Two years later
The office was quiet now, the last of the laughter and clinking glasses faded into the soft hum of the firm below. Empty champagne flutes stood scattered across the low glass coffee table, delicate stems tipped at careless angles, a few still holding the last amber drops of a 2008 Dom Pérignon that Jordan was happy he wasn’t paying for. Beside them, a silver ice bucket sweated gently, the half-empty bottle nestled inside like a tired king after coronation, its gold foil label catching the low glow of the desk lamp.
Jordan leaned back in his chair, alone again, the space settling around him like a second skin. The office was everything he’d once dreamed of back when his workspace was just a desk in the shared Harrison & Hale common area: Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Hudson in a sweeping arc, the river’s dark ribbon glittering under the February evening lights, barges drifting slow and deliberate past the distant span of the George Washington Bridge. The walls were crisp white, broken only by a single rotating artwork, currently a luminous Agnes Martin grid that seemed to breathe with the water’s rhythm. Furniture was minimal: a black steel desk vast enough for sprawling blueprints and provenance files, ergonomic chair in charcoal leather worn soft at the edges from countless late nights, shelves of polished walnut holding carefully curated monographs and a few discreet awards, nothing ostentatious, just quiet proof of deals closed and artists launched.
The two years had left their gentle marks, turning the space from pristine showroom to lived-in sanctuary. A small stack of dog-eared catalogs lay permanently askew on the credenza, pages flagged with color-coded tabs, his private shorthand for artists he believed in. A worn cashmere throw, the deep navy one his mother had sent “for those long nights,” draped over the arm of the sofa where clients sometimes waited. And on the windowsill, basking in the river light, the sleek brown ceramic sculpture he’d acquired from a young Brooklyn artist during the firm’s first pop-up show, a twisted, abstract form in glaze that caught the sun in subtle shifts, a quiet reminder of the risks that had paid off and the vision he’d helped build from the ground up.
Jordan swirled the last of his champagne, watching the river roll on, infinite and unchanged.
Tonight had been about a Vermeer that had quietly emerged from a Buenos Aires estate, unsigned but unmistakable, its provenance a carefully constructed maze of European collectors and convenient gaps. Jordan had pursued it for months: discreet calls to conservators, late-night consultations with pigment analysts, quiet dinners with dealers who treated the painting’s existence like classified intelligence. When the deal finally closed, eight figures, questions politely left unasked, the entire firm had erupted.
It was only one in a long streak of victories lately: the quiet acquisition of a rare Agnes Martin series that had collectors buzzing, the launch of their digital viewing room that pulled in seven-figure commitments from Asia without a single flight, the emerging Brazilian painter they’d signed exclusively whose first show sold out in hours. Hudson Horizon was thriving, carving its name deeper into the city’s art landscape with every calculated move.
Launching Hudson Horizon had been much more work than Jordan had ever dreamed of. In the first few months, when they were still carving their name into the city’s art landscape, Jordan felt like he only saw his Tribeca apartment for an hour of sleep before heading back to the Hudson Yards space, endless days blurring into nights, the glow of his laptop the only constant companion, Evan joking to him more than once that he was seeing more of his work partner than Michael. Despite that, Jordan had loved every single moment: the exhaustion, the uncertainty, the thrill of building something.
When he wasn’t handling the unglamorous grind, reviewing contracts with lawyers until his eyes burned, negotiating leases for storage units in Long Island, wrangling insurance policies for multimillion-dollar loans, or sitting through endless meetings with accountants to keep the books balanced, he was doing the work he’d always dreamed of: sourcing rare works from private collections in Europe that had never seen the market, curating intimate shows for emerging gay artists whose voices felt urgent and necessary, flying to Basel or Miami for fairs to scout talent no one else had noticed yet, or quietly advising a select group of collectors on building legacies that would outlast them. Those were the moments that lit him up, the private viewings in the gallery after hours, just him and a client and a painting that felt like it breathed, the quiet satisfaction of placing a work in a home where it would be cherished, not flipped. Jordan found particular amusement in poaching clients and talent from Harrison & Hale, old collectors who’d grown tired of Henry’s bombast, young associates eager for a space that valued vision over politics. Henry and Harry had even tried to take them to court, citing breach of non-compete clauses and theft of proprietary client lists, accusations that crumbled under scrutiny. As Jordan had suspected, his lawyers at Bristow, Fairfax & Lowe were far better, and the case was dismissed before it ever saw a courtroom, leaving H&H with nothing but legal fees and bruised egos.
He was good.
He was happy.
And for the first time in years, that felt like enough.
Jordan’s phone buzzed on the desk, the low vibration skimming across the glass just as two sharp knocks cut through the quiet. The door cracked open and Sebastian, Jordan’s assistant, leaned in, his usually perfect undercut slightly mussed from the long evening, eyes still bright with post-party adrenaline. He lingered in the doorway, asking if there was anything else before he called it a night and Jordan offered a smile and before waving him him off, telling him he’d done good work and should go home and get some rest.
Sebastin flashed a grin, gave a quick, playful salute, and disappeared. The door clicked shut. Jordan looked down at his phone.
Adrian.
Wish you were here, the text read, followed by a sad emoji face. The message glowed bright in the dim office, simple and teasing.
