Jordan kept waiting for the regret to come, the dread, the panic of what he’d just done crashing over him like a wave, making him turn back, crawl to the office on his knees, apologize and beg for his job back like a good boy. But it never happened. He felt fine, better than he had in months.
It was strange. He’d been satisfied at Harrison & Hale, happy even, in the way that came from mastery, from knowing the game better than most and playing it well. Sure, there’d been that quiet unrest at times, the slight fear of stagnating that shadowed anyone who truly loved their work, who always craved the next rung, the bigger challenge, more. He hadn’t wanted to spend the rest of his life as just an art dealer, but he’d believed the promotions would come, that he’d carve a name for himself in the firm like Evan and others had, rising steady and sure.
But now that the possibility was gone, severed clean in just two word, he felt… free. Like shrugging off a coat that had grown too heavy in summer heat, the sudden lightness almost dizzying.
He walked home that day, body too electric for the confines of the subway, the January wind whipping sharp against his cheeks as he cut south from Midtown through the crowded avenues toward Chelsea. The city pulsed around him, horns blaring in impatient bursts, steam rising ghostly from grates, the faint metallic tang of cold air mixing with street-vendor pretzels and exhaust, but Jordan barely noticed, his stride quick and purposeful, coat unbuttoned despite the chill, heart racing with a restless, exhilarating energy he hadn’t felt in months.
His mind was bursting with possibilities. He knew he could have another job as an art dealer by the end of the month. Harrison & Hale wasn’t the only dealership in New York, far from it, and more than once during his tenure, rivals had approached him quietly: Gagosian with their global reach and celebrity clientele, Pace Gallery courting him for their contemporary edge, even David Zwirner slipping discreet feelers through mutual contacts. Jordan had never seriously considered accepting out of loyalty to Evan and the comfort of his role, but he also had no qualms using the offers to negotiate another bump in his salary, another perk to keep him rooted. But that wasn’t what he wanted. Not really.
His thoughts raced in wilder directions: advising collectors directly without the firm’s overhead or politics; curating independent exhibitions in pop-up spaces, free to chase the artists he believed in; or even stepping away from dealing altogether. Teaching at Sotheby’s Institute, writing criticism for magazines that had courted him before, building something entirely his own where no one could drag his private life into a boardroom and call it a liability. The freedom tasted sharp and sweet on his tongue, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water, pride swelling hot in his chest at what he’d just done, resentment at H&H fading into something almost triumphant.
He got to Chelsea in record time, mind already racing ahead with plans. Reach out to old colleagues, gauge what was moving in the market, call his dad to set up a meeting with Alec Bristow. He felt the threat of suing had landed squarely; H&H would fold, and he’d get the generous severance he’d demanded. But he wasn’t taking chances. He’d need that cushion while he figured out the next step. He couldn’t afford recklessness not when he had to support not only himself but Ben too.
Ben.
Jordan stopped dead on the corner of Eighth and 19th. Ben. Fuck. He hadn’t thought about his partner once in all that time, not during the walk, not in the rush of quitting, not in the triumphant haze of burning the bridge behind him. He’d been too caught in his own fury, his own liberation, to consider that there was another person whose life would be upended by his unemployment. If Ben stopped porn (and that was what was going to happen, right? He was gonna stop) then he’d be totally dependent on Jordan again. The words Ben had spat two nights ago echoed sharp and fresh: how much he’d hated being carried, how every bill Jordan paid had felt like a quiet judgment.
Shit
Jordan took a deep breath before he kept going. It was fine. It would be fine. If he and Ben weren’t talking right now while Ben figured out whatever the hell he needed to figure out, at least it meant Jordan had time. Time to breathe, to plan, to map a future that didn’t feel like sinking sand. When they were together again, Jordan would be ready, steady with answers instead of accusations.
And if there was a tiny part of him that felt relieved Ben wouldn’t be home when he got there, a quiet, treacherous happiness that no hard conversations would dampen the strange euphoria still humming in his veins from quitting, from finally choosing himself… well, he ignored it. Pushed it down deep, where the love and resentment and shame still tangled, refusing to examine how easily relief slipped in alongside the ache of missing him.
He was wrong, though.
Jordan got home a little after six, the clouded January sky already bruising into dusk, streetlights flickering on in pale halos along the avenue as night gathered cold and quick. He turned the key in the lock expecting the loft to greet him with its familiar emptiness, dark, silent, the chill of absence seeping from the walls after days of Ben’s hotel exile. Instead, warm light spilled into the hallway the moment the door swung open.
