“No, it’s fine. You have a job. I get it.”
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Silence.
“Wes, talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Wes exhaled. “I knew this was temporary. I knew you’d have to leave eventually. I just thought—I don’t know what I thought.”
Jake closed his eyes. “I’m coming back.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“You can’t promise that. You don’t know what your boss will say, or if you’ll get reassigned, or?—”
“I’m coming back,” Jake repeated, firmer. “For you. Not for work. Foryou.”
Another silence. Then, quietly: “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Wes’s voice steadied. “Sorry. I’m—I’m not good at this.”
“Neither am I.”
“Can I see you before you leave?”
“I was hoping you’d ask.”
That evening, Jake paced his room at the Hawthorne House. He was nervous. He had no idea why. They’d already had their hands on each other. This shouldn’t feel like such a big deal.
Except it was a big deal. The workshop had been a frantic moment, stolen. This was intentional. A choice they were both making.
At 6:58, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Jake’s pulse kicked up.
There was a knock on the door.
He opened it. Wes stood there in clean jeans and a dark green button-down flannel. He’d trimmed his beard, too.
“Hey,” Wes said.
“Hey yourself. Come in.”
Wes stepped inside, looked around. The room was cozy—queen bed with a quilt, reading chair by the window, soft lamplight making everything warm and cozy.
“Nice,” Wes said.
“Yeah.”
They stood there, awkward. After a week of brief moments and quick texts, being alone in a bedroom felt enormous.
“This is weird,” Wes said.
“Yeah.”
“Good weird?”
