down the center of his chest. He looked at Alex with that lazy, half-lidded expression he got when he was completely comfortable.
“You’re making me sound like a good boyfriend,” he said.
“You’re okay,” Alex grinned. “I mean—for the story.”
Ryan’s mouth curved. He pushed off the island, snagging a damp kitchen towel off the counter. "Tease," he murmured, swatting Alex on the front of his shorts.
“Ow—not the dick,” Alex yelped, instantly grabbing the other end of the towel to yank it back.
Ryan’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, it’s like that?”
He lunged.
They grappled for a second right there in the kitchen, hands on biceps and ribs, both of them still sweaty and half-naked, laughing as they fought over the towel.
“No no no, give it to me—”
“Oh, I’ll give it to you—”
Ryan managed to hook an arm around Alex’s waist and drag him in hard. Alex's forgotten water bottle clattered from the granite counter to the floor, rolling away as their bare chests slammed together. Alex could feel the heat of Ryan’s skin and the damp slide of skin between them. One of Ryan’s hairy thighs slid between his.
They were both breathing hard again, but not from basketball anymore.
Ryan’s hand stayed on Alex’s lower back, fingers splayed wide. His thumb brushed just under the waistband of Alex’s shorts.
Neither of them moved.
Alex’s heart was hammering. He could feel Ryan’s cock starting to press against his hip through the thin fabric. His was doing the same.
Ryan’s voice came out low.
“Al.”
Alex swallowed. His hands had somehow ended up flat against Ryan’s solid chest. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose.
“Morgan’s going to ask… She… how we knew…”
Ryan leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t a practice kiss this time.
It was slow and deep, Ryan’s hand sliding up Alex’s back to grip the nape of his neck, thick fingers tangling in Alex's damp, dark hair. Alex made a soft, helpless sound against his mouth and kissed him back, his hips shifting forward without thinking. The friction of them grinding together through their shorts sent a sharp jolt straight through him.
They stumbled backward until Alex’s back hit the refrigerator door. Ryan followed, pressing in close, one hand braced beside Alex’s head while the other slid down to grip his ass. Alex’s arms went immediately around Ryan’s hips, pulling him in harder, demanding more.
They were both undeniably hard now, rocking against each other as they kissed like they’d been starving for weeks just to do this.
Ryan pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a rough vibration against Alex’s swollen mouth.
“This isn’t for Morgan, is it?”
Alex blinked, already breathless, his lips still brushing Ryan’s. His glasses were completely fogged.
“Morgan who?”
Ryan took the cue.
He grabbed Alex by the waist and walked them backward toward the bedroom, mouths locked together again. They bumped blindly into the doorframe, then the edge of the bed, until they finally fell onto the mattress in a tangle of sweaty limbs and hard cocks.
Ryan landed squarely on top of him, one thigh pushing firmly between Alex’s legs as they kept kissing, grinding, hands everywhere.
Alex reached up blindly and pulled his glasses off, tossing them somewhere toward the nightstand without looking. Then he grabbed Ryan’s face with both hands and pulled him right back down into another deep, messy kiss.
Chapter 12: A Lot More Complicated
They dragged their damp shorts and briefs off, kicking them somewhere across the room. Ryan kissed with the same appetite he did everything else—maybe more. He kissed Alex like he was trying to inhale him, biting his lower lip before sucking on it.
Alex was still trying to catch his breath when Ryan’s hand slid down between them and wrapped around both of their cocks, stroking them together in a tight, slow drag. The feeling of Ryan’s dick flush against his own made Alex’s brain completely short-circuit for a second.
Ryan broke the kiss just long enough to mutter against Alex’s mouth, “I’ve been waiting for you to stop being a coward about this.”
Alex let out a breathless, slightly hysterical laugh. “What? Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, rolling his hips again, slow and deliberate. “That’s the plan.”
Alex pulled back just enough to look at him. Ryan’s brick-colored hair was messy and damp against the pillow, his broad chest heaving. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, but there was that familiar, glittering spark of challenge in them. He nodded once.
Alex swallowed hard. “You want me to… fuck you?”
Ryan’s grin widened, lazy and filthy. “What do you think I’ve been waiting for?”
He reached over to the nightstand, pulled open the bottom drawer, and reached in. He fumbled blindly, his hand rooting around until he pulled up a bottle of lube. He waved it like a prize, his grin turning wicked. "Still haven't gotten rid of that Fleshlight in the back, huh? You're a packrat, Al."
“I never should have told you about that,” Alex breathed, his voice sounding entirely like someone else’s.
Ryan rolled onto his back, knees up. He squeezed a generous puddle into his palm and tossed the tube squarely onto Alex’s chest. Alex caught the bottle without thinking, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Ryan wiggled his hips into a better position, spread his long legs wider, and reached under his balls. He pushed two fingers into himself without any hesitation, his head tipping back slightly into the mattress as he worked himself open.
“Oh boy.” Alex’s hands were shaking slightly as he slicked his own cock, trying not to overthink it. Ryan’s head tipped up to watch him with that same lazy, heavy-lidded look.
“Fuck me.”
Alex came forward on his knees, dick in hand. Then Ryan lifted one leg and hooked it over Alex’s shoulder, the other wrapping securely around his hip.
Alex looked down to line himself up and pushed in, slow.
He pushed through the snug ring of muscle, and Ryan’s head dropped back against the pillow as Alex sank into him, a low, punched-out sound escaping his throat.
Alex had to stop halfway and just breathe through it, the tight, slick heat around his cock almost too much. Ryan’s body clenched around him, hot and demanding, and Alex’s arms actually trembled as he braced his weight over him.
“Jesus Christ,” Alex muttered. He forced himself to hold still. "Ryan? Are you okay? Does this... does it feel alright?"
Ryan let out a breathless laugh, his heavy eyes fluttering open to meet Alex's.
"Al," Ryan murmured, his voice a rough vibration. "It feels fucking incredible. You feel good." He reached up and grabbed Alex’s ass with both massive hands, rolling his hips up to pull him in the rest of the way until they were perfectly flush. “Now move.”
Alex started fucking him—short, careful thrusts at first, then deeper, steadier strokes as he found a rhythm. The wet suction sound of it filled the bedroom along with Ryan’s low, rumbling groans.
Ryan’s legs bracketed Alex’s hips, his heels digging into the backs of Alex's thighs every time he thrust in. Ryan shifted his grip; one of his hands stayed braced firmly on Alex’s lower back, pulling him tight, while his other hand moved to the bed, fisting the sheets.
“Harder,” Ryan muttered, his voice already half-wrecked. “Come on, Al. I can take it.”
Alex planted a hand flat on the mattress beside Ryan’s head for balance and gave him exactly what he asked for—harder, deeper, the headboard starting to knock a rhythmic beat against the wall.
Ryan took it beautifully, gasping and groaning loud and unselfconscious with every slam and every draw back.
