Straight to the Morning

1. The Unexpected Reunion

Some things find their perfect form early, and just decide to keep it.

Gus Cooper Auto Repair is one of those things. It was the neighborhood fixture where families brought their cars for gas and TLC since before I was born. It’s been seventeen years since I graduated and got out of dodge, and it looks unchanged.

It's almost the only thing that hasn’t changed. The boxy, grey slate of new million-dollar townhomes looms on either side, sandwiching the lot, but Gus Cooper’s neon sign is still unable to make up its mind. The two busted letters flicker on and off: REPAIR PAIR REPAIR.

A bell chimes as I open the door into the dingy front office. Harsh fluorescents buzz overhead, yellowing the linoleum floor. The cash register looks like it must be original to the place. The little gum display too—not just the display, but the gum itself. And the empty “need a penny take a penny” tray. Do people even use pennies anymore?

I’d half expected to see the founder, Gus Cooper himself. But he looked older, worn, when I was a kid. He must be retired now. 

Instead, it’s a younger man entering from the garage in the rear, wiping his hands on a red shop rag. But I’d know that hair anywhere. One of the four Cooper brothers, all with the same burnished red hair, so distinctive they could have trademarked it: Cooper Red.

He bunches the rag up and shoves it into his back pocket. As he steps into the harsh light of the office, I see it’s Dino. The youngest—the one who was in my class. 

The top of his mechanic’s jumpsuit is unzipped, sleeves tied low around his waist. Up top he’s wearing a threadbare tee, snug on him—maybe something old he hasn’t quite realized he’s outgrown yet. It hugs his shoulders and chest.

He’s filled out—broader, thicker than I remember. He looks solid, with a slight, firm belly—a hint of a sturdy dad bod.

“It just wouldn’t start,” I say as he jots notes with a tiny pencil on a triplicate form on a clipboard—as if there’s been no new technology in the last century. “I tried again, and then again. Third time, the dash lit up like a Christmas tree. So I just drove it in. I live a few blocks away.”

I glance at the silent Audi out front, then back at the flip-chart clipboard, unsure if this Luddite setup can handle modern problems. “Is that… something you can check out?”

“Probably just gremlins,” he says, adding a last note in tiny, crabbed print. He looks up and his eyes catch on my face. He squints. “Do I know you?”

“I live in the neighborhood.” A non-answer. 

I can see the gears working. “Nah.” He taps the pencil on the clipboard as a grin spreads on his face. “I know you from high school. The debate guy.”

I put my hands up in mock surrender. “Avery.”

His head bobs, the itch of memory scratched. “Avery. That’s it. You haven’t been around, have you?”

“I live in California. Just here… temporary.”

I notice a baseball bat hanging on the wall behind Dino. Eager to change topics, I nod to it. “That for security?”

He looks bewildered, glances over his shoulder. “That? Nah, that’s a tire thumper.”

He says it as if I’d know what that is. I raise my eyebrows to signal my ignorance.

“For checking tire pressure on semis.” He mimics swinging the bat, his biceps flexing against the cut of the short sleeves. “You can hear from the sound if they’re underinflated." He grins. “I can tell a hundred, ninety-five, ninety psi.”

That’s when I see what’s different, other than the heavier build that suits him—the gap is gone. Dino had his front teeth fixed. He’s more handsome now, his jaw has a cleaner set to it.

“We were in Miss Macali’s English class,” he says, recall bubbling up. “You had a mouth on you.”

I give my best silent, tight smile. I wait.

“So. Yeah,” Dino says, taking the clue. “We’ll check it out. Give you a call when it’s ready. Might be the battery. Probably done Tuesday by noon.”

He holds the clipboard and pencil out for me. I catch the edge but don’t take it. “Tuesday? Today’s Friday.”

“You need it right away?”

“No—I—I work from home, but—it takes that long just to check it out?”

Dino stiffens, slightly. “We’re full up today, closed on weekends. Monday’s a holiday.” A beat. “My mechanics need days off.”

It’s a soft jab, but it lands. I suddenly see myself reflected in his eyes. My expensive glasses and watch. A nice car I don’t even understand. Expecting men who actually know things—who get their hands dirty—to work on holidays.

“Sorry," I say, and I mean it. "My days are—all kind of the same. I didn’t realize it was a holiday weekend.” I look down at the form, Dino’s tiny print. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it.”

We’re silent for a moment, the triplicate form between us. Then I feel his grip loosen, surrendering it.

“S’okay.”

I fill in my contact form under his gaze, look up and hand the clipboard back.

His eyes never leave me as he tears off the yellow copy of the form and hands it out between two fingers. There are little dark crescents under the blunt nails.

“Thanks,” I say, sliding the form out, hearing it rasp against his skin. 

I turn to leave but hear Dino. “Avery? Forgetting something?”

I turn, unsure.

“Keys.”

“Oh. Duh,” I say, taking the fob from its ring and holding it out in my palm. He doesn't just take it. He cups his hand under mine, calloused and warm, turning it into a handshake as the key falls into his grasp.

“Probably gremlins,” he adds as I turn to leave.

The bell rings behind me and I step out into the morning warmth, feeling like I passed a test. Just barely.

I make it as far as the sidewalk before I realize my left hand is still clenched on the tiny, yellow pencil. The wood is chewed at the end, the graphite tip dull.

Shit. I stole his pencil.

I stop, looking back toward the shop. I could go back. Instead, I slide the pencil into my pocket, resting against the glass of my iPhone.

There’s only one witness to the petty theft: the sign overhead, making another lazy turn. REPAIR PAIR REPAIR.

---

2. Quality Assurance

For the foreseeable future, my office is the dining room table in my parents' small craftsman house on Phinney Ridge.

It’s a practical arrangement in a practical house. My parents moved to Olympia two years ago to stretch their retirement savings, but they kept the Seattle property as a rental, or a “landing pad” for me. They’re the type of people who plan for earthquakes, market crashes, and their son’s relationship implosion. I am currently living out the third contingency.

My massive, curved 4K monitor hums in the center of the dinner table, looking distinctly out of place against the dark-finished wainscoting.

On the screen, the cursor blinks at the end of a sentence: Risk mitigation strategies for the Multi-City LGBT Senior Housing Partnership must account for fluctuating interest rates in secondary markets…

I stare at the words until they blur into gray static.

My hand drifts from the keyboard to the object resting beside my mouse: a little yellow pencil, property of Gus Cooper Repair.

I pick it up, rolling the ridges between my thumb and forefinger. I hold it up to my nose, hoping for a trace of Dino’s scent. I think about the way his biceps flexed when he mimed swinging that bat.

I can tell a hundred, ninety-five…

The dining chair creaks as I slide forward in it, my hand sliding down the front of my sweatpants. It’s Friday night. The risk assessment can wait.

I grab the bottle of lotion I keep in the drawer for dry hands—or for this—and squeeze a cool dollop onto my palm.

I’m full-on hard, surprisingly fast, stroking myself, hearing the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The image of Dino’s grin and the way his tee hugged his torso flashes behind my closed eyelids. My hand moves faster, clearing the static from my head.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

I jolt at the knock on the front door. My knee hits the underside of the table with a painful thud.

"Shit," I hiss.

Who the hell is knocking at 8 PM?

I look down. I’m a mess—fully hard and slick with lotion. I want to ignore the door, but if it’s a delivery from a client who—

Bam. Bam.

“Coming!” I yell, my voice cracking slightly.

I wince as I shove my lotioned cock back into my briefs. The friction against the fabric is agonizingly good and terrible at the same time.

I look for a tissue, a towel—anything to wipe my hand on. 

I yank my t-shirt over my head, blot the excess lotion from my hand, wad the shirt and rise up, clutching it in my right hand to hide the evidence.

When the heavy door swings open, I’m shirtless and shivering slightly in the cool air, trying to ignore the throbbing in my pants.

It’s Dino.

He’s rocking up and down on the balls of his feet on the welcome mat, buzzing with a restless sort of energy. The jumpsuit is gone, replaced by dark jeans and a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows.

“Dino?” I blink, trying to imagine what could bring a mechanic to my porch after hours. I have visions of my Audi in a fireball. “Is the car okay?”

“What?” He stops bouncing, looking confused. “Oh, it’s fine. I got curious. Hooked it up to the diagnostics after we closed up. It was just a loose sensor connection. Computer thought the sky was falling.”

“So… it’s fixed?” I ask, gripping the t-shirt tighter in my fist.

“Running like a top. Figured I’d drop it off. Save you the weekend waiting.”

He flicks his wrist and the key arcs up through the porch light.

I nearly drop the wadded shirt, fumbling to catch the fob—barely trapping it against my sternum with my left hand.

It’s an embarrassing, uncoordinated moment. But Dino grins, enjoying the scramble.

If it were anyone else, I would push back on the car being such a simple fix—ask if he was sure. But this is Gus Cooper’s son. His ancestors probably fixed the pioneer wagons on the Oregon Trail. Going back further, there was probably a red-headed Cooper caveman who fixed the very first wheel.

“That’s—incredible. Thank you.” I instinctively move to pat my back pocket for my wallet, but realize two things: I’m in sweatpants, and my right hand is currently compromised. I freeze.

“Hold on, I—I don’t have my wallet on me. How much for the—”

Dino holds up a hand, stopping me. “Don’t worry about it.”

I blink, feeling the unfamiliar weight of an unpaid debt. “You went way overboard. I have to pay you something.”

“Eh, sometimes you do things to help an old friend,” Dino says. 

An old friend. The words hang in the evening air between us. Is that what we are?

“Unless,” he adds, “you wanna get a burger? Shoot the breeze? We could test your car. Just to be sure.”

He looks past me, into the hallway, then back to me, taking in my bare chest. His eyes dip to the wadded-up t-shirt in my hand, then lower, to the waistband of my sweats where things are… barely contained. 

"If you're not busy," he adds. 

I realize I smell like lotion. 

"Laundry night," I mumble out, feeling the heat rush up my neck.

Over his shoulder I can see my car parked on the street. Then I look at Dino, waiting. Under the warm glow of the porch light, that hair—Cooper Red—looks like a beacon.

“Let me wash my hands,” I say. “And put on a shirt.”

As he relaxes, I add, “You drive,” and toss the keys, hoping to catch him off guard.

He snatches them out of the air with his left hand, not even looking, his eyes still fixed on me with a smirk.

"Take your time," he says.

---

3. Thought Partners

Dick’s Drive-In has been an orange neon lit institution for my whole life. No seating, no special orders. The lot is packed with families with little kids in cars, and teenagers milling around the outdoor counters.

We eat in the car, the windows rolled down just an inch to let the steam escape. It’s not high-end dining—Dick’s burgers are small, steamed, and slide down your throat without much resistance—but the smell of onions, mustard, and nostalgia fills the cabin.

It almost masks the faint, oaty scent of the lotion in my briefs. 

