Years ago, not long after I had graduated from law school, maybe a year and a half into the real world, I found myself driving to a small town a couple hours away to hand-deliver some contracts. It was the kind of errand a junior associate might grumble about, but technically, I wasn’t even that. Although I had passed the bar, I was still working as a contract proofreader at a mid-sized firm, tucked away on the fourth floor of a glass-paneled professional building, the tallest building in town. My job was to go over finalized legal documents with a fine-tooth comb, catching typos, inconsistencies, or formatting quirks before the contracts made their way to the signatures that sealed the deals. I had a good eye for detail, and more than once I’d flagged clauses that needed to be rewritten entirely, earning me a quiet reputation for competence. The partners had recently bumped my pay and dangled the prospect of an actual title in front of me, which felt like progress.
By all outward measures, I was doing well. The pay was decent, the hours manageable, and no one hovered over my shoulder. I liked the quiet solitude of my work, the distant hum of office equipment, and the rhythmic click of red pens against thick paper. I was on a track, perhaps not the fast one, but a solid one.
However, when the office lights dimmed at the end of the day and I returned to my small apartment with its particle board furniture and hand-me-down dishes, I often felt the weight of something missing. What I really wanted, though I rarely admitted it out loud, was someone to share it all with. Someone to listen to my stories about misplaced modifiers and endless legalese and maybe even laugh. My love life was, in all honesty, a loveless life.
Dating, in those pre-Internet days, was a challenge for a gay man unless you had connections or confidence. I had neither. There were no apps to scroll through, no social media groups to join. A handful of coded conversations in office break rooms or chance encounters at the occasional dingy gay bar. The only gay club in my city was a low-ceilinged, sticky-floored affair with flickering neon lights and a clientele who mostly wanted anonymity more than connection. The place smelled like smoke and spilled beer, and the bathroom smelled like a cum rag that should have been tossed out with the trash. I could never shake the uneasy feeling that being seen there could cost me professionally. The shadow of the AIDS crisis loomed large in those days, too, adding a layer of fear and grief to even the most casual flirtation.
At work, there was one man in the building whom others whispered about. He worked on the floor below me in an accounting firm and had the kind of walk and mannerisms that caused people to snicker behind coffee cups. He had a high, nasal voice and wrists that fluttered when he talked. He always winked at me in the hallway. I knew, almost instinctively, that he was gay, and I wondered if befriending him might give me a way in, an entry into a world I hadn’t yet accessed. Fear always held me back. I wasn’t out at work, and I didn’t know whom I could trust. Better to stay silent than risk everything for a maybe. Those were the words I lived by. I could have cross-stitched them in the dark.
So I was a mostly content but quietly lonely man on that warm spring afternoon, cruising down a two-lane highway with a folder of signed contracts on the passenger seat and a belly beginning to grumble. The sky was a soft blue, streaked with faint clouds, and the fields along the side of the road were lush with early bloom, thick patches of red Indian paintbrush, yellow black-eyed Susans, and nodding bluebonnets swaying in the breeze. The highway itself stretched long and empty ahead of me, like a ribbon tossed across the hills.
I was thinking vaguely about food, whether I should stop at the grocery store on the way home or just surrender to fast food, when the car gave a violent jolt. A loud thump rattled the frame, followed by a dragging resistance that sent a ripple of anxiety through my chest. I eased onto the shoulder, flipped on the hazard lights, and stepped out.
The air smelled faintly of dust and warm grass. Sure enough, the left rear tire was sagging low, a gleaming piece of metal embedded near the tread. I must’ve run over a nail or a shard of something sharp.
I sighed and walked to the trunk, retrieving the jack. My dad had taught me how to change a tire back when I was barely tall enough to see over the hood. “You never know when your mom’s going to need help,” he’d said, holding the tools like they were sacred heirlooms. The memory made me smile, despite the inconvenience.
I crouched beside the car and set to work, bracing myself against the sun-heated metal as I tried to loosen the lug nuts. They were tight, too tight, and I was just about to get the longer wrench when the soft woop of a siren startled me. I turned to see a police cruiser pulling up behind me, lights flashing gently in the afternoon sun.