“Fuck, yeah—” Ryan panted. “Just like that. Knew you’d be good at this.”
Alex let out a shaky laugh, his hips snapping forward. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Alex leaned down and kissed him hard. His hips kept pumping, his hand sliding up from Ryan's hip to grip his solid pec, his thumb dragging over the nipple. Ryan groaned straight into his mouth and kissed him back just as fiercely, his hips rolling up off the mattress to meet every single thrust.
They stayed like that—kissing messy and deep while Alex fucked him steady and relentless, drops of sweat falling from Alex’s chest onto Ryan’s. At one point, Ryan broke the kiss, his head tipping back into the pillow as Alex hit the exact right angle over and over again.
“Shit—right there. Don’t stop.”
Alex didn’t. He rose up, hands on Ryan’s legs, holding them against his chest and over his shoulders and kept the pace. He turned to kiss a hairy calf, watching Ryan completely fall apart underneath him. The flushed chest, the parted lips, that brick-colored hair sticking to his damp forehead. Ryan looked so gorgeous and so fucking familiar it made something twist violently in Alex’s chest.
Alex clamped one hand onto one leg and moved the other hand down between them, wrapping his fingers around Ryan’s cock, trying to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Ryan’s hips jerked up hard. Then Ryan’s own huge hand reached down to take over the motion, his fingers big enough to wrap around the base of both of them, though his own filled his grip admirably.
“I got it, buddy,” Ryan laughed, the sound melting immediately into a moan. “Just fuck me.”
“Yeah,” Alex muttered. “Okay.”
He gripped Ryan’s ankles tight and shoved in harder, bracing against the weight of Ryan’s legs. There was none of Ryan’s fake straight-guy talk here—no I’ve never done this before, no it's just practice. Just the raw sounds of his rising climax—the subtle tremble in his breath, the catch in his throat, the frantic speed of his hand working his cock.
Ryan’s hips pushed up sharply. His body tensed like a bowstring, his cock swelled, and he started spurting hot over his own fist and onto his stomach. He let out a long, low groan, his big hand clutching desperately at the pillow behind his head as the other milked his cock.
Alex had heard Ryan cum a thousand times over the years. He’d even seen it plenty, too. But he’d never known how beautiful Ryan would look like this—right here, in him, Ryan completely open and cumming for him.
The tight, milking clench around Alex’s cock dragged him over the edge a second later. He dipped to bury his face in the crook of Ryan’s neck and lost control. He shot deep inside Ryan with a broken groan. His hips stuttered mindlessly through the aftershocks.
Ryan’s hand clapped onto his back, heavy and grounding, holding him there.
“There you go, buddy, I got you.”
They held there, breathing hard, bodies stuck together with sweat and friction, Alex still buried to the hilt inside Ryan, cock twitching in him.
Ryan let out a low, deeply satisfied sound and ran his hand slowly up Alex’s damp spine. His other hand came up to gently guide Alex’s face back to his. They kissed again—slower and softer this time, tasting like salt and exhaustion.
Alex carefully untangled Ryan’s legs and pulled out. A small, involuntary tremor ran through him as he wiped the head of his cock against Ryan’s slick, gasping hole, leaving a streak of milky post-cum.
He drew back and just took in the sight of Ryan lying there—legs still sprawled, hole slick and used, cum cooling in the brick-colored hair across his stomach.
Ryan wiped the sweat from around his eyes with the pad of his thumb. “Whoooo. Jesus fuck.”
Alex fished around blindly for his glasses on the nightstand while Ryan punched two pillows into shape—one for each of them—and stretched out on his back, one arm tucked lazily behind his head. Not knowing what else to do, Alex dropped onto his side beside him. Ryan immediately pulled him in close, kissing the top of his head. Their bodies still radiated heat as their breathing slowly evened out in the quiet bedroom.
“Not bad for your first time fucking a guy,” Ryan muttered, his voice a warm, hoarse rasp. He ran his knuckles affectionately down Alex’s bare side.
Alex lay there, the late-afternoon June heat clinging to the room, the sweat cooling on his skin. He listened to the steady, thudding rhythm of Ryan’s heart right under his ear.
Being Employee of the Month just got a lot more complicated.
Chapter 13: Stupid
Ryan was sprawled on his back, taking up most of the mattress. He looked utterly blissed out, one arm tucked behind his head.
"Thai?" he asked. His voice had that warm, gravelly rumble, even mumbling. "I could eat a ton of pad see ew right now."
Alex stayed where he was for another minute, then slowly pushed himself up onto one elbow. He looked down at Ryan—still flushed, hair a mess, cum on his stomach—and felt something tight and uneasy settle in his chest.
“Ryan,” he said quietly.
Ryan glanced over at him, drowsier than ever. “Yeah?”
"I am so, so, so sorry," Alex said, trying to impart regret into every syllable. "I crossed a line. A huge line. And I am so sorry."
He was operating purely on Public Relations 101: get ahead of the crisis, control the narrative, and neutralize the fallout before it destroys the campaign. Or, in this case, his entire life.
Ryan’s lazy smile vanished. "Sorry? Al, what exactly are you apologizing for?"
"For taking advantage of the situation," Alex said, forcing the words out in a rush, desperate to get the spin out in the open. "The pressure this month. The lying. The... friction, I guess. I didn’t mean anything by it."
Ryan just stared at him, perfectly still.
Alex kept going, babbling to fill the awful silence. "And look, I know you. I know you hook up all the time. So I know this probably meant absolutely nothing to you—it was just one more fuck. But it was incredibly selfish of me to use you as a stress valve like that when you're just trying to help me keep my job."
Ryan didn't look furious. He didn't look angry at all. He just looked like Alex had leaned over and quietly hollowed out his chest with a spoon.
"Just one more fuck," Ryan repeated.
"Yeah," Alex nodded quickly, grasping at the lifeline. "I know I dragged you into something you shouldn't have had to deal with. I just—I don't want to ruin our friendship over a one-time stress reaction. It was dumb, and I was wrong, and I’m so sorry."
"A stress reaction," Ryan echoed softly.
He sat up, pulling the comforter up to cover his dick. He looked down at Alex, who was still lying awkwardly on his side.
“You think this was a stress reaction? You think I just went along with it because I’m easy and I fuck around a lot?”
“Yeah. Well. I mean… you do.”
"Alex," Ryan said, his voice dropping into a frightful quiet. "I have been in love with you since we were eighteen years old."
The air felt punched out of Alex’s lungs. "What?"
"Freshman year," Ryan said, gesturing vaguely with his massive hand. "Since the night I held your hair back while you threw up blue jungle juice. Since before this stupid job."
Alex shook his head, his brain entirely unable to compute the information. "We’re best friends. I mean… You... you never said anything."
"Because you're straight, Al," Ryan said, sitting up. His eyes were glassy and deeply tired. "You spent seven years telling me exactly who you were, and I believed you. So I shut my mouth, and I settled for whatever I could get. I settled for playing basketball, and fixing your sink, and... snuggling on your goddamn sofa... because being your friend was better than not getting you at all."