The living room glowed, soft and golden, and Jordan’s breath caught sharp in his throat.
Their official dining table, the one they almost never used, reserved for rare holidays or pretentious dinner parties that never quite happened, stood tidy in the center: crisp white linens draped smooth, silverware aligned with precision, a pair of tall chandelabras waiting with unlit candles at either end. But the other dozens and dozens of smaller candles scattered across every surface, on the coffee table, the bookshelves, the windowsills, were already burning. Their flames danced low and steady, cedar-and-vanilla wax melting slow, filling the air with that same honeyed scent that had bathed the Catskills cabin in intimate light that Jordan hated so much to see. The electric fireplace hummed softly, flames flickering blue and orange behind glass, casting shifting shadows across the hardwood.
Jordan stood frozen in the doorway, coat still on, keys dangling from numb fingers. The setup was unmistakable: romantic, deliberate. An apology in wax and flame.
“Ben?” Jordan called out.
A sharp clang echoed from the kitchen, metal on marble, followed by Ben’s unmistakable growl, “Son of a bitch”, Heavy footsteps thudded closer, and Ben’s massive frame filled the doorway, apron tied crooked over his broad chest, a wooden spoon still clutched in one hand.
“Shit,” he said, eyes widening behind his glasses, a flush rising beneath the stubble. “You’re already home?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said, laughing surprised. He gestured to the candlelit table. “What’s going on here?”
“Fuck,” Ben muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with the spoon, sheepish now. “I wanted to surprise you. Was about to start dinner.”
“You were gonna cook dinner?” Jordan asked, eyebrow arching, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.
“I was gonna try,” Ben admitted, grin crooked and self-deprecating. “It’s the thought that counts, right? We can always order Japanese if it looks like I’m gonna poison us.”
Jordan laughed again, softer this time, the sound catching in his throat as love surged stubborn and aching, love for this man trying, clumsily, sweetly, to bridge the chasm they’d torn open.
“That’s sweet of you,” he said, voice quieter. “I’m sorry I ruined your surprise.”
“Nah,” Ben said, stepping closer, the spoon dangling forgotten at his side. “I should’ve asked before coming back anyway.”
Jordan shook his head, the candle flames dancing in his peripheral vision.
“You live here too, Ben,” he said. “You don’t need my permission.”
Ben looked into Jordan’s eyes for a long second, searching for reassurance in their familiar depths, as if needing confirmation that the words were true, that the door hadn’t fully closed between them. He nodded, the motion carrying the weight of everything unsaid.
“I had this whole thing planned,” he said, untying the apron from around his broad frame. “But now that you’re here… you should talk, right?”
Jordan nodded, throat tight.
“I think we have to.”
Ben extended his hand, palm up, massive and callused, the same hand that had once felt like home. Jordan hesitated only an instant, before taking it, wrapping his fingers around Ben’s much larger ones. The grip was familiar, grounding in a way that tugged deep at something in Jordan’s heart, a sharp, aching reminder of how much he’d missed this: the simple solidity of Ben’s touch, the quiet claim in those thick fingers closing around his. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Ben, not just the idea of him, but this, the physical presence that had once filled every empty space in the loft.
Ben led them to the couch, carefully moving a few candles from the seat, flames flickering low in their glass jars, a fire hazard Jordan noted silently but decided not to mention. He let Jordan sit first, then settled into the armchair opposite, body turned fully toward him, knees apart, elbows on his thighs, hazel eyes steady behind his glasses.
“There’s a lot I want to say to you,” Ben said, the words scraping out like they’d been trapped too long. “But I think I should start by apologizing for some of the shit I said the other night.”
Jordan said nothing.
“That stuff about you trying to control me,” Ben continued, gaze dropping to his hands, “about making’ me feel like I wasn’t enough… I ain’t gonna pretend those feelings weren’t real, Jord. But I always knew they were just my own insecurities talking. I’m sorry for throwing that shit in your face. It was fucked up. I know everything you did was outta love.”
“It really was, Ben,” Jordan said.
Ben shook his head, his beard brushing his collar.
“It’s just…” He exhaled, the sound heavy in the candlelit hush. “Growing up in Braddock, I never thought I’d have this, you know? Two options my whole life: marry some girl, pretend I was somebody I wasn’t, or stay alone forever. Being gay, coming out, none of that felt like something I could do. Not really.”