The driver’s side door opened, and a tall figure stepped out, the silhouette crisp against the glare. He walked toward me with the easy, unhurried stride of someone used to being noticed. Even before I could see his face clearly, I knew he was attractive.
I stood up and brushed my hands on my slacks. “Hi,” I called, voice casual but a little too eager. As he approached, his details came into focus: tall, a little over six feet, lean, broad-shouldered, his uniform clean and well-fitted. He moved like he knew how to use his body, not in a showy way, but with quiet confidence.
He was painfully handsome. Perfect features as I’d never seen before. And inside me, I felt, well, nothing.
“How’s it going?” he asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that should have sent a shiver across my skin, a longing in my loins. But there was nothing.
“The nuts are a little tight,” I replied. “I was just about to get the longer wrench from the back. My name’s John Putnam.”
He gave a quick nod, extending his hand. “Jackson. Russell Jackson.”
We shook; his grip was firm, assured, not too rough. I felt the jolt of something. A pang of sadness in my heart. What was wrong with me? Here was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and I didn’t even feel the superficial want that goes with a one-night stand.
He had a strong, square jaw that made him look both rugged and noble, the kind of chin you only ever see in old Westerns or firefighter calendars. His eyes were a light, unreadable green, rimmed in lashes that darkened slightly in the sun, and his dark blond hair was just visible beneath the brim of his gray felt cowboy hat that seemed to be required headwear of those in the sheriff’s department. He tilted his head slightly when he spoke. “Nice to meet you as well,” he said with that voice that should have made me hard. I figured he was about ten to twenty years older than I was.
I turned toward the open trunk, feeling his gaze lingering on me. My fingers found the wrench, its weight familiar in my hand. “This should make loosening those nuts a little easier,” I offered, holding it out handle-first.
He chuckled softly, accepting it. “Most people don’t keep one of those in their trunks.”
“I can thank my dad for that,” I said, brushing a bit of grit off the metal. “He gave me this one when I got my first car.”
“Good father,” he replied.
I paused, fingers tightening around the tool as I took it back from him. The words hit me harder than expected, scraping against something raw.
“Yeah. I miss him.”
The words came out quieter than I meant. I stood upright again, trying not to show the shift in my chest.
Officer Jackson nodded; no awkward condolences, his eyes remained fixed on me. Just a simple gesture. Somehow, I knew he understood. “Why don’t I get the spare out while you loosen those nuts,” he said, stepping toward the back.
“Thanks,” I muttered, crouching beside the wheel. One by one, I gave each lug nut a half-turn to the left, the strain grounding me. I heard the solid thunk of the spare tire being gently placed on the gravel. Most guys I knew, myself included, would’ve just let it drop. But not him.
He knelt beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. Together, we started removing the damaged tire, our movements efficient but unhurried.
“You’re gonna have to replace that,” he said, brushing his knuckles across the frayed rubber. “You can’t repair damage like that.”
I turned toward him. Our faces were barely a foot apart. His jaw was mildly stubbled, his mouth slightly parted. Why did I not feel the overwhelming, reckless urge to lean in and feel the scrape of his unshaven chin against my skin, to taste that smirk on his lips? Stop, I warned myself. There’s nothing here for you. I dropped my eyes quickly to the ground. “Your shirt,” I blurted. The spare tire had left a smeared arc of black dust across his chest, staining the khaki fabric with a partial tire track.
“Yeah,” he said casually, glancing down. “It happens. All too often. I keep a spare shirt in the cruiser for times like these. Actually, I keep two.”
His tone was so relaxed, so unfazed, I could tell the mess didn’t bother him. He was more concerned about helping me than what he looked like. That landed differently.
“Let me get it cleaned for you. I insist.”
He hesitated, a flicker of something passing through his eyes. For a split second, I thought he might refuse. But then, “You insist?” he asked, one brow arched, amused.
“Yes,” I said, perhaps too quickly.
He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to stir something in my stomach. “Let’s get this spare on first, then we can discuss the logistics.”
Was that a wink?
Yes.
It was. Was he feeling something for me? Why couldn’t I return the feeling?
We secured the spare, returned the tools, and tucked the damaged tire into the trunk. A light breeze stirred the dust along the roadside as I followed him to the passenger side of his cruiser, a static buzz of nerves at the base of my neck. He turned to face me, casually working the buttons of his uniform shirt. My thoughts scattered like startled birds.