"You..." Alex stared at him, the reality of the last seven years completely shattering in front of his eyes. "But you hook up. All the time. Right in front of me even!"
"Yeah. I hook up," Ryan said with a sad, self-deprecating scoff. "But in seven years, why do you think I never had a serious boyfriend? Why do you think I was always available to help you move, or drive you to the airport, or listen to you panic about your career?"
Alex couldn't speak. He felt like he was suffocating.
"I thought I had learned to live with it,” Ryan whispered. “I really did. I accepted that you were never going to want me back, and I thought I could be okay with just being the guy in your corner."
Ryan swallowed hard, his broad chest rising in a shaky breath.
"But this month... having you… fuck… look at me like that. Talking about being together... really together… it fucked with my head," Ryan said, his voice finally cracking. "And today... I thought... I don't know what I thought."
Alex’s chest felt impossibly tight. He was completely losing control of the narrative, losing the one certain truth he had built his life around.
"But I'm straight," Alex said, his voice pleading, desperate for Ryan to just agree and put things back in their proper boxes. "Ryan, you know I'm straight. This whole month is just a performance. Today was just... a mistake."
Ryan was rocking back and forth, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. The silence that followed wasn't angry; it was just incredibly, devastatingly sad.
Alex reached out, his hand trembling as his fingers instinctively brushed the bristly, gold hair on Ryan’s forearm. "Ryan..."
Ryan flinched, pulling his arm away. “Don’t touch me. It makes me feel really stupid right now.”
He pushed the comforter back and turned his back to Alex. He stood up, bare-assed, his broad back tan and tapering down to his narrow waist. He didn't look at Alex as he walked over to the corner, picked up his basketball shorts, and pulled them on. He fished his keys out of the pockets, pushing the shorts down low on his hips as he did.
"Ryan, wait, where are you going?" Alex asked, his voice pitching up in panic.
"I don't know," Ryan said. He finally met Alex's eyes, and the sheer exhaustion in them made Alex flinch. "I just need to be where you aren't right now."
Ryan turned and walked out of the bedroom. A few seconds later, the front door of the apartment clicked shut.
Alex was left completely alone in his bed, the sheets smelling like sweat and sex and cedar.
And for the first time that month, the lie wasn’t his biggest problem. Ryan was.
Chapter 14: Cancel The Scallops
The boxes of rainbow lanyards stacked by the elevators made it plain: The Employee of the Month gala was thirty-six hours away.
Alex sat at his desk, shoving the crater of his personal life into a tight, dark box in the back of his mind. He was surprisingly good at compartmentalizing. It was a reflex he hadn’t realized he possessed until then.
He hadn't seen Ryan since Sunday afternoon. The toothbrush he kept in Alex's bathroom was dry as a bone. The basketball sat in the chair where Ryan had tossed it. Alex had sent four texts over the last few days—trying not to appear frantic, though he probably did.
I'm sorry. Can we talk? Please just let me know you're okay.
Nothing. No read responses. No typing bubbles. Just a deep abyss where his best friend used to be.
He hadn't gone more than 24 hours without Ryan since... ever.
He pulled up his keyboard and fired off one more. I just want to fix this. Send.
"Alex!"
Alex flinched instinctively as Davis leaned into his office doorway. He looked even more like a magazine cover than usual, perfectly groomed, white toothed. Dressed in a pink shirt and green chinos, pulled together with a brown summer sweater. Forbes Daddy. Casual CEO. Abercrombie & Fitch Reunion.
"Starling's flight lands tomorrow at noon," Davis beamed, slapping the doorframe. "You and this partner of yours ready to dazzle him? We want maximum visibility on our Employee of the Month."
Alex forced his spine straight. He plastered on the bright, eager smile he had perfected over… well, his whole life.
"Absolutely, Davis," Alex said, his voice terrifyingly steady. "We are incredibly excited. It's going to be a fantastic night for Axiom."
"That's what I like to hear," Davis pointed a finger at him, winking. "See you in the trenches."
As soon as Davis disappeared, Alex’s smile collapsed. He rubbed his temples, pulling up the 3D renderings of the Arctic Dome Room on his monitor, clicking mindlessly through pictures of the sprawling, glass-domed event space.
His phone buzzed. He snatched it out so fast he nearly knocked over his iced coffee.
Ryan: I can't do tomorrow. I'm sorry. Good luck with the whole thing.
Alex stopped breathing. No heart emoji. No dirty joke. It was so agonizingly polite, so terribly final. It was the text you send to an acquaintance, not to the person who had known every corner of your life for seven years.
A sharp pang hit him right behind the ribs. His immediate, muscle-memory instinct was to text Ryan back. Ryan was the person he went to whenever the world tilted on its axis. But now Ryan was the one doing the tilting.
It was entirely too much to survive on a Thursday morning in a corporate bullpen. He needed someone who would understand. Someone who would give unquestioning sympathy.
He stood up, smoothed the front of his stiff button-down shirt, and walked out of his office. He navigated the buzzing bullpen until he reached Taylor’s command center.
She was typing a mile a minute, frantically color-coding the VIP seating charts.
"Taylor," Alex said weakly
"Oh Alex! If you're here to ask about the floral arrangements, I am already decolonizing the centerpieces," she said rapidly, her eyes never leaving the screens. "And yes, your overnight suite just downstairs is confirmed. King bed, city view. Everyone's keys will be at registration, so absolutely no one has an excuse to leave the dance portion of the party early and go straight to bed."
Alex froze. "The... dance portion?" He gave up. This was bigger than him. "No," he said instead, bracing his hands on her desk. "It's about table four. My table. You can free up a seat." He forced a hollow, casual tone. "Take Ryan off the chart."
Taylor looked from her monitor to Alex. "Honey, is everything okay? Because this—" she waved a hand over his slumped posture "—is giving Call Me By Your Name end credits."
"Yeah, completely," Alex lied, waiting for her to see that he was falling apart. "Just an out-of-town work emergency. Totally not a big deal."
"Right," Taylor said, her eyes narrowing.
"If it’s not too late," Alex added, looking down at his shoes, "you can cancel the scallops. You know the ones with—"
"The ones with the bacon wrapped around them," Taylor confirmed. “I know.”
She rolled her chair an inch closer, resting a hand on his forearm. "Alex," she whispered. "Are you... is your heart in a safe space right now?"
"I'm fine," Alex lied again.