Dino reaches for the dashboard, bypassing my presets as if they’re unlucky accidents, flipping through stations until the bass thumps against the floorboards. Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark floods the car.

"Classic," he mutters, unwrapping his cheeseburger with surgical precision.

I take a bite of mine, savoring the familiar, soggy squish of the bun. I look at Dino—flannel shirt, bobbing his head to the Boss, devouring a burger. His nails are scrubbed clean—no little crescents of car grease.

"Eating carbs," I say, licking my lips. "Listening to Springsteen—might be the straightest thing I’ve ever done."

Dino stops chewing. He looks at me, surprised, and then a deep, raspy laugh busts out of him. He grins, taking a long, loud drag from his chocolate shake.

"Glad I could help you broaden your horizons, Avery."

I shift in the seat, feeling my briefs slide against my slicked skin—a sticky, secret reminder of what I was doing twenty minutes ago.

"So. You inherited the business?"

"Pop retired three years ago. Arizona. None of my brothers were dumb enough to take it." He dips a fry into his shake—a chaotic choice—and eats it. "Competition’s fierce. Not like the old days. The big chains can shave off a fraction of a cent on a gallon of gas easy. How am I supposed to compete with that? That’s my whole profit margin some days.”

“But everyone loves your place. It’s a tradition.”

“The big chains call me once a week,” he says. "They want to buy the station. Slap a corporate logo on the sign, automate the pumps, turn the garage into a glorified convenience store."

"You'd sell?" I freeze, mid-bite.

"Maybe," he says, unwrapping his second burger. "Go sit on a beach in Mexico for a few years."

The thought of Dino in board shorts under the Mexican sun has a certain appeal. My cock gives a heavy twitch, sliding in my briefs in the residual lotion, sensitized and aching.

He turns back to me. "What do you call it again? Your fancy job?"

"I'm a consultant," I say, downplaying it instinctively. "I mostly work with non-profits—the kind with endowments that can afford my rates. I like doing good, but I like being paid for it. Mostly on strategy and…" I wait a beat, as if confessing. “'Thought partnership,' they call it."

"Thought partnership," Dino repeats, testing the words like they might taste bad. “Like Mr. Spock?”

He puts three of his fingers against my temple and furrows his brow with mock concentration.

“That’s the mind meld,” I say, batting away his hand, shaking my head, but a little thrilled at the touch.

"So you charge a lot of money to tell people what they already know," he teases, then taking a big bite.

"Sometimes," I admit. "But mostly... mostly I just listen."

Dino raises an eyebrow.

"It sounds cliché," I say, "but CEOs can be... lonely. They can't vent to their board of directors because the board will think they're weak and uncertain. And they can't vent to the people who report to them because they have to inspire confidence."

I crumple my burger wrapper. "They have all this pressure and nowhere to put it. So I come in. I'm the one person in the room with no agenda. Help them think through the problems. I'm the confidante."

I look back at Dino. "Everyone wants someone they can be themselves with. Even the guys in the corner offices."

Dino goes quiet. He looks down at his shake, swirling the straw slowly. 

"Yeah," he says softly. "I get that."

He looks up, his gaze dropping to my mouth. Without a word, he reaches out. His thumb brushes the corner of my lip, rough and warm, wiping away a smear of mustard I hadn't felt.

The air in the car suddenly feels very thin.

"You missed a spot," he says.

I stare at him. "I’ve been wiping my own mouth since I was… twenty, at least."

Dino chuckles, wiping his thumb on a napkin, the intensity breaking. "Sorry. Dad reflexes."

The word lands in the center console between us.

"Dad?" I arch an eyebrow, looking at him sideways. "You have kids?"

He nods, taking a sip of his shake. "Two."

I can't help myself. The image is too vivid, too funny not to share. "Mini Coopers? Orangey-red paint jobs? Gap-toothed grilles?"

Dino laughs, a sharp bark of sound, but then his hand goes up to his mouth for a split second—a reflex, covering the smile he paid to fix.

"Something like that," he says, chewing the last of his second burger. "But smarter than me."

He clears his throat, shifting gears—literally and figuratively. He puts the car in drive. "Come on."

Instead of heading home, he drives us past the landmarks as if I’m a tourist in my own city. We cruise past the Fremont Troll, lurking under the bridge. We wind along the Ballard Locks, where the salmon swim up fish ladders on their way to spawn, and then Golden Gardens, where the moonlight chops against the black waves of the Sound.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, humming along to the classic rock station. His thick forearms are bare, and I look up to see the streetlights catching his ruddy cheeks, the curve of his jaw.

It’s nearly 2:00 AM when he pulls up to the curb in front of my parents’ house. The porch light is still on, a warm yellow square in the darkness.

When he kills the engine, the silence is sudden and weighted.

"Passed the test," he says, patting the dashboard. "Sensor held. No gremlins."

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks for... everything. The fix. The burger. The tour."

"Quality assurance," he reminds me.

He hands me the key. His fingers brush mine again.

"Well," he says, opening his door. "I'm out."

I step out onto the curb, watching him ball up his fists into his pockets. It’s chilly. We both know his place is only two blocks away, so there’s no awkward offer of a ride.

"See you around, Avery," he says. Not goodbye. Just see you around.

"Yeah. See you."

I watch him walk away down the street, hands in his pockets, his stride long and easy. He passes under a streetlamp, and for a second, his hair catches the light—Cooper Red, glowing against the gray mist—before he disappears into the dark.

---

4. Succession Planning

Saturday starts with Freddie Mercury.

When I slide into the driver’s seat of my car and press the ignition, I expect the eclectic sounds of KEXP, the independent station I favor—a little buildup for my workout. Instead, I’m jolted by the booming, rock opera of Queen’s I Want to Break Free.

It’s still set on the station Dino tuned to last night: 102.5 KZOK. Classic Rock.

I reflexively move to change the setting—but I stop, leaving it where it is. I drive with the windows up and the bass thumping.

The early morning gym is full of people already trying to outrun their weekends. I hit sink into the rhythm of a leg day. In the mirror, I glance at my own form—long limbs, the lean build I’ve maintained since college. I’m vertical—defined and architectural—unlike the dense mass of the man who sat in my car last night.

Between sets on the squat rack, I catch eyes with a guy near the dumbbells. He’s conventionally handsome, my age. Wearing a sleeveless tee that shows off a lot of expensive maintenance. He gives a small, inviting nod. I nod back.

In San Francisco—or even last week—I would have lingered by the water fountain, made conversation, maybe turned a Saturday workout into a Saturday night.

The image of a flannel shirt and rough hands leaves the chiseled gym guy seeming lifeless in comparison. I finish my set and leave without looking back.

By 2:00 PM, I’m back in the bunker. My long legs are cramped under the dining room table as I scan a rendering on my laptop. When my phone buzzes on the oak surface, the name Steven flashes on the screen.

I swipe to answer, putting it on speaker. "Tell me you're not spiraling."

"I’m not spiraling," Steven says, his voice tight with the specific coil of a man who is absolutely spiraling. "I’m just... concerned. The San Diego partners are getting cold feet about the zoning timeline. If they pull out, the matching grant from the foundation evaporates."

"They won't pull out," I say, leaning back in the creaky chair. I let my own voice drop to a deeper register, slowing things down, inviting him to meet me there. "They've already sunk fifty grand into the feasibility study. They're just posturing to get us to cover the permit expediting costs."

"You think?"

I can hear his tone softening, dropping to get nearer to mine. I go a little deeper, drawing him down lower still.

"Isn’t it the same play they ran in Sacramento? What if we offer to cover fifty percent of the expediting fees? It'll cost the project five grand, but it saves a lot more."

I hear the long, heavy exhale on the other end of the line. The sound of a man stepping back from the ledge.

"God," Steven breathes. "You have this way of making everything seem like it’s going to be okay."

"That's because it is going to be okay, Steven. It’s just permits."

"Right. Permits." He sounds relieved, the panic replaced by the practical.

There is a pause, heavy with unsaid things.

"How's Rudy?" I ask, sensing the panic ease.

"He's... having a good day. The nausea is down. He’s actually sitting up in the sunroom right now, critiquing the gardener’s pruning technique through the window."

"That sounds like a good sign."

"Yeah." Static crackles on the line. "Listen, Avery. I was talking to the Board Chair yesterday. We need to stop pretending this arrangement is temporary."

"Steven, we talked about this. I'm happy to keep consulting on the—"

"I don't want a consultant," he cuts in. "I want a successor."

I freeze. "What?"

"Rudy's treatment... it’s going to be a long road. And even if it goes perfectly, I’m tired, Avery. I don't want to be the guy putting out fires at midnight forever. I want to be the guy sitting in the sunroom with my husband."

"Steven..."

"I need a Deputy Director now, but in two years? Maybe less? I want it to be you in the big chair. If you put in some time, show the Board you’re committed, you’d be a shoo-in."

It’s the golden ticket. A massive title, a legacy, a return to the life I spent seventeen years building. Being hand-picked to lead one of the most influential foundations on the West Coast.

I look around the dining room. The dark wainscotting, the silence of my parents' empty house. 

I came back to sort myself out. I don’t know what I need to do, but I know I haven’t done it yet.

"I can't move back right now," I say. "Unfinished business here."

"Is there someone?" Steven asks. "In Seattle?"

I look at the yellow pencil resting next to my laptop.

"Good lord, no," I say, a little too quickly. "That is the last thing I need. Look—let's get San Diego locked down first. Then we can talk about org charts."

Steven sighs, resigned but not defeated. "Fine. But I’m not hiring anyone else until you give me a hard no. The seat is yours to lose."

The rest of the day is a gray blur of drafting reports until night falls early, the dark settling over Phinney Ridge like a blanket.

I heat up leftovers—a rotation of perfectly portioned Tupperware containers, macro-balanced and utterly efficient—and peruse the porn on my external drive, looking for a particular red-headed performer.

At 8:30 PM, the knock comes.

It’s softer than last night. I don't scramble this time. I’m dressed—jeans and a sweater that hangs loose on my frame. I know even before opening the door.

It’s Dino.

He’s wearing a canvas work jacket, unzipped over a white t-shirt. He’s bouncing again, his eyes bright in the porch light.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," Dino answers, leaning against the doorway, keys in his hand. 

Parked at the curb is a black Chevy Tahoe. It’s a few years old—the kind of heavy, boxy rig that takes up a lane and a half. A dad vehicle.

He grins, and for a second, he looks exactly like the boy who used to sit three rows behind me in English class.

"You want to see something beautiful?"

---

5. The Black Sun

"Come on," he says twenty minutes later, as we leave the Tahoe.

The Art Deco façade of the Asian Art Museum casts long shadows in the moonlight, and a little further on is a massive, dark O.