When he shrugged it off and handed it over, I caught just a glimpse, lean muscle beneath sun-warmed skin, sharply defined collarbones, and a faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. It should have stirred something. It didn’t.
Had it really been so long since I'd felt that kind of pull? Had my desire just withered, curled up quietly inside me?
“I really appreciate your help, Officer,” I said, folding the shirt carefully, avoiding wrinkles.
“How about calling me Jackson? You’ve got my shirt, after all,” he replied with a crooked grin.
“That’s your last name. Should I call you Russell?”
He grimaced. “I hate that name. Always have.”
I smiled, gently teasing. “What’s your middle name?”
“The letter Q.”
“Q?”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “My mom wanted to name me Quincy after her grandfather. My dad wouldn’t have it, but she got her way with the middle initial.”
“I like it,” I said, nodding. “Officer Q has a nice ring to it.”
He made a low sound of amusement, a grunt that rumbled softly from his chest.
“Well then, Q,” I said, lifting the shirt slightly, “I’ll get this cleaned and returned. How can I reach you?”
At home, I stuck the slip of paper with his name, address, and phone number to the refrigerator door with a Grand Canyon magnet. I’d never been there. A friend from high school gave me the magnet after a family road trip out west, one of those little things people hand you when they don’t know how else to stay in touch.
I stared at the image, that jagged wound in the Earth, carved by time and water and patience. Then I glanced back at the name: Russell Q Jackson.
Would he be another canyon, another gash across my chest, or could he be something else entirely? Something healing?
And why did I ever think a degree in English literature would help me figure out life’s deeper metaphors?
The shirt was dropped off at the cleaners, with a polite request for light starch. Eighty-nine cents for cleaning and pressing, plus another dollar for next-day service. I’d swing by tomorrow during lunch, give him a call, and return the shirt. He said he came through town often, so we could meet wherever was easiest. Then I could close the book on Officer Q and begin the next chapter, maybe find a man worth reading.
The next day arrived with the smell of rain hanging in the air, soft showers coming and going, promising a week of mild weather and wet sidewalks. The morning dragged in my office, the clock hands moving with the speed of drying paint. I finished my work by lunch and asked Mr. Ludlow if he had anything else for me.
He laughed and waved me away. “You’re too efficient, Mr. Putnam. Go. Start your weekend early.”
So I did.
I picked up the shirt, freshly pressed and carefully wrapped in plastic, and headed home. The apartment was quiet. With water boiling on the stove, I called Q to let him know I had the shirt; an answering machine mechanically told me to leave a message. I made a cup of hot tea, let it steep, and sat on the couch near the window, watching the faint drizzle slick the street.
The phone rang, a sharp, old-fashioned clatter from the kitchen wall.
I walked over, wiped my hand on a dish towel, and answered. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Jackson,” came the voice on the other end, low, warm, unmistakable.
“Oh, hi. I’ve got your shirt ready.”
“Great. I’ve got several things on my plate this afternoon, so my son Steven will be by and pick it up.”
“Well, OK. Sounds good.”
“I’ll give him your address. He should be there in maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
I repeated the directions he’d written down in his little notebook, hung up, and returned to my tea. As I stared into the untouched fireplace, it struck me, his not coming was a good thing. I wasn’t romantically or sexually interested, not really. Even a man that handsome didn’t awaken whatever had long gone dormant in me.
I stood, paced a little, then decided to change out of my work clothes. Still in my tie, for heaven’s sake. A pastel plaid short-sleeved shirt, navy shorts, and sandals felt like the right mix of casual and not completely slovenly. I’d be ready to hand off the shirt and still have time to run to Walmart, grab some frozen fish, and test out the toaster oven that I’d barely used.
My evening was planned, or so I thought.
Twenty minutes passed. Yes, I was watching the clock. When a shadow moved across the front window, I knew he was here. My heart gave a strange, nervous lurch.
I took a discreet peek from the side of the curtain.
And felt it, a sharp, sudden pull deep in my gut.
Just days ago, I’d met one of the most attractive men I could remember.
And here stood someone who surpassed even him.
They shared features, strong cheekbones, a similar angle to the jaw, but this man’s face held something else. Softer, perhaps. Or sadder. It was clear they were related.