"Now I’ve got three minutes for this,” Taylor said gently, but firmly. “You don't have to protect him to me. You know you're my first grown-up gay, but I knew some boys in high school. It was not Glee. I can't imagine the trauma of being gay in a heteronormative world… being in it and not being of it, as they say in Sunday school. It must have been so hard for them to not be able to share their truth even with themselves. If Ryan is too closeted—"
Alex blinked. “No—that’s not it. He’s not—”
Taylor reached out and grabbed his hands, putting them together between hers as if in prayer. "I just want you to know, I am holding space for you, Alex," she said with religious fervor. "And if Ryan isn't ready to live in his authentic truth in front of all those people, if he is still protecting his heart, that is his journey. You can't drag him out of the closet before he's ready. Now I want you to focus on your own journey, because as Gaga taught us, you are beautiful in your way, 'cause God makes no mistakes.” She gave a final, concluding nod. “You’re on the right track, baby."
Alex opened his mouth, but looking at her earnest, completely misguided face, a terrifying reality sank in. Taylor couldn't help him. Nobody here could. There was no pivot, no talking point, and no well-intended song lyric that was going to fix this.
He was entirely on his own.
So, he grabbed the feeling and shoved it into a mental box. He taped that box shut, put it inside a heavier box, locked that box in a steel crate, and shoved the entire thing into the deepest, darkest closet his mind had to offer—a space he had spent his entire life keeping for any feelings that were too big.
"Now I have got to check in on my wildlife order," Taylor said, spinning back to her monitor. "You have no idea how hard it is to get a few peacocks. I mean, they are just gay chickens!"
“Thanks, Taylor,” Alex heard his own mouth say. “Good talk.”
As he pushed off of Taylor’s desk, he caught sight of Morgan, leaning against the glass wall. She was wearing a razor-sharp, double-breasted suit, steel-gray fabric. She didn't say a word, but the tilt of her head said it all.
Alex was bleeding out in the water, and the shark had just caught the scent.
Chapter 15: A Dangerous Game
The Arctic Dome Room was a sprawling, architectural marvel taking up the entire top floor of a high-end downtown hotel. Perched high above the Seattle skyline, a spectacular blue and white glass dome arched over the massive floor, filtering the late-June sunlight into shifting marble patterns across the venue.
The Axiom team was inside for the final walkthrough, their voices swallowed by the sheer cavernous scale of the room. Sound technicians were testing the acoustic reach of Davis’s pitch. Taylor was near the registration table debating the placement of the ice sculpture—the Axiom logo rendered in frozen Helvetica.
Alex stood near a stack of linen chair covers, feeling completely isolated in the middle of the splendor. He pulled his phone from his pocket for the fifteenth time in the last hour.
Nothing. No notifications. No last-minute, I changed my mind, I'm on my way text from Ryan. Just a blank lock screen and the same echoing silence.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and forced himself to look down at his prepared talking points—approved by no fewer than three vice presidents and then Davis himself. Alex wasn’t sure there was a single word of his original draft left.
He adjusted the collar of his Banana Republic suit, regretting that he hadn't sprung for the tailored Armani that Davis had suggested.
A hand suddenly wrapped around his bicep like a vice. Before Alex could speak, he was jerked backward and shoved blindly through a side door.
He stumbled into the dark, hitting a stack of metal folding chairs. His knees buckled and he dropped hard onto the seat of one.
"Ryan?" he asked, his heart in his throat. It had to be. Who else was that strong?
With a click a single, harsh overhead fluorescent bulb flickered on, buzzing loudly and casting long, unforgiving shadows across the cramped supply closet.
"Cut the crap, Alex." It was Morgan.
She stood directly over him, completely blocking the only exit. Her charcoal menswear suit—a dark python jacquard—was sharp as a razor, her sleek bob perfectly still. Looking up at her from the folding chair, pinned under the flickering glare of the light, Alex blinked like a suspect who had just been hauled into a precinct interrogation room.
"Morgan, we’re supposed to be reviewing—"
"We both know Davis made up that 'Employee of the Month' nonsense to give you a platform," Morgan interrupted. "When you first started, I thought you were just a little worm. Harmless. Completely forgettable. But then you revealed who you really are. You sensed a power vacuum and miraculously decided to play for the other team. You're as straight as Davis's nine-iron, sitting there in your off-the-rack suit."
She took a deliberate step into his very, very small space. "I respect the move. I’m not going to blow this charade, obviously. We need that contract. But don’t insult my intelligence while you do it, like I'm some little sap with a discount gaydar. I am a walking, talking gay lie detector test, Alex." She pushed his chest with an outstretched talon. "If you lie to me, I will tell Davis all about your heterosexual… lifestyle, and I will burn your career to the ground."
"Morgan, I don't know what you're talking about," Alex said, trying to project confidence. "I am gay. G-A-Y."
"Are you?" Morgan challenged, crossing her arms. "Prove it."
Alex blinked. "Prove it? How do I—Morgan, my sexuality is private."
"You're Pride Month Employee of the Month, Alex. The ship on 'private' has sailed. Why didn't you come out earlier?"
"Because it's not my whole personality!"
"What personality?" Morgan fired back without missing a beat.
"I have a personality!" Alex protested, his PR spin rapidly devolving. "I just didn't want to be pigeonholed! I didn't want my professional merits overshadowed by my personal life. It's a deeply heteronormative corporate structure—"
"You are literally reciting HR diversity brochures right now."
"No!" Alex blurted out, batting her hand away. "I'm gay! I'm incredibly gay! I spent seventy-five dollars a pair on Tom Ford boxer briefs! I can tell you right now that your suit is a python jacquard!”
"That just means you're a good study," Morgan rolled her eyes. "Confess, and I might keep your secret. Otherwise, I’m spilling the beans—and they will not be rainbow colored."
“I know what a Tom of Finland leprechaun is!"
Morgan dropped her arms, utterly unimpressed. "Fine," she said. "You’re forcing my hand."
She grabbed the lapels of her jacket, unbuttoned it and pulled the fabric wide. It flared out on either side like the hood of a king cobra preparing to strike. Then, with terrifying slowness, she slid the jacket off her arms, revealing a silk scarf fashioned into a loose halter blouse.
"Can you honestly say this doesn't turn you on?"
Alex stared at her—at the sharp cut of her biceps and the wide, athletic span of her shoulders.
Honestly, he thought, with shoulders like that, turning me on might not be the point she thinks it is.
Her hands reached up, her manicured fingers resting on the delicate knot at the nape of her neck, fully preparing to undo her top.
Alex panicked.
"Morgan! I am in a committed relationship with another man!" he snapped. The frantic PR spin splintered.
"Oh, please," Morgan scoffed. "Your little carpenter prop? You think I don’t know a beard when I see one? My junior prom date and my senior prom date are now happily married to each other and renovating a brownstone. I know what a fake relationship looks like.”
"No! No! Listen to me!" Alex said, the words rushing out before he could think them through. "He knows I have to have the television volume set to an even number! He lets me win at basketball even though he could completely flatten me. I hear him in my head when I’m not with him and when I make him laugh I feel all warm inside."
Morgan’s eyes stayed locked on his face, watching every micro-expression.
Alex kept talking, the words spilling out faster and louder.
“I haven't gone on a second date with a woman since college because I'd rather sit on my own sofa eating Thai takeout and snuggling with him than be anywhere else on earth!”