Jordan’s thumbs hovered, a small, involuntary smile tugging at his lips. Some of us need to work.
The reply dots appeared instantly.
Hey, I’m working! Doing some networking right now!
Then the photo loaded. Adrian, handsome as ever,, sharp jaw catching the bar’s low light, that easy, disarming grin aimed straight at the camera, sat on a leather stool, one arm slung casually over the back. Beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed, was a guy in his forties: bearded, broad-chested, the crisp white shirt of his suit straining across muscular arms and a solid torso, sleeves rolled to reveal thick forearms dusted with hair. Jordan stared at the image for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, a flicker of something warm stirring low in his chest.
He and Adrian never let the fact that they were both bottoms keep them from getting to know each other, and they had lots of fun getting each other off with their mouths and tongues and hands, slow and teasing until one of them was begging, laughing breathlessly into the sheets. They even invited tops from time to time, and those nights left them wrecked in the best way, tangled together afterward, trading lazy kisses while their bodies cooled. The last one had been a super-cute 23-year-old Columbia grad student, all lean muscle and cocky grin, who’d promised to make the two “daddies” (Adrian had found that outrageous, they were both only 32!) devoted to his cock by the end of the night. Four rounds later, the kid was the one tapping out, sprawled across the bed and begging for mercy while Jordan and Adrian high-fived like idiots over his sated body.
They weren’t boyfriends, nothing close to that label, but they’d been together for over three months now, easy, uncomplicated, the kind of arrangement that fit neatly into Jordan’s new life. They weren’t exclusive, and Jordan fully expected Adrian to enjoy his time at the tech conference in Vegas, surrounded by bachelor parties and mid-life-crisis daddies looking for trouble. It wasn’t like Jordan wasn’t doing the same. Just yesterday, after a particularly brutal back day at the gym, Lucas had cornered him in the locker room with that disarming smile and offered a massage that started innocent, strong hands working the knots from Jordan’s shoulders, and escalated fast. Two hours later Jordan had been fucked senseless against the mattress of Lucas’s West Village apartment, moaning low Lucas he took his sweet time, thorough and relentless, until Jordan was shaking and spent and laughing into the pillow because, fuck, the guy knew what he was doing.
Jordan rose from his desk just as Maria and Luis, the clean-up crew who arrived like clockwork every evening, approached with their carts, soft wheels rumbling over the polished concrete, the faint scent of lemon cleaner trailing them. He offered them a small nod and a warm smile as he passed, the gesture returned with quiet gratitude, Maria’s eyes crinkling above her mask, Luis tipping his cap in acknowledgment.
The firm’s open floor stretched wide and modern around him, Hudson Horizon’s space a deliberate evolution from the old-world polish of Harrison & Hale: exposed concrete beams overhead laced with sleek track lighting that cast focused pools on workstations, walls of steel and reclaimed wood framing rotating installations, currently a series of luminous neon sculptures by a young Korean artist, their cool glow humming low in the late hour. Glass partitions separated private offices but kept sightlines open, fostering the collaborative buzz Evan had insisted on from day one. Plants trailed from high shelves, ferns and monsteras thriving under grow lights, softening the industrial edge, while the far wall’s floor-to-ceiling windows offered that uninterrupted Hudson view, the river now a dark ribbon reflecting the city’s distant sparkle. A handful of staff still lingered at their desks, the dedicated few who, like Jordan once had at H&H, burned late into the night: Sophia poring over auction catalogs under the blue glow of her monitor, earbuds in, fingers flying; Mateo, his former gym spotter turned junior curator, leaning back with feet propped, reviewing digital renders for an upcoming show; and Priya, the provenance specialist, surrounded by stacks of files and a half-empty espresso cup, her screen’s reflection dancing in her glasses. The quiet hum of focused work wrapped the floor like a familiar blanket, keyboards tapping soft, occasional sighs or murmurs the only sounds breaking the concentration.
Jordan fired off a quick text to Martin, his driver, letting him know he was heading down, the message sending with a soft whoosh as he pocketed the phone. He was about to turn toward the elevators when he noticed, through the frosted glass of Evan’s office door, the warm spill of light still on, that Evan hadn’t left yet either. He knocked twice, light but firm, and heard a muffled “Come in!” coming from inside.
Jordan pushed the door open… and paused.
Evan wasn’t alone.
A man sat in one of the guest chairs opposite the desk: fifties, lean and sharp, dressed in an expensive but loose linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the kind of effortless posture that screamed old money, lounging like he owned the room, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He raised an eyebrow at Jordan, gaze lingering with open appraisal. Whoever he was, Jordan was surprised to see that Evan, behind the desk, looked like he wanted to kill him: jaw tight, eyes narrowed, the usual warmth replaced by something cold and barely leashed.
“Hey, Ev,” Jordan said, keeping his tone light even as the tension in the room prickled his skin. “I’m heading out.”
He offered the stranger a polite nod-smile. The man returned it, unmistakably predatory, eyes tracing Jordan with unhidden appreciation, lingering in a way that made his shoulders stiffen.
“See you tomorrow, Jord,” Evan said, the annoyance softening into something gentler as he looked at Jordan. “Great work with the Vermeer today. You’re a rockstar.”
