“I'm not miserable.”
“Liar.” But he said it gently, without judgment, and he leaned a little closer. “Let me guess. Closeted? Figuring shit out? Thinking too hard about things that don't matter?”
I stared at him. “How?—”
“I've worked here five years. I've seen every flavor of repressed gay panic that exists.” He straightened up, grabbed a rag, and wiped down the bar in front of me with quick, efficient movements. “You want my advice? Stop thinking. Have another drink. Dance if you want. Talk to someone. Just... be here. You're allowed to exist, man. No one's gonna judge you.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That existing wasn't that simple. That being here, being seen, being honest, came with consequences he couldn't understand. But his smile was so open, so genuine.
“Maybe one more beer,” I said instead.
He grinned. “That's the spirit.”
He poured me another and set it down with a flourish.
“You're cute when you're not brooding,” he said, and then someone called his name from the other end of the bar and he was gone.
I watched him work. Watched the way he laughed with customers, the way he moved behind the bar like he owned the space, the way he glanced back at me every few minutes like he was checking to see if I was still there. And I was. I stayed longer than I should have, drinking slower than I needed to, letting the music and the noise and the atmosphere wash over me until I felt something close to relaxed.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn't the guy who'd hit two posts in the home opener or who'd fucked up at practice so badly that his teammates had skated punishment drills. I wasn't the son who couldn't tell his parents the truth or the player who couldn't stop thinking about his coach.
I was just some guy in a bar. Talking to a bartender who thought I was cute.
It felt fucking amazing.
When the crowd thinned around midnight, Ethan leaned across the bar again, this time close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something woodsy and warm. “You sticking around or heading out?”
“I should probably go.”
“Should, or want to?” His voice dropped lower, more intimate, and there was no mistaking the invitation in his eyes.
My pulse kicked up. This was dangerous. This was exactly the kind of reckless decision that could blow up in my face if someone saw, if someone recognized me, if anything went wrong. But I was three beers in and tired of being careful, tired of denying myself everything, and Ethan was looking at me like I was someone worth wanting.
“Want to,” I said, and his smile turned predatory.
“My shift ends in fifteen. There's an alley out back. Private. If you're interested.”
I should have said no. Should have walked out and pretended this night had never happened.
But apparently my dick was thinking more than brain tonight. “I’m interested.”
He winked at me before heading back to work.
Fifteen minutes felt like an hour. I finished my beer and paid my tab in cash, leaving a tip that was probably too generous but felt necessary given what I was about to do. Ethan caught my eye from across the bar and jerked his head toward a doormarked Staff Only, and I followed at a distance that wouldn't look suspicious to anyone watching.
The alley was exactly what he'd promised—private, dark, lit only by a single flickering light above the back door. It smelled like garbage and rain and city grime, and I didn't care because Ethan was there, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his pockets and that same easy grin on his face.
“You sure about this?” he asked, but he was already pushing off the wall, already closing the distance between us.
“Yeah.” My voice came out rougher than I meant it to, and when he reached out and pulled me closer by my belt, I let him.
He kissed me first. It was urgent and hungry and tasted like beer and something sweeter underneath. His hands went to my waist, then my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the solid line of his body against mine and groaned into his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his pupils blown wide in the low light. “You want me to suck your cock, Jace?”
“Fuck. Yes.”
He dropped to his knees on the grimy pavement without hesitation, and his hands went to my belt. My zipper came down, and then his hand was inside my jeans, wrapping around my cock through my boxers, and I gasped at the contact.