Morgan moved to pounce. He’d fucked up—talking about dating women tore a hole in his carefully constructed gay cover story.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
The cover story collapsed in the face of the blindingly obvious truth.
Alex’s voice cracked when it finally came out.
“He’s my soulmate,” he whispered. “I love him.”
The closet went completely silent.
Morgan stared at him. The predatory gleam in her eyes shifted. She was ruthless, but she wasn't an idiot. Even Alex knew that.
Morgan took a small step back. “Oh honey… you’re not lying.”
"What?" Alex blinked, breathing shallowly, his round glasses slightly askew.
"I'm so sorry." She picked up her jacket, and slid it back over her shoulders. "I thought you were a straight man playing a dangerous game. But you’re really just a confused gay man with a tragic wardrobe who got in way over his head."
She adjusted her lapels, looking at him with a mix of pity and purpose.
"I'm going to leave you here," she said quietly. “Take a minute. Fix your face. Then come back out and do your job, gay boy.”
From her it was almost a compliment.
She opened the door and backed out, letting it swing shut behind her.
Alex was left standing perfectly still in the dim, cramped space, surrounded by A/V equipment and extension cords.
He was in love with his best friend. The best friend whose heart he broke just three days ago. The best thing to ever happen to him in whole life.
But Morgan was right. He had to go out there and be the Employee of the Month.
Alex took a deep, deep breath, pushed the heavy door open, and finally stepped out of the closet.
Chapter 16: Brilliant, Beautiful Boys
The cocktail hour transitioned to dinner. The silver platters of mini Dungeness crab cakes and bacon-wrapped scallops had been cleared away, replaced by the clinking of silverware and the low, steady hum of the seated dinner service. High above them, the late-June evening sky turned the spectacular glass dome a deep, bruised purple.
Across the room, Morgan was effortlessly working the sea of seated venture capitalists and tech executives. She drifted gracefully from table to table, placing lingering hands on a CEO’s shoulder here, throwing her perfectly coiffed head back in a performative laugh there. She was an eel gliding smoothly through a very expensive reef, and she didn't cast a single glance toward Table Four.
Alex sat there, his plated dinner cold and untouched. He was nodding and chuckling along on pure professional autopilot as a vice president beside him recounted a painfully long story about a sailboat.
Underneath the heavy linen tablecloth, Alex’s thumb traced the edge of his printed remarks. He stared at the empty chair beside him. Taylor had kept it for Ryan. But Ryan wasn't coming.
At the front of the room, Davis tapped the microphone, radiating satisfaction. He delivered a slick, buzzword-heavy introduction before handing the floor over to the man of the hour: Richard Starling.
Richard stepped up to the podium, dwarfing it with his imposing, heavy-set frame—a man who had built a small empire on his own terms. He wore a black cotton t-shirt under a vibrant, cobalt blue Italian suit—the kind of tailoring that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, yet he treated it with the casual indifference of a pair of work coveralls. He made no effort to hide or disguise the solid power gut, a physical manifestation of a man who stopped caring about the world's expectations a long time ago.
He adjusted the microphone, his slate-gray eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the nervous agency climbers in their suits and the venture capitalists in their aggressively casual luxury fleece, all of them collectively holding their breath.
"I am a capitalist down to my bones," Richard began. His low, gruff voice cut easily through the quiet. "I spent the eighties on Wall Street. I know the value of a dollar, the leverage of a good contract, and the necessity of corporate ambition. I also survived an era when you couldn't get a Fortune 500 company to even look in our direction, let alone sponsor a Pride event. I navigated a plague, DOMA, and Don't Ask, Don't Tell, and decades where simply being seen could cost you your livelihood. So do not expect me to stand up here and complain about rainbow capitalism or an open bar. Davis has thrown a hell of a party, and I intend to enjoy it."
Davis beamed. He led a fresh round of applause, enthusiastically clapping and pointing a finger at the podium to claim his credit. A polite ripple of laughter moved through the executives.
Richard smiled, but just for a second.
"Lately, there is a lot of noise in the news. You hear politicians saying they want to roll back our rights. They want to end Pride, scrub it from the calendar entirely, as if it's a tax loophole they can simply vote out of existence."
He leaned forward, resting his heavy hands on the podium.
"It shows a profound misunderstanding of history. You cannot repeal what you did not legislate. They talk about Pride as if it is a government grant. But no government invented this. No politician handed it to us. They cannot take it away, because they do not own it. We made it. We made it walking hand-in-hand with our brothers and sisters, when the world wanted us in hiding. We made it in the hospital wards in the eighties and in our homes, caring for each other when the government wouldn't even say the name of the disease that was killing us."
Richard looked out over the crowd. "The first Pride, they say, was a riot. I wasn’t there. Forgive me. I was three, color-coordinating my Legos."
A small ripple of warmer laughter moved through the room.
"But Pride didn’t end there," Richard said, his voice firming up. “The phone banking and lobbying and fundraisers and beating our heads against every legislative brick wall—that was Pride. Every uncomfortable conversation and terrifying coming out—that’s Pride too.”
He leaned on the podium. “But every Pride—every single Pride—is someone’s first Pride. Whether it’s the prom they never went to, or claiming their dignity. Whether it’s with an angry fist raised or a memorial for the brilliant, beautiful boys we lost too soon." Richard’s voice caught, the gruffness cracking for a fraction of a second. "So keep a space open for the next person to come through the gates, the exact same way we all did, in our own way, in our own time."
A heavy quiet settled over the room.
"So we come together to celebrate, because above all else, Pride is a celebration. Why do we dance? Because when the world tells you to hide, simply existing in the daylight is a protest. But dancing? Taking up space? Giving each other the gift of our bodies and of joy and moving together with the music when there are people who would rather see you invisible or dead? That is not just a protest. That is a victory."
Richard stepped back from the microphone. He picked up his champagne flute and looked directly at Table Four.
"So, to Axiom Communications, thank you for the party. And to Alex, Employee of the Month—thank you for your courage. I raise my glass to you." Richard held the glass high. "The floor is yours. I suggest we all remember how to celebrate."
The crowd erupted into massive applause.
Alex stood up, unable to feel his legs. He passed Morgan and Taylor and Davis. He passed Richard, who clapped him on the back, and slowly ascended the short steps to the stage. He stepped behind the acrylic podium, standing stiff, and leaned into the microphone.
He looked out at the sea of expectant faces, raising a card in his trembling hands to read.
And as he did, the double back doors at the far end of the venue clicked open.
Alex looked up as Ryan stepped through the doors. His hair was a mess, his eyes wide. He was wearing the forest green windowpane suit with the rust accents from Julian's trunk show, but he wasn't wearing a shirt at all.
He was bare under the tailored vest, the sharp V-neckline perfectly framing his collarbone. Resting right against his bare skin, was a simple necklace. And on his feet were his scuffed Red Wing work boots.