“I sure as fuck am,” Jordan joked slightly awkward by whatever was happening there.
“You’re not going to make introductions, Evan?” the man asked, voice posh and drawling, laced with amusement.
Jordan swore he saw Evan roll his eyes before answering.
“David Henderson,” Evan said, motioning between them with a tired flick of his hand. “Meet Jordan Cartwright.”
“Ah, yes, the partner,” Henderson said, his gaze sliding over Jordan again, appreciative and unapologetic.
“Yup,” Jordan replied. “Evan’s other husband.”
“How fitting,” Henderson said, leaning back with that lazy confidence. “I happen to be Michael’s other husband.”
Jordan raised his eyebrows, surprise flickering brief before settling into curiosity.
“David is Mike’s boss at SVC ,” Evan explained, voice flat, clearly exhausted by the man’s presence.
“Oh,” Jordan said, filing away the detail. He really wanted to know what the hell Evan was doing having an after-hours meeting with his husband’s boss, but hold his tongue. “Mike’s great. You’re lucky to have him on board.”
“Oh, I know exactly how lucky I am, Jordan,” Henderson replied, tone smooth and layered with implication, eyes holding Jordan’s a beat too long.
Jordan felt the air shift again, thick, charged, almost viscous, and realized he’d overstayed whatever fragile truce this meeting pretended to be. The stranger’s gaze still clung to him, lazy and proprietary, while Evan’s tension radiated like heat off pavement.
“I’m gonna let you carry on,” Jordan said. He nodded to the stranger. “Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Henderson replied, smooth and dismissive, not bothering to rise. “Please shut the door on your way out.”
The words landed like a slap, infuriatingly casual, as if Evan were the help and Jordan an errand boy in his own firm. Jordan’s eyebrow arched before he could stop it, a flare of irritation sparking hot in his chest. Who the fuck did this prick think he was, issuing orders in the office Jordan had build from nothing? He flicked a glance to Evan, eyes asking silently what the hell is this?, but Evan only offered a small, more genuine smile this time, a subtle nod that said trust me, I’ve got it.
“See you tomorrow, Jord,” Evan said, voice normal again.
Jordan held his gaze a second longer, then shrugged inwardly, trusting Evan to handle whatever storm this was, and turned. He pulled the door closed behind him with a soft, the frosted glass muffling the room’s tension like a veil.
He was stretched across the back seat of the Maybach S-Class, city lights streaking past the tinted windows in soft blurs, when his phone buzzed in his hand again. Martin’s sports radio murmured low in the background, some late-night call-in show dissecting the Knicks’ latest heartbreak, the host’s familiar baritone a comforting drone Jordan had long since tuned to white noise. He glanced at the screen to see Luca had texted him:
Leaving home. Dom’s driving me. You there already?, and before Jordan could reply, another text dropped in. “Order me a G&T. Barely any T. Don’t be shy with the G.
Jordan’s mouth curved, a quiet laugh escaping as his thumbs moved.
Feeling wild tonight, huh?
The reply took two minutes, long enough for Jordan to picture Luca in the passenger seat of Dominic’s Audi, probably grinning at his phone while Dominic drove, one hand on the wheel, the other on Luca’s thigh.
Oh yeah. Gonna make some trouble tonight.
Jordan and Luca Kane had been doing this for over a year now, casual meet-ups every couple of weeks, usually at some low-lit bar in the Village or a quiet table at a speakeasy. Sometimes just the two of them, trading easy barbs and stories over drinks that stretched into last call. Sometimes a double date with Adrian and Dominic, four of them laughing too loud, splitting desserts, Adrian charming Dominic and Luca so effortlessly that Jordan already knew he’d be fielding another round of, “Seriously, why don’t you two just make it official already?” the next morning. It had started when Jordan, in those early months of rebuilding, reached out his old friend the way he had with Sarah and Damien, tentative texts, apologies for the silence, offers to grab coffee. Luca’s reply had come fast, almost relieved, saying he was the asshole, claiming he got so wrapped up in the wedding, the new house in Westchester and playing the perfect husband that, like Jordan, had left everything else slip.
They’d met for drinks the next week, and it was like no time had passed. The old rhythm snapped back instantly, Luca’s disarming laugh, the way he leaned in when Jordan teased. Art world stories turned into life updates, cautious at first, then deeper: work frustrations, travel plans, the small absurdities that somehow felt monumental at two in the morning. Dominic came up often, usually in passing, always with a softness in Luca’s voice that didn’t go unnoticed. And if Jordan were being honest with himself, he’d admit there was a flicker of jealousy there. Luca seemed to have found something solid, effortless, the kind of partnership people quietly hope for. Meanwhile, no matter how much fun Jordan had with Lucas and even Adrian, it never quite felt like that.
The car eased to a stop outside The Gilded House, a discreet townhouse bar tucked along a quiet stretch of West 10th Street, its unmarked brick façade and single brass lantern the only hints of the exclusivity within. Jordan leaned forward, told Martin he’d head home later with Luca and Dominic and wished him a good night, reminding him to get some rest.
