“But my feelings for you are too strong to ignore.” Wesley moved closer, the distance between us shrinking to inches. “I believe you’re different from Charles. I believe there’s potential for you to eventually come out, to have the life you deserve. And I want to try this, even knowing it’s risky, even knowing I might end up hurt again.”
Hope and fear warred in my chest. “You’re saying yes?”
“I’m saying I choose you, despite all the very good reasons I shouldn’t.” Wesley reached up, his hand cupping my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “But Griffin, if this becomes what it was with Charles—if you start choosing your closet over me every time it matters—I will leave. I can’t survive that again.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“You don’t know that you won’t.”
“Then I’ll prove it to you. Every day, every choice, I’ll prove that you matter more than hiding.”
Wesley’s smile was sad but genuine, tinged with hope struggling against experience. “That’s a nice promise. Let’s see if you can keep it.” His eyes shimmered with emotions too complex to name—vulnerability and desire and the ghost of past hurt all tangled together.
His fingers curled tightly in my shirt, anchoring himself, or maybe anchoring me. He pulled me closer with careful intent, like he was giving me a chance to change my mind. I went willingly, sliding my arms around his solid back, feeling the warmth of him through the soft knit of his sweater. He leaned in slowly, giving me time to process, to panic, to pull away if I needed to. Our noses brushed—a whisper of contact that sent electricity down my spine. He paused, hislips a hair’s breadth from mine, his breath warm against my mouth.
Then he kissed me.
His lips were soft and warm and trembled slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to hide. His beard brushed against my scruff, the texture somehow exactly right. Different from every anonymous hookup, every careful transaction, every moment I’d compartmentalized and forgotten.
The world narrowed to the press of his mouth against mine—slow and deliberate and devastatingly real. Not rushed or desperate or hidden in the dark of a hotel room. Just Wesley kissing me in my apartment like it meant something. LikeImeant something.
After a long, perfect moment, he started to break away. But I caught his bottom lip gently between mine and kissed him again, refusing to let it end. He made a soft sound of surprise that turned into something deeper, more certain. The kiss intensified, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. Our tongues met and tangled, and he tasted of savory spices and hops and something uniquely him—warmth and safety and dangerous possibilities.
It felt like permission and promise and destiny all at once. Like stepping off a cliff and discovering I could fly. Like the first honest thing I’d done in sixteen years.
When we finally pulled apart, both breathing harder, Wesley rested his forehead against mine. “We have to be so careful. No one can know. Not teammates, not staff, not management.”
“I know,” I murmured.
“No public displays. No lingering looks in meetings. Nothing that might make people suspicious,” he warned.
“Understood.”
“And if it becomes too much—if the hiding startsdestroying us—we have to be honest about it. No silent suffering, no building resentment. We talk about it,” he said.
“Deal.” I pulled back to meet his eyes. “Are you sure about this?”
“No. But I want to try.” Wesley’s smile was warmer now, more hopeful. “Besides, you’re worth the risk. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Check back with me in six months.” He grinned.
I kissed him, softer this time, savoring the simple fact that I could. That Wesley was here, in my apartment, choosing me despite every rational reason not to.
On the TV, someone scored—LA or Anaheim, I had no idea. I didn’t care. The game I’d supposedly invited Wesley over to watch had continued without us paying any attention. Background noise to a moment that was infinitely more important.
When Wesley left after the forgotten game, I stood in my doorway and watched him walk to the elevator. He turned back once, smiling, his dimple making an appearance. Something in my chest expanded painfully at the simple acknowledgment that this was real, this was happening.
I closed the door and leaned against it, elation and terror fighting for dominance.
I had what I’d been wanting since the moment I’d met Wesley—his presence, his attention, his willingness to try being together despite the impossible circumstances. But I also had new weight settling on my shoulders, new responsibilities I’d never carried before.
Wesley was trusting me with his heart and his career. He was depending on me to protect him when protecting myself had always been my primary instinct. Most importantly, he believed I was different from Charles, that I wouldn’t sacrifice him to preserve my image when the stakes got high.
I wanted to be that person—the one who choseauthenticity over the closet, who valued Wesley more than public perception, who could sustain a secret relationship without it becoming toxic.
But sixteen years of hiding, of prioritizing an image above all else—that didn’t disappear because I wanted it to. Those patterns were carved deep, instinctive in ways that scared me.