Jordan said nothing. He barely dared to breathe, afraid any sound might shatter the fragile moment, the air between them thick with tension, the loft’s quiet pressing in like it held its own breath. Ben never talked about his life in Braddock, Pennsylvania, of the years before New York, before Jordan. Jordan only knew the broad strokes, pieced together from rare, reluctant fragments: trailer park childhood, abusive father, drunk mother, the kind of past Ben locked away tight, never letting Jordan fully in.
“But then I met you,” Ben went on, “and you were fucking perfect. And for some reason you wanted me, outta all the guys in the world. Felt like I won the goddamn lottery, but at the same time… like I was touching forbidden fruit, y’know? Something that was never supposed to be mine.”
Jordan’s chest tightened, love surging warm and helpless at Ben’s honesty, pride flickering that he’d been the one to pull Ben from that darkness, shame burning low at how his own insecurities had fed Ben’s without realizing.
“I kept lookin’ at you,” Ben continued, gaze fixed on his hands, massive and scarred from hard work, “your job, your friends, your family… and I kept thinking, fuck, there is no way he don’t see it too. No way he won’t look at me one day and realize he can do so much better than a guy like me.”
“Ben…” Jordan whispered, the name soft and aching.
“It got better with time, y’know,” Ben said, exhaling slow, shoulders sagging under the weight. “I saw how much you really loved me, God fucking knows why, and I learned to trust it. Learned to ignore that fucking voice saying I wasn’t enough for you… until the other night. Felt cornered, Jord. Said the first shit that came to mind.”
He looked up then, hazel eyes honest behind his glasses, guilt etched deep.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking faint on the words. “You deserve better than that, baby.”
Jordan nodded at him, forcing a smile through the tears that had pooled hot in his eyes, blurring the candlelit glow around Ben’s face.
“Thanks. Thanks for saying that, Benny”, he said. He wiped the tears away with the heel of his hand, “And honestly, some of the stuff you said wasn’t that wrong. You’re right, it’s easy for me to not care about money because I’ve got my family to fall back on. In fact…”
“Yeah, that’s another thing I wanted to apologize for,” Ben interrupted. “Look, I get it, okay? Of course you don’t want your family to know I do porn. Even if they’re cool with it, and that’s a big if, a lot of folks in their world are gonna judge. I’ll even talk to your cousin if you want, tell him straight that doin’ porn ain’t easy. Ain’t something a rich kid with a supportive family should be chasing.”
Relief flooded Jordan all at once, warm, sudden, washing through him like the first deep breath after surfacing. It was everything he’d wanted to hear, everything he’d feared Ben wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t care enough to see. The terror that had knotted his gut for days loosened, love flaring bright and fierce amid the dissolving resentment, softening at Ben’s willingness to protect what was left of Jordan’s world. For the first time in the last forty-eight hours, Jordan saw it: a path forward, narrow and uncertain but real, leading back toward what they used to be.
“I was talking to Gideon today,” Ben continued, gaining steam, excitement flickering in his eyes like he was offering a gift. “Told him I’m only doing POV from now on, y’know? Like that teninchtop guy on Twitter. Just my cock, some of my body. He wasn’t happy, but fuck him. I’m doing it.”
Jordan stopped breathing.
The words landed soft, almost hopeful, but they detonated inside him all the same. Ben, however, kept going, words tumbling faster in his eagerness, oblivious to the dread pooling cold and vicious in Jordan’s gut.
“I’m even thinking about deleting my scenes with Ezra, Montoya, and Beau, Jord” he said, leaning forward, hands gesturing like he was painting a future bright and clean. “I know it won’t erase them from the internet forever, but it’ll be harder to… what’s wrong, babe?”
He finally looked up, the sentence dying on his lips as he saw Jordan’s face twisted with horror.
“You’re not gonna stop?”
“What?”
“The porn?” The words left his mouth like splinters, each one a fresh wound.” “You won’t stop with it?”
Ben stared at him like Jordan had started speaking in tongue, brows knitting, mouth parting slightly, confusion sharpening as if they were suddenly having two entirely different conversations.
“I… I,” he stammered, the excitement draining fast. “No, baby. You know I can’t stop. I need the cash.”
Jordan closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands hard against them, the pressure blooming colorful dots across the dark, bursts of red and gold exploding like silent fireworks behind his lids. The ache in his head sharpened, a welcome distraction, anything better than staring at the truth in front of him: the path forward he’d glimpsed only moments ago, fragile and hopeful, nothing more than a dream.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing would change.