Jordan stepped out into the crisp February night, the door closing with a muted thunk behind him. The hostess, elegant in black silk, greeted him by name at the velvet-curtained entrance, her smile knowing as she led him down a narrow staircase lit by sconces in smoked glass. The bar unfolded below like a jewel box: low-ceilinged and intimate, walls paneled in dark walnut, booths upholstered in deep bottle-green leather that gleamed under the amber glow of vintage chandeliers. Crystal decanters lined the back bar, catching light like liquid gold; bartenders in crisp white shirts moved with unhurried precision, muddling herbs for artisanal cocktails that cost more than a good bottle of wine. In the far corner, a live jazz trio played softly, saxophone weaving lazy, seductive lines through the air, brushed drums a hushed heartbeat. The music curled around the room like smoke, blending with the murmur of conversation and the faint notes of aged whiskey, citrus peel, and jasmine drifting from fresh arrangements on each table.
The clientele was pure uptown discretion: sharply dressed men in their thirties and forties, some in tailored suits fresh from boardrooms, others in cashmere sweaters that whispered quiet wealth. A few silver-haired patrons held court in corner booths, their laughter conspiratorial; younger finance types leaned close over negronis, eyes sharp with ambition. It was overwhelmingly gay, but effortlessly so, no rainbow flags, just the easy intimacy of hands brushing, gazes lingering without apology. Heads turned as Jordan passed, subtle at first, then less so. A murmured conversation paused; a man in a charcoal Tom Ford suit tracked him openly, appreciation flickering in his eyes. Jordan felt the weight of it, familiar and flattering, the quiet thrill of being seen. He caught his own reflection in a gilded mirror above the bar: the tobacco-brown cashmere suit from Loro Piana hung perfectly on his frame, the fabric’s subtle sheen catching the low light, cut close enough to hint at the hours he still logged at the gym without screaming for attention. He’d let a small beard grow in, trimmed close, just enough shadow along his jaw to sharpen the line of his face, trading the boyish softness of his twenties for something more masculine. It suited him, darkened his eyes, made the smile he offered the room feel less like invitation and more like quiet command.
He looked, he thought with a private flicker of satisfaction, very hot.
The hostess guided him to a table toward the back. Jordan slid in, the leather cool against his palms, and settled to wait, the low hum of conversation and clink of glassware folding around him in a way that felt almost familiar. A waiter appeared, tall, impeccably vested, moving with the silent grace of someone who’d served captains of industry for years, and Jordan ordered without glancing at the menu: a Sazerac with Rittenhouse rye, absinthe rinse, two dashes of Peychaud’s, a sugar cube muddled just so, and a wide lemon peel expressed over the rim. For Luca, as commanded, a gin and tonic, heavy on the gin (Hendrick’s, if they had it), light on the tonic.
The drinks arrived swiftly, the Sazerac in a chilled crystal rocks glass, its deep amber catching the chandelier’s glow, the absinthe’s faint anise ghosting the nose. Luca hadn’t appeared yet. Jordan settled deeper into his seat, picking up his phone to pass the time. He answered a couple of texts he received earlier: Sarah had sent him a photo of a chaotic gallery opening in Bushwick, neon-lit chaos, bodies pressed close, someone spilling wine on a canvas. Jo had sent him a pic too, a candid shot from the Connecticut sun porch, her and Walt with steaming mugs, snow-dusted gardens beyond. Missing my favorite son tonight. Dinner when you’re up? Walt says hi (he doesn’t, but I’m being polite). Jordan’s mouth curved fondly. Tell Walt I say hi back. I’ll come soon. He sipped the Sazerac distracted, eyes drifting occasionally to the entrance.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The Sazerac dwindled to ice and lemon peel; the ice in the G&T melting into pale dilution. Jordan fired off a text to Luca: How far out? Place is filling up, but got no reply, not even a typing bubble. The waiter returned, another Sazerac balanced on his tray, identical chill, identical wide peel curling over the rim. “With compliments from the gentleman in the back,” he murmured, nodding subtly toward the bar.
Jordan followed the gesture: the man in the charcoal Tom Ford suit, still nursing his drink, raised one hand in lazy salute, eyes locked on Jordan, appreciation bold and unhurried. Jordan nodded back, polite but brief, a flicker of acknowledgment without invitation, and ducked to his phone again, thumb scrolling idly through notifications, making it clear the gesture landed but wouldn’t be returned.
Another twenty minutes bled away, the bar’s murmur thickening around him like smoke. Jordan nursed the second Sazerac slowly at first, then with resigned gulps, the rye’s spice turning sharper on his tongue as worry crept in. He fired off texts to Luca, light at first, teasing about the delay, then edged with genuine concern when no reply came. He’d said he was leaving home; no last-minute emergency could have derailed him without a word. Jordan tried calling twice, straight to voicemail both times, the recorded greeting cheerful and oblivious.
He told himself not to spiral. More likely Luca and Dominic had pulled off onto some dark shoulder of the Saw Mill for a quickie than something sinister. Still, the silence gnawed. The Tom Ford suit at the bar was staring again, gaze appraising, building nerve with every sip.
Time to go.