The Black Sun—or, as locals call it, the donut— frames a view of the Seattle cityscape through a monumental 12-ton ring of smooth, black granite. It’s one of the city’s most trafficked stops, a hub for selfies, kids sitting in the ring, couples kissing.

But that’s during the day. This is night, and it’s something different.

Through the circular carved hole, the Space Needle glows in the distance, centered in the aperture like a bullseye. Beyond it, the grid of the city sprawls out, a carpet of glittering lights in the black velvet backdrop.

"Wow," I breathe.

"Yeah," Dino says.

He raises his arms and hoists himself up onto the pedestal base. It’s casual, unconscious athleticism. I imagine the muscles in his triceps and back bunching up under the canvas jacket, the easy leverage of his hips as he draws up a knee and settles onto the curved stone.

He looks down at me, offering a hand. 

I ignore the hand—a point of pride—and vault up beside him—lighter, more fluid. A different grade of athleticism than Dino’s mechanical power. Settling cross-legged, the cold granite seeps through the rear of my jeans.

"You come here often?" I ask.

"A lot," he admits. He rests his back against the sculpture, drawing his knees up. "Since the divorce... I don't know. The house gets too quiet."

He looks out at the city lights. "I drive around the city. Nowhere in particular. Weekends especially. Sometimes I just keep moving until the sun comes up. Straight to the morning."

On the path below us a couple walks by, hand-in-hand. The laughter drifts up. They don't see us perched up here in the shadows—they just lean into each other, existing in their own private orbit.

"I never learned how to be alone," Dino says, his voice low. "I went from my parents' house with my brothers, to moving in with my ex-wife.”

“You miss being married?”

“I never really decided anything. It all just... happened. The marriage. The house. The kids. The divorce. I woke up one day and I was thirty-five and I realized I’d never spent a Friday night by myself."

His eyes fall on another couple strolling past, a dog trotting between them. "Now I have nothing but Friday nights."

“I remember you guys in school,” I say. “The Cooper Brothers. Red hair. Dominated every sport.” I glance at his profile. “Must have been a loud house.”

“Every day was like the 4th of July,” Dino chuckles, lightly, his thick fingers exploding in mock fireworks.

I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "I have an MBA."

Dino looks at me, confused.

"Masters in Being Alone,” I say, allowing myself a wry smile.

Dino snorts. A puff of white breath escaping into the air.

"I started early," I continue. "Only child of introverted parents. Gay kid in school. You learn to live in your own head. By the time I got recruited for the consulting firm, I was a pro."

I rest my palms on the smooth cool of the granite under us. "The other guys hired with me started coupling up after a few years, buying condos—wanting to travel less. But I loved it. The anonymity of a hotel room. Cutting through airports like a razor. The dinner for one at the bar. I think the travel was the only reason it lasted so long—my ex and me."

"You were together while you were on the road?"

"For five years. But I was gone three weeks out of four. In retrospect, the distance was the glue. It’s easy to get along when you’re FaceTiming from a W Hotel in Chicago. It’s harder when you’re sharing a bathroom on a Tuesday."

Dino is quiet for a long moment. "So how did it end?"

“‘Little by little,’ I say, quoting a man who could express the nature of loss better than I ever could. “‘And then all at once.’”

He shifts on the stone, the fabric over his knee against mine.

"When I had a good enough network to start my own consulting practice. More risk, less money—but I could pick and choose who to work with. I could settle down, enjoy the fruits of my labor, so to speak. I had a nice car and a good watch from when I made more money. We had the apartment, the routine. But one day, we were out to lunch. Nice place, white tablecloths. And I looked over at the bar."

I can still see it. The polished mahogany, the mid-day light hitting the marble top.

"There were three people sitting there. Singles. Eating lunch alone, reading books, scrolling on their phones. And I felt this... pang. This absolute ache. I didn't want the table for two. I wanted to be them. I wanted to be the stranger again."

He waits.

"That’s how I knew it was over."

I let out a little, involuntary murmur. Once I said it out loud, it wasn't slow. It was a cool division of assets. A lease broken. A long drive. I came back here to the landing pad to lick my wounds.

Dino turns to look at me. The moonlight washes out the red in his hair, turning it to a dark copper. He looks incredibly handsome.

"Little by little," he repeats softly. "Yeah. I guess that's how it goes."

He doesn't move to leave. He just sits there, his shoulder pressing warmly against mine, looking out at the city, sitting against the ring of black stone. Below us, the couples keep wandering by, oblivious to the two ghosts haunting the view above them.

---

6. Armor

"Ready to come down?" Dino asks.

He hops off the pedestal first, his boots hitting the grass with a heavy thud. He turns and offers me a hand again. This time, I take it. His grip is warm, and steadying as I slide down from the granite, my sneakers nearly silent against the damp earth.

We join the slim stream of others drifting onto the paved path into the park.

We pass a couple sitting on a bench, wrapped in a single oversized coat, murmuring things we can’t hear but can easily guess. Further down, two college kids are sharing a vape, giggling as the smoke curls into the mist.

"Look at them," I say, my voice dropping to that cool, detached register I use in boardrooms when I report on plans gone awry. "They think they’ve invented it. The romance. The spark."

Dino glances at them, then at me. "They look happy."

"For now," I say. "But before it's over, they'll wish they'd never met."

Dino looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed. "Ouch."

I blink, realizing how bitter that sounded. "Sorry. I just... I know the statistics."

"There it is," Dino says, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "There’s that mouth."

I bristle a little. "What?"

"In the shop. The first day you came in. I told you—you always had a mean mouth on you. Even back then."

"A mean mouth?” I let some of my indignation seep out. “I think you’re forgetting I was the skinny, out gay kid. I was trying to get by." I can’t resist adding the last part. "I didn't have three brothers to back me up."

Dino’s expression softens. "Yeah."

"I didn't think you even knew I was alive," I say, looking at him. "We never said more than twelve words to each other in four years."

"Are you kidding?" Dino laughs softly. "You were the Debate Kid. City-wide champion two years running. You were always in the announcements."

"Yeah, well," I mutter, looking away. "That was an accident."

"Winning a city championship is an accident?"

"I just joined because the club met during gym class," I admit. "I just wanted to get out of gym. It turned out I was good at arguing. If you do it in the locker room, you get a black eye, but if you do it at a podium you get an award."

Dino nods slowly. "Armor."

“Armor? I guess."

Dino looks me over. “Looks like you outgrew your gym allergy.”

He taps the side of my bicep with a knuckle—a casual touch.

"That’s different," I say, waving a hand dismissively. "That’s gay gym.”

I glance at his broad shoulders, the thickness of his neck. Think about the size of his biceps straining against the sleeves of his tee. “But you. You look in shape.”

“Mmm. I lift a little. You gotta do something, right? Use it or lose it.”

We walk on, the gravel crunching under our feet.

"Sometimes... man, you were brutal.” He snorts. “You remember Kyle Miller?"

"I remember him.”

"Captain of the wrestling team," Dino says. "Student vote to speak at graduation."

“I definitely remember him.”

"He was practicing that speech in rehearsal in the gym,” Dino says, shaking his head. “He was going on and on about how these were the best days of our lives, but the future was even brighter.”

I brace myself.

"And you whispered," Dino continues, a spark of amusement in his eyes, "loud enough for him to hear—‘Don't get used to the feeling, Kyle. You just peaked. It’s all downhill from here, straight to middle management.’"

I groan. "I forgot about that." Sort of.

"I didn't," Dino says, chuckling. "I was drinking Gatorade. It came out my nose. I thought the principal was going to kill us both."

"Kyle Miller shoved me into a radiator freshman year. He’s the reason I ate lunch in the art room for three semesters," I say. "And he had terrible grammar."

"Well," Dino says, looking at me sideways. "Kyle manages a rental car branch in Tacoma now. He’s divorced again. So you weren't wrong."

I might have laughed, once. But now, with Dino looking on, it just feels embarrassing. “Not like I haven’t made my own mess of things.”

We walk in silence for a moment, the tension of the cynical comment dissolving into the shared history. It feels surprisingly good to be seen—not just as the successful consultant or the lonely divorcee, but as the kid who fought back the only way he knew how.

The path curves ahead, leading back toward the parking lot and the streetlights.

"You know," he says quietly. "My armor was different. I just got quiet. I figured if I didn't say anything, just did whatever my brothers did, nobody would notice I didn't know who I was."

He stops. He looks toward the light, then looks back at me. He seems to be weighing something—another risk, another calculation.

He doesn't brush my lip this time. He doesn't clap my shoulder. He laces his fingers through mine—a deliberate, undeniable action. Not a dad reflex. Not a mistake.

"Come on," Dino says.

I look down at our joined hands—my long smooth fingers against his work-worn ones as he tugs me gently—not toward the truck, but away from the streetlights, away from the path, and deeper into the dark of the park.

---

7. Restricted Access

There’s a sign wired to the mesh—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—but the gate is hanging open on one hinge, a metal mouth yawning at the dark.

“That’s restricted,” I whisper. But when Dino’s grin tugs through the dark, I can't help the smile.

He pulls me through the gap. The ground is uneven, cracked asphalt overtaken by blackberry brambles and wet ferns. It feels illicit, stepping out of the manicured park and into something wilder.

“Hold on, hold on,” I say, pulling his hand until he stops. 

“It’s okay," he says, squeezing my hand. "I know where I’m going.”

It’s dark here, the moon filtered through the heavy canopy, isolating us in a pocket of shadows.

“Not that,” I start, the guilt from the past still nagging at me. “About my… ‘mean mouth’...”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

We’re so close the clouds from our breath are colliding in the cold air.

“No, it’s okay… I just… I just hope I wasn’t mean to you.”

His voice lowers. “You never said anything to me at all.”

“Well. I should have.”

He looks at me, his expression shifting from amusement to something else. “I thought you had the prettiest mouth.”

The air leaves my lungs.

"Yeah?" I ask. I take a step closer, closing the gap. "You thought that?"

"Yeah," Dino says, his voice rough. "Still do."

I lean in, giving him the chance to back away. He doesn't. I press my mean mouth to his—tentatively at first. His lips are cool from the night air, but warm underneath.

For a heartbeat, he freezes. Then he surges forward—his tongue tasting mine, wrestling.

My hands find his chest, where I feel his heart thudding like a drum.

I break the kiss but I don't stop. I trail my lips down his jawline, scraping against the rough stubble, down to the pulse point at his neck.

I slide my hands down, over his ribs, and down until my fingers hook into the buckle of his belt.

Dino sucks in a sharp breath. His hands hover over my shoulders, uncertain. "Avery."

"Let me show you," I whisper, as I drop to my knees.

I work the heavy leather belt, the metal chinking softly in the silence, and undo the button.

The ground is damp, soaking instantly into the knees of my jeans, but I don't care. I’m focused entirely on the landscape in front of me.