I hurried to the door.
And waited.
Nothing.
What was he doing?
My anxiety climbed fast, rising like steam in my chest.
Then, three soft raps.
Polite. Understated. The kind of knock my mother once told me the French preferred. My grandmother had been born in France, and so much of what I knew about etiquette, when to speak, when to hold back, had filtered down through her.
I counted to ten, breathing slowly.
Then opened the door.
In front of me stood a vision of quiet intensity. He wore a light green short-sleeved shirt, several buttons open at the collar, revealing just enough of his chest to make me aware of every breath he took. His blue jeans fit like they were made specifically for him. His leather work boots bore the scuffs of real labor. And his eyes, those large, expressive, ocean-deep eyes, held a seriousness, tinged with something fragile, something like grief.
“Hi, Steven,” I said, extending my hand. When he took it, something electric passed between us, unmistakable.
He gave the faintest smile. “Hello, John.”
And I realized then, with that simple greeting, whatever evening I had planned had just been rewritten.
“Come on in,” I said, doing my best to control the slight quiver in my voice. I stepped aside, and he crossed the threshold.
Steven entered the room with a natural ease, his movements unhurried but assured. He had the kind of posture that came from confidence, not vanity, shoulders back, steps even. There was strength in how he carried himself, a quiet sturdiness that made you notice even the simple way he turned his head to look around.
As he took in the space, my space, I caught myself imagining him in a different context. In a gym. On a bench press. Lifting weights with controlled precision, arms taut with effort. I blinked, pushing the image away, feeling strangely like a teenager again.
“Have a seat,” I offered. “Would you like something to drink?” The words sounded too rehearsed, too formal, like I was hosting a guest on autopilot.
He glanced at the cup of tea resting on the table beside my armchair. “Naw, I’m good,” he said with a quick shake of the head.
Then, reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a small envelope. “My dad told me to give this to you. Said you should read it right away.”
I raised an eyebrow, a little amused but mostly curious. “Well, I never refuse a direct order from a police officer,” I said as I slid a finger under the flap.
Inside were two twenty-dollar bills and a single piece of folded paper. The money surprised me. I opened the note and scanned the handwriting. I didn’t expect to feel anything, but something about seeing his script, a little messy, as if he were in a rush, struck me as suddenly intimate.
I looked up. Steven had wandered over to the small shelf next to the TV, eyes flicking over the spines of my modest movie collection.
“Do you know what this says?” I asked, still holding the note.
He turned back to me, a faint shrug in his shoulders. “No. What?”
I read it aloud.
“John. Thanks for taking care of the shirt. I thought you might be a good friend for my son. He’s also a homosexual and doesn’t have many friends. Have dinner on me and get to know one another. Q.”
Steven’s cheeks flushed instantly. Not a deep, dramatic blush, but a visible shift, like a curtain being pulled halfway across a window. He looked away, his jaw tightening slightly. I let out a nervous chuckle, trying to ease the moment.
“He told me you call him Q,” Steven said, his voice quieter now. “You know… we don’t have to go to dinner if you don’t want to.”
I tilted my head, watching him carefully. “Don’t you want to?”
There was a pause before he looked at me again. “Yeah. I do,” he admitted, eyes steady. “You’re good-looking, and… you seem like someone who cares about things, about people. I mean, most people wouldn’t have gone to the trouble over a shirt.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. There was a pause. I waited for him to say something more, but I saw his lips press together. “So your dad knows you're gay?”
Steven moved back to the couch and sat down slowly, as if deciding whether to commit to the seat, or the moment. “Yeah. He figured it out years ago.”
“I guess he knows that I am, too.” I slightly blew out some air, emptying my lungs, wondering what I’d confess next.
He gestured vaguely toward my cup. “Is that coffee?”
“Tea. Would you like me to make you a cup?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
I walked to the fridge anyway, pulling out a bottle of root beer. “How about this?”
Another head shake. “I’m fine, really.”
I returned to the living room and sat on the other side of the couch, giving him space but trying not to feel awkward about the space that remained. Something about his body language had shifted. His shoulders were tense, his fingers knit loosely in his lap. He wasn’t closed off, but he wasn’t entirely open, either.