He looked absolutely devastating.
Ryan took his own deep breath, locked eyes with Alex across the cavernous room, and gave him a clear thumbs-up.
Chapter 17: The Straight Guy Pretending To Be Gay…
Alex pushed the index cards away. They fluttered off the acrylic podium and scattered onto the stage floor like snow.
Despite himself, Alex felt a giddy fluttering in his chest, like his heart was a bird ready to burst out.
"Mr. Starling," Alex started, his voice echoing under the massive glass dome. "That was... an impossible act to follow.” He licked his lips, feeling them tick up at the corners. Ryan was there. “Oh boy, I don’t know how to do this. But you're right. Pride is about bravery… It's about truth. Which is exactly why I can't accept this… tremendous honor."
The Arctic Dome Room went silent. In the front row, Davis’s smile froze, looking as though he had just been shot with a tranquilizer dart. Morgan may have been preparing to call in a bomb threat, just to stop the proceedings.
But Ryan was there.
"I should probably start by formally introducing myself," Alex continued. He squared his shoulders, found his lighting, and felt the acoustics of the room. "My name is Alex. I am a junior communications strategist. And I'm a fraud. I’m sure not Employee of the Month."
He looked over the heads of the executives. At the back of the room, standing in his green suit with no shirt, Ryan was shaking his head, frantically giving him a 'time-out' signal with his hands.
Alex laughed a little, feeling ridiculously lightheaded. Why had he not seen it before?
He looked right at Ryan and held up his hand slightly to say, I know what I’m doing.
"My name is Alex, and I am standing up here tonight to finally come out to this entire firm," he announced, gripping the edges of the podium. "...as straight."
The words echoed in the ballroom.
A horrified gasp rippled through the room. Someone in the back dropped a fork. Morgan’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing into murderous slits.
"I know," Alex said, holding up a hand, expertly working the pause. "It’s a lot. Let me explain. My 'coming out' here at work was a complete accident. It was a total misunderstanding. But once it happened, I let it snowball. I wanted to succeed. I wanted to be seen. So I let you all think I was gay."
Alex stepped out from behind the podium, taking the microphone with him to pace the edge of the stage. "I got so deep into the lie that I asked my best friend of seven years to come here tonight and pretend to be my partner to fool you all."
He looked back at the doors. Ryan was shaking his head and laughing in disbelief. Alex could read his lips perfectly: Buddy, what the fuck?
"That's Ryan back there, by the way," Alex said, pointing toward him. "He's the straightest-looking gay guy you've ever met. And the best friend. He is also an amazing kisser, as I very recently learned."
He turned his attention down to the front table. "Mr. Starling, I’m sorry about this. But I need to tell you—I've only been at Axiom for a few weeks, but I have learned so much." He gestured toward Davis, Morgan, and Taylor. “I have learned life lessons about strategy... and narrative... and empathy. You would be a fool to not renew your contract with Axiom. And I do not think you’re a fool."
Starling raised a thick eyebrow, a slow, deeply amused smirk spreading across his face.
Alex let out a breathy, incredulous laugh of his own, shaking his head. He was actually managing the room. He was steering the skid. He had the room right where he wanted it.
"It's a lot to take in," he said, his voice rising. A wry smile spread on his lips. "If you want to know how ridiculous this got, I asked my friend Ryan there—the straight-presenting gay guy—to play the part of the gay boyfriend of the straight guy pretending to be gay..."
Tentative, baffled chuckles broke through the silence. Alex let them ripple, letting the tension ebb to nothing before leaning into the microphone to deliver the punchline.
"...The straight guy pretending to be gay... who was actually gay, but didn't know it yet."
Some chuckles swelled, and some awkwardly subsided.
"You see, I took the longest, stupidest, most ridiculous route possible to figure out my own life," Alex continued, the polished PR tone dropping away. "I am standing at this podium, blowing up my entire career to come out again."
The crowd was on the edge of its collective seat. This wasn't corporate spin—it was a live, unscripted emotional pile-up, and no one could look away.
"Because I'm not straight," Alex said. He was speaking entirely to Ryan now. "The other night wasn't a bit, and it wasn't a physiological lapse, and it wasn't a mistake. I was an idiot. I still am. But I am also completely, totally, helplessly in love with you."
Ryan stood perfectly still by the doors. His chin bunched up, a messy lock of hair flopping onto his forehead. He lifted one of his huge hands, placed it flat over his chest where his heart was, and held it there.
Alex turned back to the crowd with a small, deeply satisfied smile.
"So, I'm gay. And pretty definitely fired," Alex concluded. "And I am very sorry for wasting your evening. Please, enjoy the crab cakes. Oh, and the scallops—the ones wrapped in bacon? They’re really good."
When he set the microphone down, it hit the acrylic with a thud.
For five agonizing seconds, the only sound in the room was the gentle dripping of the Axiom ice sculpture. Davis looked like he was going to need a defibrillator. Morgan looked like she was mentally drafting a press release denouncing Alex as a terrorist.
Then, there was a single loud CLAP.
CLAP.
CLAP.
It was the loud smacking of two heavy hands together.
It was Richard Starling.
The millionaire was seated, legs spread, clapping his hands together over his head, a massive grin on his face.
Seeing Starling applaud, Davis jumped to his feet. He rode the moment, clapping as loud as he could, his face stretching into a manic grin. Taylor, who was openly weeping, joined in with wild enthusiasm.
The rest of the bewildered crowd followed suit—a chaotic mix of joyful cheers and confused applause. And there in the back was Ryan, smirking and slowly clapping his huge hands.
Chapter 18: The Worst Dancer
When Alex stepped off the stage, the applause was still rolling through the Arctic Dome Room—a chaotic mix of corporate relief and genuine enthusiasm.
He didn't look at Davis. He pushed straight through a cluster of bewildered venture capitalists and tech bros, making his way to the back of the ballroom.
Ryan met him halfway. Up close, the suit looked even more incredible on him, draping perfectly over his shoulders. The rust windowpane design caught the red tones in his hair. Around his throat was a string of square wooden beads, rainbow painted.
Ryan caught him, holding him steady by the elbows.
"You bought the suit," Alex breathed, staring up at him.
"Julian set me up," Ryan said, the corner of his mouth ticking into his most adorable smirk.
Alex reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the rainbow beads resting against Ryan’s collarbone. "And the necklace. Super gay. Did you make this?"
“Yeah,” Ryan shrugged. “I’m a carpenter."
“Yeah,” Alex answered. “I’m gay.”
“I heard,” Ryan replied, eyes locked, though he gestured vaguely behind Alex with his huge hand. “On the stage thing.”
"I'm an idiot," Alex breathed, leaning into Ryan's space. "I'm so sorry. About everything."
Ryan's face softened, beaming with the steady kindness Alex had built his entire life around. Ryan reached out, cupping the back of Alex's neck, exactly like he had on the couch in his apartment. "You took the scenic route, Al. But you got here."