When I pull his zipper down and free him, the sight makes my breath catch. His cock is thick, heavy and pale, nesting in a dense thatch of rust-colored hair—Cooper Red. I pull the fabric down, releasing him into the cool night air.

"Avery" Dino whispers, looking down.

I don't wait. I wrap my left hand around the base of him, anchoring him—he’s hot, velvet-soft steel. My right hand grips his thigh, digging into the heavy denim to steady myself against the tense muscle beneath.

When I take him into my mouth, Dino lets out a low, guttural groan. His hands land on my head, his fingers resting lightly in my hair.

I take him deep, letting my throat adjust to the size of him, and then I start to work.

I use my tongue, trailing up the underside and swirling over the sensitive ridge of the crown. I bob my head, lubing him with spit and sliding down the length of him, tightening my lips on the upstroke to create a suction that makes his hips push forward.

"F-fuck," Dino stammers. "Avery. God."

I love the power of it. This man—this sturdy, unshakeable Cooper brother who fixes everything for everyone else—is coming undone. And I’m doing it.

I pick up the pace, my left hand pumping the base of him while my mouth works the head and length. I can hear his breathing turning jagged, bordering on hyperventilation. His grip in my hair tightens, pulling me closer, silently begging for more.

He starts to move with me, his heavy thighs trembling against my palm. He thrusts into my mouth and I meet him, taking him deeper, swallowing him whole—determined to wreck him.

He’s close. I can feel the tension winding up in his hips, the way his groan turns into a high, thin sound of need.

"Avery," he gasps. "I can't... I'm gonna..."

I tighten my mouth, my throat, preparing to take everything he has, when—

Snap. Crunch.

The sound of a heavy boot on gravel cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.

"Did you hear that?" a voice asks, uncomfortably close.

We freeze.

Dino goes rigid. His hands clamp onto my head, halting me instantly.

"I think it came from the maintenance road," another voice says. "Probably just a raccoon."

A flashlight beam sweeps through the trees above us, cutting a white arc through the leaves. It misses us by ten feet, lighting up the underside of the canopy like a spotlight.

Dino pulls out of my mouth, steps back. I scramble to my feet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, as he fumbles to fix his jeans.

I find myself a little giddy with the thrill of being caught—the adrenaline spike of a teenager. But Dino is quiet.

We scramble deeper into the brush, moving parallel to the fence until we find another gap in the ivy. We slip through, emerging near the reservoir, hearts pounding—and our bodies aching with unfinished business.

We walk fast back to the truck. Dino isn't looking at me anymore. He’s scanning the path, checking the shadows. His armor back in place.

---

8. The Rendering

The drive back to my parents’ home is a study in tension.

The windows are down, letting the wind dry the sweat clinging to our clothes. The silence in the SUV isn't peaceful. It's electric with the adrenaline of the near-miss and the frustration of the interruption.

But Dino’s gripping the steering wheel like he’s trying to strangle it.

He rolls up to the curb in front of my parents’ house but leaves the engine idling. The low rumble vibrates through the seat and under my skin.

He stares straight ahead, his jaw working. He looks like a man who is ready to bolt.

I realize I need to de-escalate this. He’s wound tight.

"Sorry," I say quietly, breaking the silence. Bringing my own blood pressure down, drawing him down with me. "About the timing. That was... unfortunate."

Dino lets out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his messy hair. "Yeah."

“I mean… it’s the gay neighborhood,” I offer, trying to lighten the mood. “That probably happens all the—”

He looks at me then—eyes dark, a flush high on his cheekbones. He looks like he doesn't know what to do with the energy buzzing under his skin.

"I should..." He gestures vaguely at the road.

I look at him. I’m not ready for him to drive away. Not like this.

"Want to see something beautiful?" I ask, using his own words.

Curiosity wars with the flight instinct in his eyes. Curiosity wins.

"Show me."

Inside, Dino stops in the archway, looking around. "Wow. Oak floors. Mahogany built-ins," he notes, running his hand over the dark wainscotting. "Not like that laminate crap they put in the townhomes next door. They don't build 'em like this anymore."

"Last one left on the block," I say. "It looks like the house in Up."

I don’t mention how much I’d prefer a sleek modern townhome myself—free of history.

My curved monitor is glowing in the dark room, the only light source. The rendering I was working on earlier is still there.

"This is it," I say, walking over to the table. "The bunker."

Dino walks around the heavy oak table, moving slowly. I sit and he leans in over my shoulder, squinting at the screen.

"What is it?" he asks.

"LGBTQ Senior housing,” I say, sitting down and grabbing the mouse.

I start the walkthrough. The screen fills with the lobby—warm woods, natural light.

"Most gay seniors don't have kids," I say. "They don't have that safety net. There’s a terrible isolation problem. And because so many live on fixed incomes, they get pushed out of the gay neighborhoods to areas where there are fewer services for them. Away from the communities they built.”

I click through to the courtyard.

“So we’re building this. One hundred and fifty units. Some at market rate, to help subsidize the rent-controlled majority—but they all look exactly the same. So you can’t tell which are low-income and which aren’t.”

I click again, showing the layout of the residential block.

"We’re trying to do this in five cities in California," I explain, my voice finding its rhythm. "This is the pilot. The idea is to create a model that scales. Efficient. Replicable. Respectful."

I point to the ground floor. "Healthcare center on site. An open community space—not just for the residents. We want the younger queer kids coming in, mixing with the older crowd. Bridging the gap. Keep the history alive."

I zoom in on the event space. "Yoga. Writing workshops. Community meals. And—at my insistence—Saturday night disco."

Dino cracks a smile. "Disco?"

"Absolutely. Steven and I jokingly call the place 'Queen Acres,'" I say with a dry smile. "This is the Foundation’s flagship project. Basically half my business is wrapped up in making sure this thing stands up."

I look at the rendering—the little digital avatars sitting on the digital benches under the virtual trees.

"The retainer pays the bills," I say, roaming the rendering. "It buys me the margin to take on the smaller non-profits at discount, or pro bono. There’s a youth shelter… a trans advocacy group that can't afford a strategist. But this... this is the engine."

Dino’s eyes are on the screen, his big hand resting on my back as he leans in closer.

I don’t mean to say so much. I can feel my guard slipping.

I swallow, looking at a digital figure sitting alone on a bench.

"They fought for everything we have," I whisper.

The words come out on their own, unbidden. I’m not pitching the project anymore. I’m just confessing the thing that keeps me awake at 3 AM to a man I barely know.

"They survived the plague. They survived the laws.” My voice is barely audible. “They shouldn't have to survive loneliness too."

I move the mouse to the structural view, but Dino’s hand covers mine—huge, warm, and rough, engulfing my fingers.

He presses down gently, using my hand to guide the mouse, panning the camera slowly back across the courtyard.

He’s taking it all in—the details, the scope, the care put into every line.

"Avery," he says quietly, still steering my hand through the virtual world. “You did all this?”

I look up. He’s staring at the rendering, the glow of the screen on his handsome profile.

"What? Oh, God. No," I say quickly, feeling the need to be precise. "There are designers, planners… a whole campaign. There’s a… solar system at work. I’m just a comet, in my own… eccentric little orbit. I do some strategy, help Steven. Thought partnership.”

I withdraw my hand from the warm cap of his, stand up.

Dino doesn't step back. He stays right there, deep in my personal space. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eye.

"Dino," I breathe.

He doesn't say anything else. He reaches out, his large hands clamping onto my hips. With barely a grunt of effort, he hoists me up.

I gasp as he sits me firmly on the edge of the heavy oak table, shoving the keyboard aside with my thigh. My legs part automatically for him. He steps between them, anchoring me there.

He kisses me, hard, and this time there are no flashlights, no interruptions. There’s just Dino, the ticking clock, and the thud of my belt hitting the table as we pick up where we left off.

---

9. Torque

There's no slow build this time. We burned through the preamble in the bushes at the park. Now, there’s only the need to finish what we started.

Dino kisses me like he’s trying to breathe for both of us. His hands are heavy on my hips, pulling me near. I wrap my legs around his waist, closing the gap, to feel the undeniable hardness of him against me.

"Avery," he groans, breaking the kiss to bury his face in the crook of my neck. His stubble scrapes my skin. "Jesus."

I fumble with his belt again—the heavy leather buckle I’ve already conquered once tonight. I pull it through the loops, and it drops to the hardwood floor with a heavy clack, followed by the sound of his zipper.

I pull his jeans open, and he shoves them down his thighs, then his briefs, kicking to widen his stance. He’s thick and heavy, pressing against the fabric between his cock and my rear..

"Oh fuck," I mutter, holding his cock as his teeth graze my neck.

I lift my rear to shove my jeans and briefs down to my ankles and off one foot, clearing the way. My t-shirt bunches up under my arms as I lean back, my elbow hitting the mouse, sending the little pencil rolling off the table.

Dino pulls back, eyes scanning me as I perch on the edge of my parents’ dining table. My own cock is stiff, sticky with precum from back at the park. He reaches for my hips, his hands trembling slightly.

"Hold on," I gasp.

My brain, even now, runs the logistics. Friction. Mechanics.

I reach blindly behind me, scrabbling until my fingers close around the pump bottle of moisturizer.

"Here," I whisper.

I pump it into my palm—cold, white lotion that smells faintly of oats—and reach between us.

Dino watches me, his chest rising and falling under the thin tee. He looks mesmerized as I wrap my hand around him, coating him, slicking him. He feels massive under my touch.

"God," he hisses, hips bucking involuntarily against my hand.

"Easy," I murmur, though my own heart is hammering against my ribs.

I use the rest of the lotion on myself, a quick, necessary preparation. Then I lean back, bracing my hands on the edge of the oak beneath me.

"Come here," I say, hiking up my legs.

Dino fits between my thighs like he was made for the space. He catches the underside of one thigh, the other hand positioning himself at my entrance. His eyes are locked on the point where we meet, his jaw working with focus.

His grip tightens, and he pushes forward.

It’s a slow, filling pressure—thick and solid, stretching me, filling the empty space. I bite my lip, locking the sound in my throat as he finishes the long slow slide, burying himself in me. I can’t help but release a long, low, “Fuckkkk.”

"You okay?" Dino rumbles, freezing. He shudders; the effort of holding still clearly costs him.

I almost laugh. "Don't stop," I gasp, pulling him closer with my legs, an ankle locking at the small of his back. "Don't fucking stop."

He doesn’t.

He pulls back and thrusts in, and the rhythm takes over. The oak table creaks under us. My monitor wobbles on its stand, casting shifting blue shadows across the concentration on Dino’s face as he moves inside me.

“Just like that,” I mutter, shifting my hips, trying to take him deeper.

He drives into me with the strength I sensed in him from day one—knocking me back every time his balls slap against my ass. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself as he picks up his pace, realizing I can take it. Want it.

His eyes squeeze shut, jaw jutting forward—his face a mask of concentration and pleasure, his big hands clutching at me hard.