He thumbed a final text to Luca, Call me when you can. Worried, and signaled for the check, eyes scanning for the waiter. His gaze drifted across the room, past a sharp-jawed tech type in a slim navy blazer, laughing too loud with his companion; past a silver-haired patron nursing an Armagnac in solitude. A handsome man in wire-rimmed glasses, dark hair neatly trimmed, pushing to his feet with quiet purpose, followed by the towering bear behind him, broad shoulders rolling as he stood. And there, finally, was the waiter, momentarily distracted as a regular leaned in to catch his attention, already launching into a familiar, easy…
Ben.
Jordan’s breath caught, heart slamming hard against his ribs. He turned his head back so quickly it felt like whiplash, eyes locking on the man he hadn’t seen in two years, alive, real, impossibly close. Ben. The waiter was forgotten. The check, the melted gin and tonic, Luca’s silence, all of it vanished. The bar kept rolling indifferent, laughter rising from a nearby booth, ice clinking in fresh pours, the faint jazz trio in the corner weaving through the murmur like silk.
But for Jordan, time stopped.
Ben.
Jordan’s first instinct was something ridiculous, duck under the table, melt into his seat like a lunatic, but he stayed locking him in place. It was fine. Just his ex. No big deal. He looked at Ben for the first time in ages.
Still handsome, still massive, undeniable even in the bar’s low amber light that softened everyone else into shadows. Unlike the sleek suits and cashmere that filled the room, Ben wore that vintage leather jacket, the same one he had bought back when he was still with Jordan. It still fit, stretched across those broadened shoulders, worn soft at the elbows from real life. The beard was gone, replaced by a thick, deliberate mustache that sharpened the line of his mouth, gave him a rugged edge that felt both new and achingly familiar. No glasses either, contacts now, or maybe surgery? His hazel eyes looked clearer, sharper, scanning the room with that quiet vigilance Jordan remembered from their first elevator ride.
Ben and the man beside him, slim, polished, mid-thirties with an easy smile, paused at a nearby table, greeting an older couple in quiet tones, laughter low and genuine. Ben’s hand rested low on the man’s back, possessive and tender, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of his shirt.
More than friends, clearly.
Jordan’s chest tightened, a tangle of relief and something sharper he refused to name. Part of him wanted Ben to keep walking, vanish into the night with this new man, leave the past undisturbed. Safer that way. Cleaner. But like fate twisting the knife, Ben’s gaze swept the room one last time, and landed on Jordan’s.
The hazel eyes widened, just a fraction, recognition flashing. Time stretched, the bar’s murmur fading to nothing. Jordan didn’t moved. Ben didn’t either.
For a suspended heartbeat, the bar’s hush held them both, two figures caught in the low light, years collapsing into the space between them. Then, as if some silent signal passed, they smiled at the same time.
It was permission enough. Ben leaned close to his companion, murmuring something low against the man’s ear. Jordan caught the reaction, the subtle crease of the man’s forehead, the way his eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing, when Ben nodded in Jordan’s direction. Whatever Ben had said didn’t sit well; the man’s mouth tightened, posture stiffening. Ben didn’t wait for more. He was already moving, long strides eating the distance, leather jacket shifting over those massive shoulders, the familiar weight of him cutting through the room like he still owned every inch he crossed.
He stopped at Jordan’s table, huge as ever, hazel eyes soft, small smirk tugging at his lips.
“Jord,” he said, voice that same low rumble, gravel and warmth braided tight, the sound Jordan had once fallen asleep to, woken to, loved so fiercely it hurt.
“Hey, Benny,” Jordan replied, a smile curving unbidden as he looked up.
He wondered, fleetingly, if they should hug. Maybe a handshake? That sounded way to formal for the man who used to wake him with lazy nibbles along his neck.
“Hot date tonight?” Ben asked, eyes tracing Jordan’s face like he was memorizing changes.
“Nah,” Jordan said, shaking his head, the smile holding. “Just drinks with Luca. You remember him?”
“Sure. Married to that military guy, right?”
“Yup. Dominic.” Jordan glanced past him, toward the companion still lingering in the distance, arms crossed now, expression cooled to polite ice. “What about you and your friend over there?”
Ben followed his gaze, something unreadable flickering across his features.
“Third date, actually,” he said, turning back.
Jordan felt a quiet wash of relief at the words. He felt no sharp tug of jealousy, no ache to mourn what they’d lost, just the soft, certain realization that he had truly moved on. The love lingered, faded to something gentler, but the pain had loosened its grip. He was even happy for Ben, happy that this wonderful, complicated man had found someone to take him on second dates, third dates, despite the life he led now. The last thing Jordan wanted was to picture Ben alone in some anonymous apartment, lights off, scrolling through old photos in the dark.
“Nice,” Jordan said, the word genuine, a small smile curving as he held Ben’s eyes. “He’s in… the industry?”
“No,” Ben answered, a faint huff of laughter escaping. “Colin’s a teacher.”
Jordan nodded, curiosity sparking brief and bright. How did that work, exactly? A quiet schoolteacher navigating dinners and weekends with a man whose body was currency to millions? Did Colin find it hot, the way Jordan once had, thrilled by the power of it? Or was it something steadier, kinder? Whatever it was, Jordan didn’t ask. It wasn’t his life anymore. Wasn’t his problem.
“Well, don’t let me…”, Jordan started, but the words trailed as Colin detached from his spot, weaving through the crowd with purpose.