"Did you enjoy the speech?"
"Who doesn’t love a massive, public self-destruction?" Ryan grinned, his thumb brushing the spot just behind Alex's jaw. "Truly inspiring."
Before Alex could say anything more, the microphone at the front of the room let out a sharp, piercing squeal.
Davis was back at the podium. He looked positively giddy, ready to ride the wave into victory.
"Thank you, Alex, for that... incredibly transparent update," Davis boomed. "And Richard, thank you for your inspiring words. We at Axiom do believe that Pride is a celebration. And we do not intend to celebrate to a Spotify playlist. Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the riser for a very special surprise... the one and only Robyn."
The lights under the glass dome plunged into darkness, but for a single, blinding spotlight on the far side of the room. Standing on a sleek, black stage that seemed to rise out of nowhere, bathed entirely in blue light, stood a woman with a blonde pixie cut. She wore a structured metallic jacket, her head bowed as she tightly gripped a microphone stand.
Alex watched, bracing himself for a drag performer. But as she looked up, he saw the unmistakable face of the actual, real-life Robyn. She stood perfectly still, absorbing the stunned silence of the room.
Morgan stood near Alex and Ryan, a flute of champagne in one hand and a satisfied smirk on her face.
"Morgan," Alex said, desperately catching her sleeve. "What is happening? Did you actually—what does she owe you?"
Morgan’s gaze stayed fixed on the international superstar. “Mykonos. 2018. A little incident I kept out of the news. She knows what she did."
On stage, Robyn offered a single, slightly terrified nod in Morgan’s direction, and then gripped the microphone.
Morgan turned, gave the bare cleavage of Ryan’s chest an approving pat, and slipped back into the crowd. "Enjoy the music, boys."
The pulsing synth instantly flooded the venue. The bass was so heavy it actually rattled the floorboards.
Robyn closed her eyes, threw her head back, and let the first verse rip.
“Somebody said you got a new friend... Does she love you better than I can?”
The actual real-life Robyn belting a private set broke the last remaining tension in the air. The crowd began to move, some tentatively bobbing their heads, others already singing along.
“I'm right over here, why can't you see me, oh!” Robyn crooned, gripping the mic stand. “I'm giving it my all, but I'm not the one you're taking home, ooh!”
Davis was enthusiastically fist-pumping near the front. Taylor was twirling, eyes closed, totally lost in the vibe.
“I'm just gonna dance all night!”
Near the stage, Richard Starling was commanding the floor, sweating and rocking out moves that had clearly been perfected in clubs in the eighties—taking up space, moving with the absolute, unabashed, victorious joy he had just spoken about.
The only person not dancing was Morgan. She stood near the Axiom ice sculpture, arms crossed over her double-breasted blazer. She swayed just slightly, watched the millionaire client, the pop star, and the chaotic corporate rave with the satisfaction of a supervillain whose master plan had just executed flawlessly.
The song dipped, the heavy synth stripping back to a slow, agonizingly tense baseline.
“I’m in the corner, watching you kiss her, ohh...”
The crowd tensed, coiled like a spring, waiting for the release.
The percussion suddenly hit, and the beat dropped.
The crowd of executives all started to jump, singing along at the top of their lungs, “I KEEP DANCING ON MY OWN!!!”
Ryan let out a massive whoop. He grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled out of it as if it were a sweatshirt. He twirled it completely over his head like a lasso and launched it deep into the bouncing crowd.
He grabbed Alex's hand and pulled him right into the center of the jumping crowd.
"YOU KNOW I DON'T DANCE!" Alex shouted as Ryan spun him around.
"YOU DO NOW, EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH!" Ryan yelled over the heavy bass.
Ryan’s arms flew up—totally unhinged, throwing his shoulders into it, bouncing to the booming vocals, taking up space for them both, his hips swaying totally out of sync with his top half.
Alex burst out laughing. He watched the guy he’d been in love with for seven years flail his arms like an orangutan, completely comfortable in his own skin, entirely oblivious to the staring tech CFOs.
“I keep dancing on my own!” Robyn soared over the speakers, the crowd belting the lyrics right back at her.
Alex stepped in, grabbing Ryan by the rainbow beads to pull him close, pausing the arm-swinging just long enough to shout over the music.
"YOU ARE, WITHOUT A DOUBT," Alex yelled, grinning from ear to ear, "THE WORST DANCER I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!"
Ryan looked at Alex, stating the obvious. “I KNOW, RIGHT?”
Surrounded by a sea of joyful, jumping people and the soaring pulse of the synth, Ryan caught Alex at the waist and pulled him in to plant a messy, perfect kiss right on the mouth of the Employee of the Month.
Chapter 19: You Didn’t Think That Was It, Did You?
The trail of clothing and party debris began at the hotel room door. It started with Alex's ruined suit jacket, followed by a pair of scuffed Red Wing boots, windowpane trousers—the jacket lost on the dance floor—a sweat-soaked vest, and a pair of Tom Ford boxer briefs. An empty champagne bottle lay on its side on the floor. The trail ended at the edge of the oversized king bed. The only thing Ryan hadn't taken off was the string of wooden rainbow beads.
Alex and Ryan were a tangled knot of bare limbs and cooling sweat, sprawling across the mattress in a way that felt like a natural, inevitable evolution of hundreds of Friday nights on Alex’s cramped sofa—except this time, there was absolutely nothing between them.
Alex was on his back, Ryan’s naked weight resting on him like a human thunder blanket, their legs shifting and tangling together. Ryan ran his mouth down Alex’s neck, grazing slightly with his teeth, while his calloused hand slid down Alex’s chest, tracing the line of his stomach before loosely wrapping around Alex's half-hard cock.
Alex gasped, his hips instinctively bucking up into Ryan's palm.
"Tell me again," Ryan murmured, his gravelly voice and hot breath sending a shiver through Alex's body. His thumb stroked slowly on Alex’s cock, the rough pad teasing the underside. "Slower this time."
Alex tilted his head back, his fingers twisting into Ryan’s messy, brick-colored hair. He struggled to form a coherent thought while Ryan’s hand worked a lazy, maddening rhythm on his erection. "Starling shook on it," Alex managed, his voice strained. "Gentleman’s agreement. Davis got his deal."
Alex let his own free hand wander, mapping the broad, muscular expanse of Ryan's back before dragging his palm down the hard plane of his stomach. He wrapped his fingers around Ryan's stirring length, picking up the same slow, deliberate rhythm.
"Morgan got her bash," Alex breathed out, feeling the heavy heat of Ryan pressing against his thigh. "Taylor got her peacocks and her emotional support gay."
"And you?" Ryan asked, his hips rolling into Alex's grip as he kissed the pulse point at Alex's throat.
"I get to keep my job," Alex whispered. "And I came out to the corporate elite of Seattle."