My legs tighten again, trying to deepen his hits in me. I reach down between our sweating bodies, finding my own cock. I’m hard and leaking, and the last of the lotion on my palm is a relief.

It’s all sweat and friction and the wet sound of skin slapping against skin.

Hearing the smacking, Dino looks down. He makes a low, guttural noise when he sees what I’m doing. The sight of me jerking myself seems to break whatever control he had left. He drives harder, pace quickening.

I match his rhythm with my hand. Stroke for thrust. I want him to see what he’s doing to me.

Thumbs dig into my hips, fingers clutch my ass. The angle shifts, and the thick column of him hits a spot that makes my vision white out.

"Dino," I groan out loud.

It all goes static. My hand moves in a blur, I reach the edge before I know it—and then I’m over it—shooting hot and messy over my own stomach as my throat croaks.

He groans, a deep, rough sound from the bottom of his chest. He drives into me one, two, three more times—hard and fast—before freezing, his whole body rigid as he pours himself into me.

He shudders, bites his bottom lip, and I let the hold of my legs around him ease.

Dino drops forward, pulling out. I feel hollowed out—aching instantly.

His forehead rests against mine. "Wow," he breathes, against me.

I run my hands up and down his back, feeling the sweat-dampened shirt, the rapid-fire beat of his heart slowing.

“Yeah. Wow,” I say, my voice raspy.

We stay like that for a long time. The only sounds in the room are gasping breaths and the grandfather clock in the hall, ticking away the seconds as the world slowly seeps back in.

Dino lifts his head. He looks at me, then down at our tangled bodies. Then at the mess on my stomach that he fucked out of me.

He looks dazed as he steps back. He fumbles to pull his jeans up, his face flushing a deep crimson.

I slide off the table, legs wobbly. I kick my jeans free from my ankle, wincing slightly at the soreness already setting in.

Dino steps backward. putting a foot of cold air between us. He runs a hand through his hair, turning his back to me before reaching into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

The screen lights up his face—harsh, blue, and unforgiving. He stares at the time like it’s a bomb counting down.

"I have to go."

He picks his belt off the floor.

“What?” I ask, more confused than surprised.

He grabs his jacket from the chair.

"Everything okay?" I ask, resting against the table, trying to read him, feeling suddenly exposed without pants, ridiculous.

"I gotta go," he says. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the door, already halfway gone. "I just... I gotta go."

"Oh," I say. The word feels small in the quiet room. "Okay."

"I'll... I'll see you," he says, swinging the door open.

The door clicks shut. I hear the Tahoe start up outside, the engine roaring to life, and then the sound of tires peeling away from the curb, fast. Too fast.

I’m left standing alone in the hallway with the ticking clock and absolutely no idea what just happened.

---

10. Analysis Paralysis

I wake up stiff.

My inner thighs ache in a way that usually belongs to the very young or the very reckless. I am currently neither.

Getting fucked on the dining room table by the high school jock-turned-mechanic ought to leave you satisfied. Instead, I’m thrown.

My brain replays the last ten minutes of the encounter on a loop. The incredible feel of him inside me. The way he grabbed my hips. The look on his face during… and then afterward—like he’d just woken up and realized he was in the wrong movie.

“I gotta go.” What the fuck was that?

I’m a thirty-five-year-old gay guy. It’s not the first time a hookup ended with a quick exit. Hell, I’ve made them myself.

But this was Dino.

I’m not a teenager, even if I’m living in my parents’ house. I’m not going to freak out over this. But I guess I was past these kinds of feelings.

I make coffee and drink it standing in the middle of the kitchen.

I do what I do: run the scenarios.

Scenario A: He regretted having sex with a guy instantly. Post nut clarity hit like a freight train. Scenario B: He’s freaking out about his sexuality. Scenario C: I was just a scratch for an itch he’s had for seventeen years, and now he’s done.

Oh god. Scenario D: He’s not divorced. He’s got a wife. I didn’t see a ring. But guys lie—especially guys looking for a quick release on the side.

The house is too quiet to keep me from ruminating, looking for clues, running scenarios E to Z.

I’m used to solitude. I know how to manage it. But for once, I’d like to hear another person’s voice.

There’s Dino. That’s the one I’d want to hear, but obviously not. I don’t know how to reach him anyway. The shop is closed on Sundays—I can’t even walk by the shop, casually... “Oh hi Dino, yeah, just taking a walk. Nice day. Like to grab a burger?”

There’s my mom. Definitely not.

There’s my ex.

I pick up the phone. It’s Sunday. He has a strict “no screens, only mimosas” rule until noon, so I need a reason. 

It rings four times.

“Avery.” It’s Steven. Not my ex. I’m not that far gone. “Unless the building has physically collapsed into the Bay, take a day off.”

“Did you get the zoning addendum?” I ask, keeping my voice clipped and professional.

Silence.

“Avery,” Steven says. “Yes. I got it. I saw it. It’s fine. Why are you calling me about a one-foot setback at nine in the morning on a Sunday?”

“Just... wanted to be sure you saw it.”

“You’re spinning,” Steven says. He knows me too well. “What’s actually wrong?”

I look out the window at the empty driveway. I can’t say I slept with a mechanic and now I’m standing in my parents’ kitchen with... feelings.

“You and Rudy,” I say, pivoting awkwardly. “You’ve been together a while, right?”

There is a pause on the line.

“If thirty years counts as a while,” Steven says slowly. “Why?”

“How did you know?” I ask. “In the beginning. How did you know he was the one?”

“Oh lord,” Steven chuckles. “I don’t know that I did. Not then. There was no marriage back then, Avery. No blueprints for it. We just... hooked up a few times. Dated. Moved in. Rode it out. By the time we could get married it was a done deal. Next thing you know, you’re two old fucks who know each other better than anyone.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Sounds romantic.”

“It’s somewhere between Christmas morning and being buried alive,” Steven says. “But I wouldn’t trade it.”

“Right,” I say softly.

“You meet someone out there in Rain City?” Steven asks. He’s sharp.

“No,” I lie instantly. “Definitely not. Just... thinking about the future.” Then, to deflect, I throw out the other thing. “The job.”

“The Deputy Director role?” Steven’s tone shifts, dropping the banter. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know,” I say, unsure what I’m even talking about. “It’s a lot, Steven. I’m used to the consulting life. I’m used to having an exit strategy.”

“I know you are.”

“If I take it...” I say, staring at the empty spot in the driveway. “I have to be on site. I have to deal with the day-to-day. I can’t just leave if things get messy.”

“Yes,” Steven says. “That is generally the definition of commitment.”

I let out a weary sigh.

“This is none of my business,” Steven adds. “But I pay your retainer, so indulge me. You have this aloofness... It’s professionalism, I know... but maybe you’re also playing it safe.”

I’m silent in response.

“It’s safe to be a consultant—loose attachments. Come and go. You can get out of dodge when things get tough.”

“Steven, if you’re telling me I—”

“Avery, you do the work. I’d have jumped off the Golden Gate five times without you,” he cuts in. “But if you really commit… it’s tougher. It hurts more when it goes wrong—and things always go wrong. But it’s the only way to get the real reward.” He lets it sink in. “Sometimes you need to take a chance for more.”

There’s a long pause. “I get it.”

“Maybe the cave you fear holds the treasure you seek.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re not quoting Joseph Campbell to me now.”

That gets a laugh.

“Have a good Sunday, buddy,” Steven answers. “I have to get Rudy to drag brunch or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The line goes dead.

I clean the dining room table with Murphy’s Oil Soap, scrubbing the wood grain where Dio railed me twelve hours ago. Like I’m wiping down a crime scene.

I try to work. I have a salad.

The rest of the day is a case study in deterioration.

At 4:00 PM, I tell myself he just needed the day to process.

Then, the waiting begins.

I try not to think it, but it’s too obvious: He came by on Friday night. He came by on Saturday night. 

You need seven data points to establish a trend. This is only two, but... even with the way he left, the pattern has been established.

I heat dinner—curry, pre-made, portioned. I eat it standing up at the island, not tasting a bite. I down a glass of wine.

I weed the front garden at 6:45 PM, pulling each stray invader out by the roots.

Every heavy engine that rumbles past makes my heart jump, only to crash when it’s just a delivery truck or a neighbor’s SUV.

The street is empty. 7:30 PM. Dusk. 8:00 PM. It’s dark.

8:30. 8:45. 9:00. He isn’t coming.

This is when it sets in. My Master’s degree in Being Alone is failing me. Usually, I can fill a Sunday with reading, emails, jerking off, ticking off the hours in fifteen-minute increments. Today, the silence just feels loud.

Then, I pour a drink. Bourbon. Two fingers, then three. I take it to the living room and turn on the TV. I watch a Ken Burns documentary, while the alcohol burns a slow, numbing path through my chest.

10:15 PM. Nothing. 11:45 PM. Nothing.

I turn off the TV. The house settles—creaks and groans—the refrigerator humming and the grandfather clock ticking.

Bedside, I strip off my clothes alone, reminded of the slight ache in my legs that hasn’t gone away.

I’m thirty-five and staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.

Steven offered me the out. San Francisco. The CEO track. All I have to do is say yes, pack my bag, and leave this messy, confusing situation behind.

It would be so easy to leave. But for the first time, the exit strategy doesn’t feel like a prize. It feels like a consolation.

---

11. Exit Strategy

Monday is a holiday. Labor Day.

Despite the bourbon the night before, I wake up with a clarity that feels like a fever break.

The ache in my legs is gone.

I wait until 9 AM, grab my phone.

Steven picks up on the second ring. "You know it’s a holiday, Avery."

"I'm coming back," I say.

There is a pause. I can hear the smile in Steven’s voice before he even speaks. "To San Francisco?"

"To the Deputy Director role,” I say. “If the offer is still good. To civilization."

"Oh, thank God," Steven exhales. "I was terrified you were going to buy a flannel shirt and start hiking."

"No," I say, standing up and walking to the window. The trees are letting go of their leaves—summer is officially over. "I’m done here. I need a few days to get the house ready. Pack my stuff. I can drive down on Saturday."

"Excellent," Steven says. "I’ll have HR draft the offer letter. We can announce it at the board meeting next month."

"Send it," I say. "I’m ready."

"You okay, Avery?" Steven asks, a hint of softness returning.

"I’m great," I lie, working to convince us both. "Really excited. I’ll see you Monday."

I hang up.

The relief is instant. It’s chemical. The ambiguity is gone. The open loop is closed. I have a destination.

I spend the next three hours dismantling my life in Seattle.

I open my laptop, draft a template email—professional, concise, devoid of emotion—and start firing it off to the three local non-profits I was courting for consulting gigs.

Subject: Change of Status ...transitioning back to San Francisco effective immediately... happy to refer you to a colleague in Portland, if a more remote working relationship isn’t feasible…

Send. Send. Send. Snip. Snip. Snip.