He arrived at the booth tight-jawed, eyes cool. Jordan offered a polite smile, but Colin didn’t return it. His gaze flicked between them, settling on Ben with clear possession as his hand settled on Ben’s forearm, fingers curling firm, marking territory. He did not looked happy.
“Coming, Ben?” Colin asked, voice clipped, the touch lingering deliberate.
Jordan bit the inside of his lip to stifle a laugh, unexpected amusement bubbling up. He wondered if Colin knew who he was, and really hoped Ben didn’t spend first dates talking about his ex.
“In a minute,” Ben said. He glanced at Colin, gentle but firm. “Actually… why don’t you go ahead? I need five minutes with Jordan.”
“Are you serious?” Colin’s brows drew together, unhappiness sharpening his features by the second. Jordan didn’t blame him. This had to be a brutal detour from whatever night he’d planned.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “Five minutes. I’ll meet you in your place, okay?”
Colin hesitated, jaw working silent, then gave a short nod, tight and resigned, and turned away without another word, disappearing toward the entrance.
Jordan watched him go, laughter rising despite everything. “Man, if you wanted to get laid tonight, that was a bad move,” he said, teasing, the joke slipping out before he could second-guess it.
Ben huffed a small laugh, unbothered, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners in that way Jordan hadn’t seen in years. “He’ll get over it. Mind if I sit?”
Jordan nodded, gesturing to the chair in front of him with an open palm.
“What’s up, Benny?”
Ben lowered himself into the seat, the leather creaking under his weight, jacket shifting as he settled. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.
“Just… how are you?” he asked, voice dropping to that familiar gravel rumble, soft at the edges. “For real.”
The question hung simple, but it carried everything: the years, the distance, the wreckage they’d both crawled out of.
“I’m good,” Jordan said, and meant it, the words settling easy in his chest. “Seriously. The firm keeps me busy. I opened my own place. Hudson Horizon, over in Hudson Yards.”
“Yeah,” Ben said, nodding. “I know. I see Evan sometimes when I grab drinks with Mike. In fact…” He paused, eyes flicking down to the table, then back up, something almost shy in the admission. “I bought a couple pieces from you guys this year. When I moved into my new place.”
Jordan blinked, surprise flickering warm through him. He hadn’t known, didn’t track every transaction, especially the corporate ones, but the thought of Ben walking their space, choosing work they’d curated, settled strange and soft in his gut.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Ben’s smile deepened, a touch self-conscious. “A big Richard Serra lithograph for the living room, you know, those heavy black curves. Felt… solid. And a small Nan Goldin photograph for the bedroom. The one with the couple in the mirror.” He shrugged, massive shoulders rolling under the leather. “Used my company account, though. Morgan Stone & Steel. Figured you might not appreciate doing business with the ex.”
“Hey, I’d charge extra, but I’d still take your money.”
Ben’s laugh rumbled quiet, deep and familiar, the sound rolling through his chest like distant thunder Jordan had once fallen asleep to. His eyes held Jordan’s, like coming home to a place that had changed but still remembered the shape of you. The bar carried on around them, velvet and amber and indifferent. Low conversations rose and fell at nearby tables. The jazz trio in the far corner wove lazy standards through the air, saxophone curling like smoke. Ice clinked, citrus peel twisted, the faint scent of aged whiskey and expensive cologne drifting in eddies. Across the room, the Tom Ford suit was still looking at Jordan, posture stiff now, drink forgotten in his hand. He watched them with poorly veiled frustration, like a man who’d lined up the perfect shot only to watch someone else step in and claim it.
Jordan felt nothing. No pull, no sting. Just the quiet, profound relief of sitting here with Ben and finding it… simple. The hurt was something of the past, dulled to a faint scar, tender only if pressed. No bitterness, no ache to reclaim what was gone. Just this: two men who’d once known each other completely, sharing a table and easy words like old friends who’d simply lost touch.He didn’t know if he’d ever see Ben again, life twisted strange paths, and God knew how different they’d both be if it ever happened. But Jordan was glad, deeply and unexpectedly, that this could be their last memory of each other: jokes and quiet laughter in the warm hush of a bar, not the devastating sorrow of that final night in the loft, voices breaking and eyes filled with tears, the air thick with everything they couldn’t fix.
Ben’s eyes held his a moment longer, soft at the edges, like he felt it too.
“So, you opened your own company too?” Jordan said, tilting his head with a half-smile. The name Morgan Stone & Steel had sounded, in his mind, perfect for a porn studio: Stone for the obvious, Steel a nod to that legendary endowment he couldn’t quite forget. “Ben Morgan, CEO. Who’d have thought?”
Ben laughed.
“Right? Not me. But yeah,” he said, leaning forward slightly, massive hands loosely clasped on the table. ““Started small, mostly renovations for folks in the community, you know? Gay dudes, lesbian couples, trans people… clients who don’t always feel safe with random rough-neck crews in their homes. Word spread. Expanded this year. Mike hooked me up with some investors, I brought on a couple new guys, good ones, solid.”
“Wait.” Jordan interrupted, blinking, the pieces snapping together too fast. “What?”
“What?”
“You’re… you’re working in construction?” Jordan asked, voice pitched with genuine shock.