Ryan’s head snapped up, his hand still holding Alex firmly. He put on his dumb frat-guy face. "As straight," Ryan reminded him, his hips grinding down just enough to make Alex whimper. “Or was it gay? I’m a little confused.”
Alex laughed, the sound turning into a ragged sigh as Ryan got back to it, kissing and biting at Alex’s collarbone while their hands stroked each other in tandem.
Alex hooked a heel over Ryan's thick calf and reached out, grabbing the rainbow beads to haul Ryan back up. Their noses rubbed together. Alex locked his hands on Ryan’s face, eye to eye, feeling Ryan's heart hammering against his own ribs.
Slowly, deliberately, Alex shifted under the heavy weight. He parted his thighs further, tilted his pelvis, and hiked his hips up. He pulled Ryan's narrow waist down, aligning them so Ryan’s cock pressed flush against his tightest center. He arched back, grinding up into him to make his intentions undeniably clear.
Against him, Ryan let out a gasp as his cock went absolutely, rigidly stiff in response.
“You sure?” Ryan asked, his drowsy eyes going instantly dark, the playful edge dropping away.
"Ryan," Alex breathed, brushing a thumb over his best friend’s gritty jawline. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
Ryan threw himself to reach the nightstand to haul the complimentary luxury intimacy kit resting in its velvet basket. He pulled out a glass bottle of clear lube, dwarfed in his huge hand. "God bless Taylor and her limitless budget," he chuckled.
He pulled the rainbow beads over his head, dropping them into the velvet basket, and shifted onto his side. He pulled himself flush against Alex as he popped the top off the bottle with one hand, poured a pool into his palm, and reached between Alex’s legs.
Alex’s breath hitched as Ryan’s slicked fingers entered him. The warm glide of Ryan’s hand working him open made Alex’s head tip back into the pillows. Ryan was maddeningly patient, his thumb dragging over the sensitive skin, his thick fingers stretching Alex with a deliberate, agonizingly slow rhythm.
"Ryan—" Alex gasped, his hips rising off the mattress to meet his thrusting fingers.
"I know, buddy. I know," Ryan soothed, pressing a wet kiss to the pulse point on Alex's neck. "Just relax. Seven years, Al. I'm not rushing this."
Alex reached across to tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of Ryan's neck. "Then come here."
Ryan shifted his weight. He nudged Alex's knees wider, hooking them over the crooks of his elbows. He settled his slim hips in the cradle of Alex's thighs, reaching down to wet his cock, the blunt head pressing right against Alex’s entrance.
The corner of his mouth ticked up, and he tucked his chin back, his eyes going deliberately wide and vacant.
"I've never done this with a guy before..." Ryan mumbled, pitching his voice into that clueless frat-boy drawl he had weaponized for seven years.
Alex groaned—but before he could roll his eyes, Ryan's entire expression shifted. The frat-boy mask vanished. All the irony, all the jokes, and all the defense mechanisms stripped away.
"Not one I was in love with, anyway."
Ryan pushed forward, sinking into Alex slow and steady, as his best friend gasped, taking him in.
Ryan braced his weight, Alex’s legs on his forearms, looking down at Alex as if his brain was struggling to process that this was actually happening—that Alex was here, underneath him, completely his.
"How's that?" Ryan asked, his voice shaking slightly. "How does that feel?"
Alex couldn't form words. He was entirely in his body, as the pressure settled, and his body shifted around it, till it stopped feeling like something invasive and more like some essential piece he hadn’t known he was missing.
He reached down without thinking, wrapping his hands firmly around Ryan’s narrow hips, his thumbs digging into the muscle, and pulled him back in for the next thrust.
"Shut up and keep doing that," Alex groaned, his grip tightening as he guided Ryan's hips. "Please."
Ryan caught the rhythm. There was no frantic, pent-up panic like the first time; this was steady and deliberate, feeling out each other’s bodies. Every time Ryan bottomed out, Alex arched up to meet him, his hands anchoring Ryan's hips, keeping them perfectly flush.
"You feel so fucking perfect," Ryan groaned, his broad chest just beading with sweat as he looked down at Alex like he was an absolute miracle.
The pacing built, the quiet hotel room filled with the wet sound of their bodies slapping together and Ryan's low, rumbling groans. Alex surrendered entirely to the consuming heat of it, reaching down to hold his own cock. He was leaking clear precum, the slick of it smearing the head.
"Oh, God," Alex groaned, stroking himself fast.
Ryan shifted into a more grueling rhythm, using his leverage to drive in deep with every thrust. There was no hesitation, no holding back.
"Yeah," Ryan grunted, hips thrusting hard.
Alex was completely undone by it—not a single strategic thought. All of his anxiety, his need to control the narrative—it all vanished under the hard strokes of his best friend, filling him up.
"Look at me," Ryan commanded softly, breathless.
Alex forced his eyes open, his glasses completely askew. Ryan was looking down at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated worship.
"I love you," Ryan pushed in deep. "I love you so much, you stupid, brilliant idiot."
Ryan’s thumb found the sweet spot between them, rubbing Alex’s cockhead in time with his thrusts and Alex pulling it.
When the climax hit, it tore through Alex. His cock swelled in his grip—“Fuck!” His back arching off the mattress.
“That’s it, buddy,” Ryan gasped, his body in short, urgent thrusts, like he was trying to get entirely inside Alex. He buried himself fully, and stayed there, shuddering as he spilled inside Alex, whispering his name.
They collapsed together, an exhausted, panting mess. Ryan's heavy head dropped into the crook of Alex's neck, his chest heaving against Alex's.
Eventually, Ryan shifted his weight off, though they immediately pulled each other tight. They fell into a slow, lazy rhythm of kissing.
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.”
Alex’s hand began to wander again, tracing down Ryan's jaw, clearly getting ready to start round two. Ryan smiled against his mouth, shifting his hips closer.
Suddenly, from the far corner of the darkened room, near the heavy velvet curtains, came an animal warble.
Aaaa-aaargh!
Alex froze. Another loud warble echoed through the suite, followed by the dry rustle of feathers dragging against the heavy velvet curtains.
Stepping out from the shadows and into the ambient glow of the Seattle skyline was a single, snow-white peacock. It pecked curiously at Alex's discarded button-down shirt, then fixed the two men in the bed with a judgmental, unblinking stare. It let out a sharp squawk, and shook its tail out into a massive, trembling fan of white plumage.
Ryan propped himself up on one elbow, staring at the bird across the room. “So what are we going to do with him?”
Alex buried his face in his hands, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. "I’ll talk to Taylor in the morning."
Ryan let out a loud bark of laughter. He reached down, his hand catching Alex by the waist, rolling onto him to pin his friend with his solid weight.
Alex looked up. “Again?”
Ryan looked down at him, his drowsy eyes sparking with that familiar challenge.
"You didn't think that was it, did you?"
Alex ground his own hip up, pushing their stiffening cocks through the mess between them.
“I sure as fuck hope not.”
END
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