I pull up my text thread with my mother.

Hi Mom. House is in good shape. I’m heading back to SF on Saturday. Big opportunity—more later.  Let’s get the house back on the rental market. (Don’t worry. Everything is good. Thanks for the soft landing when I needed it.)

Send.

I secure an Airbnb in Noe Valley for my arrival—a sleek, modern studio with a high-speed connection and a view of the hills. No history, no dark wainscotting, and no ghosts. Just a clean slate with a 4:00 PM check-in. 

I close the laptop.

A comforting sensation washes over me. It’s the muscle memory of leaving—the feeling I lived on for a decade—the thud of tires on the tarmac, the click of a hotel room key card, the solitary peace of eating a salad at a restaurant bar while reading The Economist.

It feels like me again. I’m not the guy waiting for a knock at the door. I’m the guy in the business class lounge, moving on to the next city, the next problem.

I’m in motion again.

By two o'clock, the admin work is done.

I go down to the basement, drag my two Briggs & Riley suitcases up the narrow stairs, the wheels bumping against the wood. 

There’s a box of high school memorabilia my mother salvaged when I tried to throw it away when I left for California. I leave it.

I open the front and back doors—let the place air out. The cool September air rushes in, displacing the scents of my stay, making it anonymous again.

I pull up Spotify on my phone and connect it to the living room speakers. I scroll past my "Focus" playlist. I need energy.

I hit play on Hot Chip’s cover of Dancing in the Dark.

The synth beat kicks in. It’s not the Bruce Springsteen dirge; it’s a frantic, neon-lit dance anthem.

I get up in the evening... and I ain't got nothing to say…

I crank the volume.

I grab the broom—start sweeping the kitchen, moving in time with the beat. The music fills the empty house, bouncing off the walls. The lead singer’s voice is weaker than Springsteen's—making it somehow more plaintive and heartfelt, despite all the synth.

You can't start a fire… Sitting 'round crying over a broken heart…

The beat picks up and I move faster, sweeping the dust into a pile. I attack the counters with the spray bottle, singing along. My voice cracks on the high notes. I’m dancing—not well, but with an energy that helps exorcise the place. I shimmy across the tiles, sliding in my socks, wiping down the cabinets, shaking off the rejection, shaking off the waiting.

This gun's for hire… Even if we're just dancing in the dark…

I spin around, using the spray bottle as a microphone, turning toward the open living room door.

I freeze.

The song keeps driving, the synth line climbing higher and higher, but I’m paralyzed.

Dino.

He’s leaning in the doorway, wearing a gray zip-up hoodie over a blue polo shirt, arms crossed over his chest.

Grinning.

It’s a wide, crinkle-eyed smile. Toothsome. He’s been watching me slide around in my socks and scream into a bottle of Windex for God knows how long.

My heart slams as I scramble for my phone on the built-in, my fingers fumbling over the screen. I hit pause.

The silence that crashes back into the room is deafening.

"Don't stop on my account," he says. He doesn't stop smiling. He pushes off the doorframe and steps over the threshold, into the house. His voice is warm, teasing. "You got some moves, Avery."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, breathless, clutching the Windex like a weapon.

"I heard the music," he says, taking another step closer. "From the street."

He looks at me, his eyes dropping to my socks, then back up to my flushed face. The grin softens into something less amused and more... happy.

"And," he adds, "I brought donuts."

He pulls a white paper bag from his hoodie pocket.

"I was passing Top Pot," he says, offering it with a casual shrug. "Thought of you."

---

12. The Rebuttal

I stare at the white paper bag. It has a grease stain on the bottom corner.

"A donut?" I ask flatly.

"Maple bar," Dino corrects. He’s still grinning, oblivious to the fact that I am vibrating with a mix of adrenaline, Hot Chip, and more than a little anger. "Top Pot. I know you like the fancy stuff."

He holds it out.

I don't take it.

Dino’s smile falters, just a fraction. "Not a maple guy? I knew I should have gotten old-fashioned. We can go back—"

"Dino," I say, shaking my head. "I don’t want a donut."

He blinks. Then it settles in. "I’m in trouble."

I feel like a cranky wife. It’s not a good look on me. But it comes out anyway.

“Saturday night," I say, steeling myself. "We had… sex. Then you said you had to go. You went dark for forty-eight hours. No text. No call. Nothing. So, yeah, I’m a little put out."

Dino scratches the back of his neck, shifting his weight. "Avery, I didn't go dark. I went home."

"Without a word." I cross my arms, resting my weight against the table, building my case. "I’m too old for this, Dino. I have worked very hard to get my life to a place where I don't have to guess where I stand. I am not going to be some straight guy’s experiment."

Dino’s face hardens. The playfulness drains out of his expression instantly.

"Is that what you think?" he asks. His voice drops. "You think you’re an experiment?"

"Here’s my analysis," I say, the words spilling out fast. "You’re recently divorced. Probably still figuring things out. Late-night drives… a little lonely. And you're thirty-five, wondering about what might have been. Then I show up—the weird debate kid. Successful on paper, but let’s face it, kind of a mess. Obviously into you.” I gesture at him. “So why not play it out? See what it’s like. But then the reality of it freaks you ou—"

“Wow,” Dino cuts in. “I thought you changed. The other day when you apologized, in the shop. Did that feel good? The ‘analysis?’”

I fold my arms tighter, say nothing. It felt like skinning myself alive.

“My turn," Dino continues. "I took off because my ex-wife is an ER nurse and she picked up a double shift for the holiday weekend."

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

"I was already fucking late, because of… this.” He gestures at the dining room table. “I had to get back to relieve the sitter and take over. I have two kids, Avery. When Sarah works, I’m on duty. That’s the job."

He rests his hands on his hips, looking away, his lips tightening and releasing.

"I spent the last forty-eight hours breaking up fights over the Xbox and doing five loads of laundry," he says. "It wasn't a panic attack. It was Sunday. And Monday."

I feel a flush creeping up my neck. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"You could have texted. You have my number," I say, clinging to my grievance like a life raft, even though I can feel it taking on water. "It takes ten seconds to send a text."

"I know," Dino admits, softening slightly. "Fuck. Okay.” He rubs his face in a hand. “I was a little freaked out. We got… almost chased out of the park. I’m a dad, Avery. Then this.” He nods to the table, where we fucked. “I’m not good at this part. The dating part. It’s been a long time.” The heat runs out of him. “Can’t you see that I… like you?”

"Dating?" I jump on the doubt, auto-argue mode activated. "I don’t think that’s what this is." My voice levels, going in for the kill. "Why would I think the high school jock actually likes—"

"Stop," Dino barks.

The sound is so sharp I jump.

"Don't call me that," he says. He runs his fingers over his head, Cooper Red hair sticking up in tufts. He takes the hoodie off and drops it on the counter. Underneath, he’s wearing a polo that strains against his shoulders.

He grabs the hem of the shirt and yanks it up, bunching it under his arms.

"Look at me," he commands.

I look. I can't help it.

He has a mat of rust-colored hair on his chest. And below that, his stomach is slightly rounded, but solid. It’s not a washboard—it’s the kind of sturdy torso that lifts engine blocks.

He grabs a handful of his own stomach, shaking it slightly.

"I’m not a high school jock!" he yells. "I’m thirty-five, Avery! I’ve got a gut. I’ve got a bad knee. I’ve got gray in my beard."

He drops the shirt, breathing hard, his face flushed.

"Would you look at me?" he demands. "Instead of who you think I was? Would you stop debating for five minutes and just look at the guy standing here? Because if it’s a debate I lost before I even walked in."

I see the creases at his eyes. The calluses on his hands. A little softness over a solid core. The man who showed up with a maple bar after a weekend of domestic refereeing just because he wanted to see me.

"You look amazing,” I whisper. "Good rebuttal."

He blows a breath out, shaking his head.

He closes the gap. He doesn't ask this time. He grabs the front of my t-shirt and hauls me against him.

The kiss is messy, teeth glancing off each other, tongues driving. I make an involuntary sound—something between a protest and a surrender—and grab his arms, fingers digging into his triceps.

I feel his stomach press against mine—that soft, heavy warmth he was just yelling about. It feels grounding. It feels real.

"Five minutes," he murmurs against my mouth, his hands roaming over my back, slipping under my shirt. "No debating. No thinking. Just this."

"Okay," I breathe, my heart hammering. "Okay."

He pushes my shirt up. His hands are rough on my skin. I knock the bottle of Windex onto the floor with a clatter that neither of us acknowledges.

The house is open to the cool air, but we’re burning up in collision: I’m leaving. Dino’s arriving.

---

13. The Tire Thumper

We spill into the bedroom, kissing, tangling, grasping.

Dino nearly trips over the rug, laughing breathlessly as he catches himself on the bedpost.

"Shirt," I say, grabbing the hem of his blue polo. "Off. I want to see you."

He lifts his arms, obedient, and I yank the fabric up and over his head, tossing it blindly into the corner.

There he is.

The mat of rust-colored hair on his chest, the broad shoulders, the soft, pale curve of his stomach and the solid pecs that rise and fall with his breath. I run my hands over him, digging my fingers into the softness to find the steely core beneath. 

But the belt buckle is digging into my hip, and I’m suddenly sick of the barriers.

My hands move quickly as I toe off my shoes, unbuckle my belt, shove my jeans down, and kick them away. My t-shirt goes next, then my boxer briefs.

I stand there for a second, fully exposed in the dimly lit room.

Dino’s eyes travel up my legs, over my hips and cock, lingering on the thin trail of hair running up my abs and chest, before meeting my eyes. He swallows hard.

"Tell me you didn't look this good in high school," he says, his voice rough with appreciation.

I chuckle, resting a hand on his hip. "I definitely did not. I was a twig with bad glasses and a worse haircut."

"Thank God," Dino grins, lazily scratching at his chest. "I’d hate to have missed out."

"Catch up time," I say, pushing him back. 

We both know he outweighs me by fifty pounds—that my strength is from reps and cardio, his is from torque and leverage—but he lets me. 

The springs groan under him as if they’re channeling me. I’m on him before he can settle, shoving him back until he’s sprawling, legs spread, boots still thumping against the floor.

I lean down, kisses trailing down his neck, over the rough stubble of his jaw, down to his chest. I bite lightly at a pink nipple and feel his breath hitch. I move lower, over the mound of his belly, as my hands fumble with his belt buckle.

I’ve done it before, but my hands tremble a little this time.

"Damn it," I mutter, fingers slipping.

Dino lifts his hips to help, his fingers digging into the mattress. I finally pop the buckle, the sound sharp in the quiet room. I yank the zipper down, opening the jeans.

"Boots," I say.

I grab the heel of his left work boot and haul it off. It takes a solid yank. The right one follows, dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. Then I grip the denim at his knees and drag the jeans and his boxers down his legs in one long, friction-heavy slide.