“Look,” Ben said, voice pleading now, leaning forward with that desperate earnestness Jordan knew too well, “even if I wanted to stop, I can’t, okay? I signed a contract with Gideon, remember? I’ve got scenes scheduled. I can’t just drop everything like that, Jordan.”
Jordan opened his eyes.
Ben was looking at him with clear hope shining there, pure, unguarded, the same look he’d worn in darker months when Jordan promised things would get better. It made everything worse, twisting the knife deeper: Ben wanted to solve this too, thought he was offering compromise, a way back. Love ached sharp in Jordan’s chest at the sight, because Ben still cared enough to try, making everything bitter because it wasn’t enough, would never be enough.
“I lost my job today,” Jordan said, the words flat, stripped of triumph he felt earlier.
“What?”
“Well, I quit,” he clarified. “But yeah. Henry Harrison found out about you being Big Ben and thought he could be a bitch to me about it, so I figured it was better to cut my losses.”
Ben’s face shifted, surprise first, then recognition, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
“Wait, that’s that guy from the party, right?” he asked. “The one who was all over me? He’s your boss? I thought Evan was your boss.”
“He’s one of the partners,” Jordan said. “He’s everyone’s boss.”
Ben cringed, shoulders hunching slightly, guilt etching deeper lines around his mouth.
“I don’t know what to say, Jord,” he muttered. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this.”
Jordan shrugged.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I mean, I always knew there was a chance you’d be recognized, right? And honestly, it seems he was only doing it out of revenge because you weren’t down to fuck or whatever.”
Ben’s gaze dropped, voice barely above a whisper.
“So… still my fault.
“It’s not your fault, and that’s beside the point. This is what I’m trying to make you understand, Ben,” he said, each syllable heavy with the exhaustion of saying it again. “Your job is still spilling into every part of our lives. It’s taking everything. If you keep doing it, you’ll only get bigger, and it’s only gonna take more.”
The words felt hollow even as they left his mouth, useless, echoing in the quiet space between them like smoke that wouldn’t clear, choking the air with the bitterness of everything unsaid for too long. There was no point. He knew that now, the realization settling cold and final in his gut, a weight like lead sinking deep, freezing the sorrow that had carried him this far into something numb and inevitable. Ben stared back at him, hope fading from his eyes like light leaking from a cracked door.
“Fuck, Jord, come on,” Ben said, “I’m tryin’ to compromise here, babe. I know it ain’t ideal, but I need you to meet me halfway, okay? We can make this work, I know we can. You think we’re drifting apart? We’ll deal with that. Date nights, romantic trips, just you and me. It’ll be like when we started dating, okay? Fuck, it’ll be even better, ‘cause now I got the money to pay for it, to spoil you like you deserve.”
Ben’s words hung in the candlelit air like a lifeline thrown across a widening chasm, desperate and earnest, each promise of date nights and trips a reminder of the early years when their love had felt effortless, unbreakable. Jordan felt them land heavy in his chest, stirring a fierce ache for what they’d been, for what they couldn’t be anymore. Those promises were tethered to the very thing tearing them apart, the money earned from scenes Jordan couldn’t unsee, the independence Ben clung to like armor against the shame of his past dependence.
He searched Ben’s face, something closer to defeat lingering in those hazel eyes behind fogged glasses, the slight tremor in that massive frame, and felt the full weight of their impasse crash over him. This wasn’t about pride or paychecks anymore; it was about the slow erosion of them, the jealousy that whispered poison even if Jordan knew it was just work, the way every compromise still left Jordan alone with images he couldn’t erase. Love roared loud inside him, fierce and unrelenting, but it wasn’t enough to bridge the gap, not when one of them refused to step back from the edge.
“I don’t know why you think you only have worth in this relationship if you have money,” Jordan said, “And that’s something only you can work out. But honestly, from the bottom of my heart, I don’t care about any of it. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to diminish your feelings here. I get that you have pride, that you want to do the things you think men should do, and if it was any other job in the world, I wouldn’t say a word about it. But this? I can’t, Ben. I’m sorry.”