Ben’s smile widened, proud, the kind that lit his whole face: hazel eyes crinkling deep at the corners, shoulders rolling back just a fraction, that old colossus energy flickering alive beneath the leather jacket. His chest expanded with the breath he took, like the words themselves filled him up.
“Almost fifty guys on payroll now. We just landed a big contract with the City, adaptive reuse project in Brooklyn. I’m super fucking proud of that one, Jord.”
Jordan stared, the bar’s velvet murmur fading to nothing around them. Ben, back on job sites, swinging hammers again, building things that lasted. Not performing for cameras, not commodifying every inch of himself. Not Big Ben anymore.
Just… Ben.
“You stopped porn?” The question slipped out soft, wonder threading through it, relief blooming warm in his chest.
Ben looked at him like he’d started speaking in tongues, brow creasing, a startled huff escaping.
“For more than a year now,” he said. “I thought… thought you knew,. Thought Evan had told you.
Jordan shook his head slowly, still stunned. No, Evan had never mentioned it. Not once. Not after that first housewarming in Tribeca, when Ben’s succulent that Jordan still kept in his nightstand had cracked the air open and they’d all tiptoed around it ever since. Jordan knew Ben and Mike were friends and always assumed Evan would see him sometimes, but he’d never asked. Never said the name aloud. He’d drawn the line himself: past in the past, his friendship with Evan and Mike’s friendship with Ben two different entities, separate. Evan, bless him, had followed the silent rule without question.
“Yeah,” Ben said again, quieter this time, a sheepish note creeping in. He lifted one massive hand, scrubbing at the back of his neck, old habit, the one he’d had when words felt too big. “I stopped.”
“Why?”
Ben laughed, soft and awkward, the sound scraping a little raw. His gaze dropped to the table, then lifted, hazel eyes steady but edged with something vulnerable Jordan hadn’t seen in years.
“You really wanna know the truth?”
Jordan couldn’t speak. Just nodded, throat tight, suddenly afraid of whatever came next, afraid it would hurt, or heal, or change everything all over again. Ben exhaled slow, shoulders rolling like he was bracing for impact.
“After you dumped me,” he started, voice rougher. “I figured I’d dive head-first into that world. Thought I had nothing left to lose. So I went all in. Filmed with every guy Gideon lined up, built the brand, chased the cash. Anything to just… get over you, you know?”
He wasn’t looking at Jordan anymore, gaze fixed somewhere past the table, past the bar’s amber glow, like that frantic stretch of his life was playing out again behind his eyes.
“And for a while,” he went on, quieter, “I guess it worked. Numbed the pain. Fucked a lot of guys, partied harder than I should’ve. Did some drugs… nothing crazy, but enough to blur the edges. Went a little wild. Thank God for Gideon pulling me back, or I’d have blown all my cash on blow and whatever ass caught my eye that night.”
Jordan nodded, slow, the words sinking deep. He remembered that night, months after the breakup, alone in the new Tribeca bed, laptop glowing harsh in the dark. Scrolling Ben’s feed with a sickness he couldn’t name: the club photos, champagne pouring over that broad chest, collabs with names Jordan recognized, every thumbnail screaming triumph. He’d thought Ben was thriving, living the dream, finally free, radiant in a way their life together had never quite allowed.
Never once imagining it might have been armor. A desperate, glittering distraction from the same ache Jordan carried.
“Then I started fucking hating everything,” Ben went on, a rough laugh escaping, self-deprecating, edged with old pain. He rubbed a hand over his mustache, eyes distant again. “Hated having to fuck those guys on camera. Hated that I couldn’t walk into a gay bar without some creep grabbing my ass or whispering what they wanted to do to me. Hated that I had everything I thought I needed, all the money, the attention, the validation, and still missed you like crazy. Every day. Non-stop.”
His voice dropped lower, almost barely there.
“Hated that that fucking job cost me the only person who ever really loved me.”
The words landed heavy, simple, devastating. Jordan’s breath caught, the booth suddenly too small, the bar’s velvet hush pressing in until the entire world felt too tight, too close.
“Ben…” he started, voice barely above the jazz trio’s murmur, not sure what could possibly come next.
Ben shook his head faintly, a small, sad smile tugging his mouth.
“We were in the middle of this crazy project Gideon cooked up, ‘Big Ben Fucks America.’ Traveling the country, fucking one guy from every state, filming the whole thing. I was in some hotel room in Montana, waiting for the next shoot, staring at the ceiling… and it hit me. I’d rather fucking myself than do that again.”
He exhaled slow, shoulders easing like a weight had finally shifted.
“So, you know, I stalled for a couple of days, dragged it out till the contract with Gideon ran dry. Shut down the Twitter, closed the OnlyFans. Never looked back.”
Jordan stared at him, chest full and aching in a way that wasn’t quite pain anymore. Just the quiet, profound recognition of two lives that had diverged, scarred, and somehow circled back to this moment. Ben met his eyes, the mustache twitching with a faint, rueful smile.
“That’s it,” he said softly. “That’s why.”