He kicks them free. The heavy gray wool socks stay on. It’s unglamorous and strangely endearing.

His cock is beautiful—thick and pale—in that Cooper Red nest of hair. He’s roused, twitching against his stomach. But there’s a softness to the way he looks at me—exposed and trusting.

I don't climb up yet. I stay between his legs. I wrap my hand around him, anchor his cock with a fist, and use my tongue to torture him a little.

I work him slowly at first, tasting the salt and something acrid, feeling him grow from mostly hard to rock solid in seconds. I go down, filling my mouth, wetting him and then taking him deeper, feeling him fill my throat.

His hands find my hair, threading lightly.

"Avery," he warns, his voice strained. "Careful."

I pull off with a wet pop. I kiss the inside of his thigh, grazing the pale skin with my teeth.

Crawling up, I reach into the bedside drawer. I shove past a paperback and a phone charger, feeling for the bottle.

Dino watches, his muscles twitching with nervous energy, as I pump a generous amount of lube into my palm. It’s cold against my skin.

"Lift your hips," I murmur.

Dino bridges up. I slide my hand down, coating him. I use two fingers to prep him, inside.

He gasps, his thighs pull together, his butt cheeks clamping down for just a second.

"Relax," I whisper, resetting over him. "I've got you."

He forces a breath out, the ring loosening around my fingers. He pushes back against my hand, eager, needy.

"You okay?" I ask, my voice tight.

"Yeah," he breathes, his face flushed crimson. "Yeah. Don't stop."

I lube myself as he watches. His legs are heavy as I raise them on my shoulders, positioning myself. I brace one hand on the mattress beside his head and use the other to guide myself in.

It’s a slow entry. Dino is tight. He grips the sheets, his knuckles turning white, his head tipping back to expose his throat.

"Jesus," he hisses through clenched teeth.

I pause, letting him adjust to the intrusion. I lean down, pressing my chest against his, feeling the friction of his chest hair against my smooth skin.

"I've got you," I whisper into his ear. "No rush."

Dino lets out a shaky breath, his legs hooking loosely around my waist. "Okay. Go."

I start to move.

I pull almost all the way out, then drive back in, slow and penetrating. Dino makes a noise that’s entirely involuntary—a guttural moan that vibrates against me.

I find a rhythm. It’s not about speed yet, not pushing all the way either, but claiming ground, a little more with each thrust, feeling him tighten and relax.

Dino’s unraveling beneath me. The big, capable mechanic, the guy who fixes everything, is getting wrecked. His eyes flutter—he does this thing with his jaw jutting forward, sucking in his bottom lip. He reaches up, his hands on my back, blunt nails digging in.

"Avery," he groans. "Fuck."

"You like that?" I pant, grinding my hips against his, searching for the angle.

When I hit it, Dino arches off the mattress, a sharp choke in his throat.

"There," he grinds out. "Right there." A ridge of nerves deep inside him.

I hone in on it. I stop experimenting and start perfecting, adjusting my hips until I’m hitting that spot with every single stroke.

“Oh fuck,” he moans, working his own cock with his rough hand. I’d do it myself—I want to—but I’ve got one hand on those big sturdy legs, cradling it, the other on the mattress for support, holding that angle, hitting that spot in him.

I lean down, my mouth right at his ear, sweat dripping from my nose onto his cheek.

"So right now I'm your tire thumper," I whisper, breathless, grinning. "And I’d say you're at ninety and rising fast."

Dino laughs—a choked bark.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I feel him tightening around me, his body winding up like a spring. I speed up, not giving him a chance to recover between one spike of pleasure and the overlapping next.

Th-thump-th-thump-th-thump.

"I'm gonna blow," he warns, his voice cracking. "Avery, I'm—"

"Do it," I mutter, snapping my hips forward hard into him. 

He gasps loud, bucks hard. His body seizes up under mine. I feel the hot, wet pulse of him finishing against my stomach.

"FUCKfuckfuck!"

The tightness of him clamping down around me pushes me over. I push in and I just hold on to him, burying my face in the crook of his neck as I pour myself into him, with little frantic thrusts.

We’re a slippery tangle of sweat and heavy limbs. My heart is hammering against his like it’s trying to break out as I drop onto him.

Dino’s hands trace through the damp on my back. He smells like sweat, sex and Old Spice, and at the moment, it’s the most welcome scent I’ve ever known.

Our lips meet again, the kisses less frantic, softer, but lingering.

Slowly, the room stops spinning.

I slide out of him with a wet smack. He winces, running a hand down there, as if checking it for damage.

"Wow," he breathes, the vibration rumbling against my cheek.

"Yeah," I mumble into his shoulder, my breath evening out. "Wow."

I roll off, flopping onto the mattress beside him. The air in the room is cooling as the afternoon fades into evening, but next to each other it’s warm. Humid.

I run a hand through his chest hair. Cooper Red. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a heavy, syrupy exhaustion.

"Do you have to go?" I ask quietly.

I brace myself for the shuffle, the check of the watch, the I gotta relieve the sitter.

Dino shifts, wrapping a heavy arm around my waist and pulling me back against his chest. He buries his face in my hair.

"Nope," he mumbles, his voice drowsy. "Sarah has the boys until school drop-off. Shop opens at eight."

He kisses the back of my neck.

"I'm off the clock all night."

A pang of guilt hits me. I'm not off the clock. I'm nearly out of time.

But his arm is heavy and warm, and I’m weak.

I lean back into him, letting his weight anchor me. There’s a sudden rumble in his stomach.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning against my neck.

“I know where there’s some donuts,” I remind him.

After scarfing maple bars down in bed, we lick our fingers between sweet kisses.

Then we drift, safe and solid, straight to the morning.

---

14. Stop Work Order

I wake up warm.

That’s the first thing I register. Usually, I wake up clutching the duvet. Today, I’m anchored by a heavy arm draped over my waist and the sound of deep breathing against the back of my neck.

Dino.

I try not to move—to just lie there, letting the gray morning light filter through the blinds, feeling the weight of him. But my wakefulness must feel different, because Dino shifts. He groans low in his throat, stretching, his arm tightening around me for a second before he rolls onto his back.

"Mmm," he grumbles. "What time is it?"

"Early," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."

"Can't," he says, his voice thick. "Bladder."

He sits up, rubbing his face with one hand. The sheet falls to his waist. He looks soft and rumpled, his red hair sticking up in every direction. He swings his legs out of bed and stands up, stretching his arms over his head. His bare ass is pale. His back cracks.

I watch him, shamelessly. I’m already planning breakfast. I have eggs. I have coffee. I like the thought of feeding him.

On his way back, he stops, looking at the corner by the closet.

There’s a confused, crooked half-smile on his face.

"Taking a trip?" he asks.

My stomach drops through the mattress.

There, standing like monoliths against the tan wall, are my suitcases.

Next to them is a stack of neatly folded clothes—my "San Francisco uniform" of dark chinos, black and charcoal cashmere sweaters. And a cardboard box I’d started filling with odds and ends—a few books, extra chargers.

In the haze of the Hot Chip dance party and the maple bar and the sex, I completely forgot that I had dragged the luggage out of the basement yesterday afternoon.

"Oh," I say. My voice sounds thin.

"Heading down to the city for a few days?" Dino asks casually, scratching his stomach. "Work emergency?"

I sit up, pulling the sheet to my waist. I can lie. I can say yes, Steven needs me for a few days. It would be easy.

But I look at Dino—naked, messy-haired, standing in my childhood bedroom—and I can't do it.

"Not a trip," I say.

Dino pauses. "Okay?"

"I was packing," I say. "To move back."

The silence in the room is sudden. The radiator clanks in the corner.

Dino lowers his hand from his stomach. The sleepy, morning softness vanishes from his face.

"Moving back," he repeats. "To San Francisco?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Saturday."

Dino looks at the suitcases. Then he looks at the bed—the tangled sheets, the pillow he just lifted his head from. Then he looks at me.

"Saturday," he says. "And you... just forgot to mention that?"

"I’m telling you now," I say, trying to keep my voice even.

"After I asked," Dino counters.

"It wasn't a strategy, Dino. I decided yesterday morning. Before you came over."

"Right. Yesterday. When I hadn't texted you."

"I hadn't heard from you in forty-eight hours!" I argue, swinging my legs out of bed but keeping the sheet wrapped around my waist. "I thought you ghosted me. So, yes, I made a plan. I accepted the job offer."

Dino stares at me. He doesn't look angry. He looks humiliated.

"So last night," he says, his voice quiet. "When you were... when we were doing that. You knew?"

I hear my voice go flat. "I knew—yes."

"And you let me stay?" Dino asks. He looks down at his own bare feet, then back at me. "You let me sleep here? You let me think..." He trails off, shaking his head. "I thought we were starting something. And you were already packing. Your luggage was right there."

He turns away, then back again.

“Jesus. Last night was what? A send-off? One for the road?"

"No! Dino, listen to me." I stand up, clutching the sheet against my waist, feeling painfully exposed. "I thought you were gone. I made a decision based on the facts I had."

"And now?" Dino asks, gesturing to the bags. "The facts changed. But the bags are still packed."

"I can't just turn down the Deputy Director role, Dino. It’s the career jump I’ve been working toward for ten years," I say, my voice rising, trying to make the logic sound like enough. "But that doesn't mean this has to end. San Francisco isn't Mars. It’s a two-hour flight. We can visit. I have the resources, I have the flexibility. We can make this work."

"Make it work," Dino repeats, dull and heavy.

"Yes. People do it all the time," I insist, my grasp on the fabric tightening. "I’m not running away. I’m just... going to where the work is. We can figure the rest out."

"But you are running," Dino says.

I can hear something in his voice. Some variable I haven’t taken into account. But he has.

"You told me, Avery. You said the distance was the glue," Dino reminds me. "You said you liked the hotels. The separate lives. That’s your comfort zone. And the second things get too real—the second we got a little messy—you packed your bags."

"That was different," I argue, feeling the walls closing in. "I was unhappy then. This is different. I like you. I like being with you."

"From 800 miles away," Dino says, looking at the suitcase, then back at me.

"I have to be on site!" I plead. "I can't run a California foundation from Seattle. But I can come back. I can be here on weekends."

Dino shakes his head with a kind of sad clarity.

"I run a business. I’ve got kids. My life is messy. And I’m thirty-five. I’ve wasted too much time already on things that weren't real.”

He looks me right in the eye.

"It’s not the weekends, Avery. It’s the instinct. I don't want to start something up with a guy who’s never going to want to be closer than 800 miles away for more than a visit. Who needs to be apart. And based on everything you've ever told me... that is all you're ever going to want. This just proves it."

"I'm not running," I say again, but the fight is draining out of me. The suitcase standing there is making a stronger counter argument. "I'm right here."