Ben’s nod was slow, as if the motion itself cost him something irreplaceable. His jaw locked tight beneath the beard, holding back the collapse Jordan could see gathering behind his eyes now brimming, luminous with unshed tears. The sight cracked something deep in Jordan’s chest, a fracture that spread like ice on glass. More than anything, he wanted to cross the space between them, to gather that towering frame into his arms and press his lips to each tear before it fell, to promise that no sorrow would ever touch Ben again. He wanted to be the shield, the solace, the forever. But the truth settled over him like a shroud: there was nothing left to shield, nothing left to mend. The realization hollowed him out, leaving only a vast, aching emptiness where hope had once lived.
“So where do we go from here?” Ben asked. The candle flames flickering shadows across his face, catching the faint tremble in his lips despite the steadiness he forced into the words.
Jordan drew a breath that felt like drawing a blade across his own heart. He steadied himself, steeling for the words he had never allowed himself to think, even in the darkest hours when everything had seemed lost.
“I think we go our separate ways, babe,” he said finally.
Ben’s eyes widened just a bit behind his glasses, wounded and almost childlike in their disbelief. “You’re breaking up with me, Jord?”
“I am, Benny.”
“You won’t even try? Won’t fight for us?”
Jordan’s shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug, the gesture small against the enormity of what it concealed, the fresh shard of his heart breaking away, one he wasn’t sure he would ever reclaim.
“There’s nothing left to fight for, Ben. We want different lives now.”
Ben leaned forward, voice fraying at the edges as tears threatened to spill. “And the love we have? All of it, does that mean nothing?”
Jordan felt the sting of his own tears rising too.
“It means everything,” he whispered. “It means the world to me, Ben. But love alone isn’t enough. We both know that.”
Ben drew a ragged breath, the sound sharp in the hushed loft as he fought to rein in the tears glistening at the rims of his eyes. Jordan rose slowly, his gaze sweeping over the room one final time: the dining table laid with meticulous care, white linens crisp and silverware gleaming, the countless candles Ben must have lit with patient devotion, their flames now flickering like fragile testaments to a hope already lost. The inevitability of it all clawed at him, a primal urge to howl rising in his throat, scrapped and animal, but he swallowed it down. He couldn’t stay here, not in this shrine to what might have been; they both needed the cold mercy of distance to shatter in private.
“I’ll stay with my dad for a while, okay?” His voice trembled now that the end loomed so near. “It’ll give you time to find a new place. No rush. Just… let me know when you do.”
He started toward the door, each step a laborious betrayal, his legs weighted as if forged from lead, his body itself rebelling against the command to leave, to sever the final thread. As Jordan passed Ben’s chair, he surged to his feet in a desperate rush. Massive arms enveloped Jordan, pulling him close with a fierce, unyielding grip, as though sheer will could bind the splintering fragments of their love and keep them from scattering into the void.
“Don’t do this, Jord,” Ben pleaded, his voice cracking open on a sob that echoed through his chest. Tears spilled freely now, tracing hot paths down his cheeks despite his clenched eyes. “Don’t leave me, please. Please, baby, I’m begging you. You’re all I have.”
Jordan lifted his gaze to the shadowed ceiling, a silent plea rising to whatever indifferent deity might linger above, beseeching the strength to follow through on the merciless act his heart demanded. His hands rose to rest on Ben’s elbows, fingers curling gently but firmly around the solid warmth there, anchoring himself in the moment even as everything inside him yearned to yield. When he spoke, he fixed his eyes on the door beyond, that hateful thing, the cruel promise of ending, unable to bear the devastation in Ben’s if he dared meet them.
He stood frozen in the crushing circle of Ben’s arms, just for a heartbeat, two, three, stealing one final, impossible second with the love of his life. He breathed him in deliberately, desperately: the faint cedar of his cologne mingled with the warmth of his skin, the steady thunder of his heart against Jordan’s chest, the ragged hitch of breath near his ear, the familiar weight and texture of the man who had once been home. He committed it all to memory, etching every detail into the open wound of his soul, knowing this was the last time he would ever hold it.
Then, rising gently onto his toes, he brushed a delicate, lingering kiss against Ben’s cheek.
“Take care, Benny.”
The words shattered the fragile spell. Ben’s arms fell away as though the strength had been drained from them all at once, heavy and lifeless at his sides. Jordan stepped back, the sudden absence of contact colder than any winter wind.
Ben didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t reach out again. He only stood there in the flickering candlelight, tears streaming silently down his cheeks, beard damp, eyes fixed on the ground with a heatbreak too deep for sound.
Jordan turned the handle, crossed the threshold, and pulled the door shut behind him.
The loft fell silent, save for the quiet hiss of candles burning down to nothing and the sobs of a man left alone.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Substack.