Jordan didn’t know what to say. He reached across the table without thinking, fingertips brushing Ben’s knuckles, light as breath, suddenly terrified Ben would pull away, close the door again. But Ben didn’t. His palm opened, callused fingers unfurling like an invitation. Their hands intertwined, warm, familiar, the fit still perfect after all this time, like muscle memory neither had lost.
“I had no idea,” Jordan whispered.
Ben’s gaze held unflinching.
“Would it have made any difference?”
Jordan thought about it. Would it? Ben had stopped over a year ago, right around the frantic months when he and Evan were pouring everything into Hudson Horizon: sleepless nights, endless calls, the firm rising brick by brick from nothing. Back then, Jordan had no room for anything but work, too buried to breathe, and had even gently turned Lucas down when he’d floated going serious.
But this was Ben. The only man he ever loved, the one he still thought as the love of his life. If Ben had shown up then, saying he’d walked away from it all, the only thing Jordan had ever truly begged him to do… would he have opened the door?
“I guess we’ll never know, Benny.”
Ben looked deep into his eyes, hazel on blue, open and unguarded… and laughed, low and rueful, the sound rumbling warm between them. Jordan squeezed his hand once, then let go, the absence cool on his skin.
“I think I should get going,” he said, glancing around for the waiter, ready to settle the check and step back into the night. “And you should get back to Co…”
“Wanna grab a coffee with me?” Ben interrupted him, cutting through the hush like he’d been holding the words for years.
Jordan looked at him, eyebrow lifting just a millimeter.
“There’s a nice coffee house two streets over,” Ben added, like it was the easiest thing in the world, shoulders rolling in that familiar shrug. “What you think? For old times’ sake.”
“What about Colin?”
“Fuck Colin,” Ben said, flat and unapologetic, the bluntness pulling a startled laugh from Jordan despite himself.
“Come on,” Jordan said, smile fading into something more serious, voice soft. “You really think this is a good idea, Ben?”
Ben shrugged again.
“I thought about reaching out a million times after I stopped. But I never had the balls. Always figured you were better off without me.” He paused, gaze dropping to empty glasses, then lifting again. “Kept asking the universe for a sign it was okay to try. Maybe… this is it.”
Jordan looked at him for a long moment, the bar’s amber light catching the edges of Ben’s face, the familiar lines of his features older now but still achingly known. He could already see it: a small corner table in that cozy café two streets over, steam curling from mugs, low laughter over old stories, catching up on everything missed. Ben walking him home afterward, like he always had, that protective presence at his side. Jordan inviting him up… of course he would; he’d never been able to resist Ben, not really. The door closing behind them, the quiet of the apartment, and then Ben’s hands on him again, big, sure, familiar. That mustache scratching soft along his neck, beard gone but the sensation new and thrilling. Ben’s mouth mapping skin like reclaiming territory. And lower, God, the thought of taking Ben again after so long, that impossible size stretching him open, filling him in a way no one else ever had, ever could. The desire flared sharp and sudden, warm low in his belly, tempered by the years and the healing but undeniable all the same.
Jordan rose.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Benny,” he said, despite the betraying tightness in his underwear. “Sorry.”
Ben stood too, towering him, leather jacket shifting over his broad frame. “Nah, it’s fine,” he said, smile easy but not quite reaching his eyes, something deeper flickering there, regret soft at the edges, like a bruise under skin. “Thought it was worth a shot. You always will be worth a shot.”
“It was good running into you, Benny.”
“You too, Jord.” Ben’s voice rumbled warm, lingering. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Jordan gave him one last smile and turned away. He skipped the handshake; no, not that. He didn’t trust himself to feel Ben’s skin again, that familiar warmth, without unraveling right there in the middle of The Gilded House. He scanned for the damn waiter, finally spotting him near the back bar, polishing a row of crystal coupes with deliberate strokes, and started toward him, feeling Ben’s gaze burn into his back the entire time, heavy, like a hand he couldn’t shake off.
He ignores. Just kept moving: waited politely for a waiter balancing a silver tray of fresh negronis to pass, offered a soft, absent smile to the Tom Ford suit who’d been watching all nigh, still hopeful, still frustrated, and pushed on… but his steps slowed, smaller and smaller, like some invisible tether pulling him back, gentle but inexorable, until he finally stopped.
He turned.
Ben hadn’t moved an inch. Just stood there by the table, eyes locked on him, waiting, as if he felt the same pull, as if this moment had always been inevitable. Jordan’s heart beat once, hard, a thud that echoed in the velvet hush.
He walked back.
“Just coffee?” he asked, voice soft but sure, a smile tugging despite himself.
Ben’s grin broke wide and radiant, mustache twitching as relief flooded his face, his eyes crinkling deep, the old spark flaring bright.
“Just coffee,” he echoed, low and warm. Then, smirking, that familiar gravel edge creeping in: “For starters.”
Jordan laughed, breathless, genuine, stomach flipping with anticipation he hadn’t felt in years.
“Fine,” he said, the word light but carrying the weight of the entire universe. “Let’s go.”
They left together, shoulders brushing as they wove through the bar, past lingering gazes and clinking glasses, out into the crisp night air. The Hudson flowed steady beyond the streetlights, its dark waters catching the city’s warm glow like scattered stars, ancient witness to new beginnings, carrying them gently into whatever came next.
The legend, after all, had a little more to tell.
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