"For now," Dino says. “Until the next time things get messy.”

He grabs the polo from the floor. He pulls it on, then jams his bare feet into his boots. He doesn't bother to lace them.

"I’ve got to go open the shop. I’ve got obligations."

He stops at the bedroom door. He looks back at me, then at the luggage.

"I really liked you," he says softly. "That's the stupid part. I really liked you."

He opens the door.

"Safe drive, Avery."

I hear his heavy footsteps on the oak floors, the front door open, the front door close. 

I’m left standing in the middle of the room, staring at the suitcases, then at the rumpled bedsheets where, five minutes ago, I was happy.

"God damn it."

---

15. The Sunk Cost Fallacy

Efficiency is my love language. When the world falls apart, I organize it.

I allotted myself until Saturday to pack up the house, but by Wednesday, I realized that a week is far too much time to uproot a life that hasn't actually taken root. If you’re good at logistics, you can erase yourself in an hour.

The formal job offer comes on Wednesday morning. Docusign. The offer is fair. Generous, in fact. Nothing to negotiate. I execute it, save a copy.

By Thursday I’ve secured the new tenants for the house for my parents. It’s a hot market, and a well-kept, furnished craftsman gets snapped up in a day. A nice young couple from Portland with excellent credit scores will take my place. I ran their background checks, verified their income, and countersigned the digital lease by Wednesday afternoon.

I walk them through the specs with detached professionalism. We talk about the conveniences of the neighborhood—the zoo, the little grocery that has one of everything. Gus Cooper Auto Repair. I failed to mention the acoustic properties of the living room when playing Hot Chip.

On Thursday evening I scrub the oak floor and baseboards, erasing any trace of where a pair of work boots tracked anything in.

I’m wiping down the leg of the dining table when I find it: the little yellow pencil, lodged in the shadow where it rolled on Saturday.

I roll it through my fingers, and drop it into my cardboard box of odds and ends to take with me.  

My parents are set. The revenue stream is secured. The house is ready.

Friday morning arrives gray and wet. The Exit Strategy is fully operational, twenty-four hours ahead of schedule.

There’s just one last stop: The box of high school remnants my mother saved.

I shouldn’t do it, but I open the senior yearbook, flip to the Cs.

There he is. The haircut is different, but the color’s the same—even in the low-res photo, it’s Cooper Red. But in his senior portrait, Dino’s lips are pressed together in a tight, closed-mouth smile. None of the wattage of the happy grin I saw over the weekend.

Dino spent years hiding that gap in his teeth, not showing joy because he was ashamed of how it looked.

I never noticed, then. Too worried about my own armor to see his.

He bought himself a new smile, and he finally learned how to use it. And I was walking out on it.

I tuck the book in the sleeve of one suitcase, zip it, and stack it in the trunk of the Audi. The cardboard box of odds and ends is in the backseat. My monitor and peripherals are boxed. Laptop in my bag. The key to the house is in the lockbox.

I’m wearing my road trip uniform: good, dark sweats, a charcoal cashmere sweater, and Oliver Cabells on my feet. I look like Avery the Consultant. I look like a man in motion.

As the engine hums to life I connect my phone to Bluetooth. I have one call to make before I hit the road. It’s completely unnecessary, which is why I have to make it.

"Avery!" Steven’s voice fills the car cabin. "Tell me everything’s good."

"Just leaving Seattle now," I say, trying to sound breezy. "I finished up early. I’ll be in the city tomorrow. I just wanted to verify that the Monday strategy session is still at nine. I thought I saw a calendar invite for nine-thirty and wanted to confirm."

I pull out of the driveway. I turn onto Phinney Avenue, heading south. The wipers swipe rhythmically at the drizzle.

"You called me," Steven says slowly, "while driving out of town, to ask about a thirty-minute discrepancy on a meeting that is three days away?"

"I want to start off right."

There’s a pause. A long one.

"It’s 9 AM," Steven says. "Same as scheduled. But hey, since I have you, let me pass on the best advice anyone ever gave me about leadership. You listening?"

"Always."

"When you get back here, get yourself a nice candy dish for your desk," Steven says. "Not some old-lady crystal thing. Get a good bowl. Put that bowl on your office meeting table and keep your door open."

I drive past the Woodland Park Zoo. The west entrance is empty, the bronze penguin statues glistening in the rain. "A candy dish," I repeat. "Got it."

"Keep the bowl full at all times—good chocolates, not the cheap stuff,” Steven continues. "You want people to know they can help themselves anytime. When they do, pay attention. Sometimes people just want some chocolate. But sometimes, it’s an excuse to come in—when they need an excuse to talk because it’s too hard to say. You want to watch for it. Ask how things are going. Give them an opening."

I think about a white paper bag with a grease stain. I think about a man standing in my parents’ home, holding out a maple bar as a peace offering.

An excuse to talk because it’s too hard to say.

I missed the opening. I was so busy analyzing the data that I missed the reason.

"Since we’re virtual," Steven says, his voice softening, "you and I don’t have that luxury. So I guess what I’m asking is: Is this call for chocolate? Or something else?"

I turn onto 45th Street. The neighborhood shifts from residential to commercial.

"No," I say after a long pause. "Thanks for asking, Steven. Just eager to get to it."

"Alright," Steven says. "Safe travels, Avery. See you next week."

"That’s the plan." I force a smile that no one can see.

“Please tell me you don’t want me to come back,” I mouth, inaudible.

"Avery?"

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Talk soon."

I hang up. The silence in the car is too heavy for just one person.

I drive through Wallingford. Ahead on the right, the neon sign of Dick’s Drive-In glows orange against the gray sky. Even in the rain, there’s a line at the window.

The smell of grease and grilled onions drifts through the vents. It hits me—the memory of sitting in my own passenger seat, eating burgers, mustard on my mouth. Him reaching out to wipe it off.

I approach the intersection. The big green sign overhead reads I-5 South. The arrow points to the right.

I stop at the red light in the right-turn lane. The blinker ticks rhythmically.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

To my left, a delivery truck idles. Its engine rumbles deep enough to vibrate through my door. It mercifully blocks my view of the cross street—the road back to the neighborhood.

I look at the dashboard. The Check Engine light is off. The tank is full. Everything is functioning within normal parameters. The car is fixed. The job is secured. The exit is clean. 

I’m out of excuses.

Sometimes it's just an excuse to talk.

The light turns green. The truck grinds into gear.

A horn honks behind me.

I lift my foot off the brake, hit the gas and turn.

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16. Collision Repair

The bell above the door jingles—a sharp sound that cuts through the steady drumming of the rain.

I step inside. The harsh yellow fluorescent lighting is a stark contrast to the gray misery outside.

"Sorry," I hear him call out from the garage. "We’re just closing up. If you need an estimate, you’ll have to come back on Mon—"

Dino enters, wiping his hands on a red shop rag, his shoulders hunched in that way that signals the end of a long week.

"Oh," he says, his voice dropping. "Hey."

"Hey," I say.

He looks confused, like he’s seeing a ghost.

"I thought you were..." He gestures vaguely toward the south wall of the shop. "I thought you’d be halfway to San Francisco by now."

"I was supposed to be," I say.

Dino leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s guarding himself. I can see it. He’s waiting for the I forgot my charger or I need you to sign an NDA.

"Car trouble?" he asks.

"No," I say. I take a step further into the room. "Well. There was... an incident."

Dino straightens up instantly. The mechanic mode kicks in. "An incident?"

"I was at the light," I say. "At 45th and the south on-ramp."

I catch sight of the red rag in his fist.

Red.

The red light was glaring overhead. The dashboard was fine. 

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The light turned green.

The arrow pointed right—toward the freeway, toward the eighty-hour weeks, toward the candy dish.

My grasp on the wheel tightened.

A horn honked behind me. A split-second trigger.

I hit the gas and my hands staged a mutiny.

I malfunctioned—

Yanked the wheel. Left.

The truck in the left lane caught my driver’s side door, unzipping the metal with a shuddering crunch.

I spun out, wet tires losing their grip, and came to a halt perpendicular to the traffic, blocking all three lanes. A chaos of horns erupted around me, but all I could hear was a soft, musical sound.

The side mirror was shattered, tiny fragments raining down onto the wet asphalt. It sounded like a broken Christmas ornament.

Tinkle. Tinkle. Tinkle.

In the moment I heard Steven’s voice in my head, talking about love and commitment: Somewhere between Christmas morning and being buried alive.

"I turned left," I tell Dino, snapping back to the present. "From the right lane. It was... not an efficient maneuver."

"You turned left?" Dino is staring at me. “Into traffic?”

"Into… traffic." I let out a shaky breath. "Not very strategic."

"Avery?" Dino comes around the counter in two strides, his eyes scanning me—checking for blood, for a concussion, ignoring the car entirely. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. No one was hurt. Just my pride."

I spare him the details of the last six hours: taking a breathalyzer, sitting in Urgent Care to verify I didn't have a concussion, and trying to explain the inexplicable to a Geico rep named Brenda.

Dino exhales, running a hand through his hair. He walks past me to the window. He looks out into the wet parking lot.

The Audi is parked right out front, sitting directly under the shop’s old neon sign: GUS COOPER AUTO REPAIR.

The "RE" is still shorting out in a repeating stutter.

REPAIR PAIR REPAIR.

The red light washes over the crumpled side of my car.

Dino whistles low. “Not totaled.”

"No," I say. "It runs. It’s drivable."

The driver side doors are deeply gouged, the rear crunched. The side mirror cap is gone, the shattered mirror too.

It’s broken, battered, but parked exactly where it needs to be.

"But I figure... it’s probably not good for long drives anymore," I say. "Not for eight hundred miles."

Dino turns to face me.

"So?" he asks.

"So," I say, my voice steadying. "I figured it’s probably better to keep it local. Stay close to home. Here."

Dino’s eyes search mine, looking for the flight risk, the consultant, the exit strategy.

"And," I continue. "It’s going to need some work. It’s pretty banged up. It’s going to take some time to hammer out the dents."

"Body work usually does," Dino agrees softly.

"I was hoping I could get a mechanic to take a look," I say. "Maybe take it for a test drive. See how far we can go."

Dino looks at me. He looks at the wet windbreaker, the exhausted eyes. I hope he hears the trembling certainty in my voice.

Slowly, he sets the red rag onto the counter.

The corners of his eyes crinkle. A toothy grin spreads across his face—the kind that starts small and ends up lighting up the entire city.

"I can help with that," he says.

END

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Author’s note: While Avery’s project in this story is fictional, LGBTQ-affirming senior housing is a reality. Though there are not nearly enough of them to meet the need, these communities do exist in various U.S. cities. Real-world examples include The Pryde in Boston, The John C. Anderson Apartments in Philadelphia, and Pride Place in Seattle, where this story takes place.

Thanks for reading. If you'd like to be notified of new releases, let me know at [email protected].

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