So I waited.
After a moment, he spoke.
“I had this friend in college,” he began. “After graduation, I invited him to visit me at the house. I hadn’t told my dad anything about… you know. About me. But I guess he had his suspicions. Anyway, I thought, maybe, if I introduced this guy, it’d go over smoothly. I knew that Bruce was gay, but I hadn’t told him that I liked him.”
His eyes dropped to his hands. He twisted a loose thread on his jeans.
“Second morning he was here, I woke up to yelling. My dad was shouting. I ran down the hall, and… there was Bruce. Naked. In my dad’s bed. He’d snuck in while my dad was asleep and… tried something. I don’t know what exactly. My dad was furious.”
Steven exhaled. “I was so shocked I just blurted out, ‘You were supposed to be in my bed.’ And just like that, the truth was out.”
My heart ached for him. He said it matter-of-factly, but I could hear the sting beneath it.
He went on. “Later, my dad told me he’d hoped that Bruce might be something more. He wanted me to have the same happiness that he’d had with my mom. But as soon as he met him, he knew he wasn’t right for me.”
I watched him for a moment. “And now he’s wondering if I might be?”
Steven finally smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Maybe. He’s got a weird sense about people. It’s almost creepy sometimes.”
“Well,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “he thinks we could be friends. I think he’s right about that.”
Steven glanced sideways at me. “You still want to go out?”
I nodded. “I do. Honestly? I’d kill for some fish and chips.”
His grin widened. “Same here.”
We ended up at a small place called Fish Grill, with checkered tablecloths and battered wood booths. It wasn’t fancy, but the food was hot and crispy and made with pride. The kind of place where the waitress called us “sweetheart” and kept refilling our water glasses even though we hadn’t asked.
We talked for hours.
He told me about growing up with horses and dusty fields. I told him about college days that never quite lived up to the catalog photos. We compared notes on loneliness, how it can sneak in even when you're surrounded by people.
By the time we paid the bill, the street outside was glossy with light rain, reflecting the lamplight like spilled stars.
Back at my apartment, we lingered at the door.
Neither of us moved to open it.
There was no music playing. No wine to blame. Just a long, heavy pause, and something in the air that neither of us seemed ready to break.
He looked at me.
I looked back.
I don’t know who leaned in first.
But the kiss, when it came, was quiet. Intentional. It wasn’t desperate or rushed, it was tender, with a kind of relief in it. Like we were both finally doing something we’d been carefully not doing all evening.
When we pulled back, we were both slightly breathless.
I touched the side of his face. “Stay the night?”
He hesitated. “I can’t. I’ve got animals to feed early. But…”
He looked at me with a softness that I hadn’t seen from him before. “You could come with me. If you want. Pack a bag.”
I blinked. “Wouldn’t that be awkward? With your dad?”
Steven’s grin returned. “No. I think he’d actually be glad.”
I didn’t need to think long.
I packed a small bag, clothes, a toothbrush, enough for one night, maybe two.
We took his truck, and neither of us said much during the drive.
But even in the silence, I felt it.
The shift.
The turning of something long dormant, slow and real and entirely new.
Out past the glow of the streetlights and into the hush of open fields, we drove toward something uncertain.
But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t afraid of where it might lead.
The tires crunched over the gravel driveway, the sound sharp in the quiet night air. The main ranch house came into view, lit in warm yellow from a few windows, its big porch stretching out like a welcoming arm, or maybe like the drawbridge to a castle. My chest tightened, and not in a good way. I found myself wondering if Russell Q. Jackson, Steven’s father, was going to appreciate me sleeping over after a first date. Would he see it as too much, too soon?
A part of me wanted to believe Steven had prepared him for this, but another part… well, another part was remembering a case I’d read about back in college. A mother and daughter lured men to their home, then killed them for their wallets and watches. It was one of those true crime articles I’d read too late at night, the kind that stuck with you, little flickers of unease finding their way back at the oddest moments. My mind painted the porch light as too bright, too deliberate, and I imagined the front door opening just enough for a shotgun barrel to poke through.
I knew it was ridiculous, Steven was warm, grounded, nothing like the kind of man who would lure someone into danger, but my heartrate didn’t care about logic. It climbed anyway.
We slowed to a stop, the engine ticking in the cool air, and I stared at the door, my hand resting nervously on my knee. Steven reached over without warning and laced his fingers through mine. His thumb stroked the back of my hand once, twice, and he said softly, “You’ve already made me happier in my heart than I can remember.”
The words slid into me like warm honey. All that jittery energy in my chest eased, melting into something softer.
I smiled at him, relieved, and then the thought hit me, we didn’t bring the officer’s cleaned shirt. The one that had been folded neatly at my place. A flicker of guilt passed through me, but there was no turning back now.
Steven’s father answered the door himself. Russell Q Jackson was tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of man whose handshake you could feel all the way up your arm. His eyes, though, were the real surprise, soft and assessing all at once. The kind that told you he’d seen a lot in life, but was in no hurry to pass judgment.
To my relief, he seemed genuinely pleased I’d come. “Steven’s face tells me plenty,” he said, ushering us in. “I had a sense when I first met you, John.” His voice calmed me as if it were warm water rushing over me. I felt at home, at peace.
We ended up in the living room, a space filled with the smell of cedar and faint woodsmoke. Russell sat in a leather chair angled toward the hearth while Steven and I took the couch. Conversation came easily, ranch stories, a little talk about the weather, even a laugh over Steven’s habit of overpacking whenever he traveled. I found myself leaning back. This didn’t just feel like home, it was home.
Eventually, I excused myself to find the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror looked a little different than usual, lighter somehow, as if the tension I’d carried since the driveway had been quietly set down. I splashed water on my face, enjoying the feeling of coolness, and when I opened the door, the sound of voices drifted down the hallway.
Russell was saying, with a tone halfway between a tease and a challenge, “So, does Father know best?”
Steven laughed, a low and genuine sound. “Yes,” he said without hesitation.
I stepped back into the living room just in time to see Steven hugging his father. When he turned toward me, his eyes were wet.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
He nodded, smiling in that way that told me he really meant it.
Russell stood then, stretching. “Well, I’m off to bed. You boys enjoy the rest of your evening.”
The floorboards creaked under his boots as he disappeared down the hall, leaving me and Steven alone in the quiet, firelit room.
The quiet after Russell’s footsteps faded up the stairs seemed to wrap around us like a blanket. The hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint tick of a clock on the wall, those small sounds made the stillness between us even more noticeable.
I looked at Steven, the lamplight casting warm amber across his face, softening the lines of his jaw, turning his eyes into deep, glinting pools. “I’m so happy to be here with you,” I said, my voice low, almost hesitant, as if I were afraid the moment might shatter if I spoke too loudly.
He smiled, slow, genuine, and stepped closer until I could feel the heat from his body. Our lips met in the gentlest kiss, the kind that yields more than it takes. My hand drifted up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under the warm fabric of his shirt. His own hand came to rest over mine, pressing it more firmly against him, as if to say, Yes, you’re really here. I want you here.
Steven leaned in, his lips brushing the curve of my ear. His breath was warm when he whispered, “I think I want to take a shower before bed.”
A thrill ran through me, part surprise, part anticipation. I tilted my head just enough to catch his gaze, a small smile curling at the corner of my mouth. “Think you could use some help scrubbing your back?”
For a moment, he just stared at me, searching my face like he was memorizing something important, before the faintest, almost shy smile appeared. His eyes softened, and his voice dropped to a tender murmur. “I’ve already fallen for you. Scrub mine, and I’ll scrub yours.”
I chuckled under my breath, both touched and a little overwhelmed. “We’ll be squeaky clean forever, won’t we?”
His arms came around me then, strong and sure, pulling me in until there was no space between us. Our foreheads met, and we just stood there for a beat, breathing each other in, letting the quiet speak for us.
No more words were needed. He took my hand in his, his palm warm and certain around mine, and led me down the short hallway toward his bedroom. The ensuite door stood open, a faint scent of cedar and soap drifting out. The dim light spilling from inside seemed to promise more than just water and steam.
And with my hand still in his, I followed him in.
–Fin–
I had intended to end the story with an explicit description of John’s and Steven’s first night together, but after writing that last sentence, the story seemed complete. The reader knows what happens next without my having to spell it out. I hope you agree. --Danny
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
