Chapter One
Finn
Finn dressed for theoccasion,obviously. Tight blue jeans that hugged him just right. A Pride Express shirt bright enough to be seen from space. Ten handmade bracelets stacked up his wrist, each celebrating Pride Week. His dot earrings were arranged in perfect rainbow order—he’d triple-checked. The black army boots were the only neutral thing on him, and they had rainbow laces.
He stepped off the Boston bus at Penn Station, feeling like a walking Pride parade float. Finn moved onto the platform and had to stop for a second, palms flattening against the strap of his bag because his hands wouldn’t stay still. The Pride Express stretched out in front of him—long, gleaming, wrapped in bands of color that shimmered in the morning sun like someone had taken a rainbow and ironed it smooth across the metal.
His breath came a little quicker, not from nerves but from that fizzy, too-big feeling in his chest. He reached out and brushed his fingers along the side of the train. The paint was warm, sun-soaked, and the simple contact sent a stupid grin crawling up his face.
Music drifted from somewhere up ahead—bright, unapologetic pop—and Pride flags being handed out by volunteers in neon vests, snapped in the breeze. A group of men was laughing as if they’d known each other for years.
Seven days. Sixteen states. A whole train full of queer men who weren’t hiding, weren’t apologizing, weren’t dialing themselves down. And three days in San Francisco waiting at the end like a prize.
He bounced once on the balls of his feet, bracelets clacking together. He couldn’t help it. The surrounding energy was contagious—like stepping into a space where every version of him could exist at full volume.
He fiddled with his shirt, straightening it for no reason, and almost laughed.
Yeah. This was going to be good.
He boarded right at nine, the exact moment the schedule said he would. A cute volunteer wearing a bubble-gum-pink vest and a lanyard with the name Sammy printed on it, checked his name and ticket, and smiled like he’d been waiting just for him. He handed Finn his packet and lanyard.
Sammy led him down the narrow hallway of the sleeper car. Finn trailed behind him, bracelets clinking softly, trying not to look too eager even though he absolutely was.
Sammy stopped at a door with a tiny New York Pride sticker on it. “This one’s yours. Room 110. Make sure you read the rules.”
“Thank you, Sammy,” Finn smiled, then winked.
He stepped inside and yeah, it was small, but in a charming way that said this was his little gay cave for the week. The single cabin had a narrow bed tucked against the wall, made up of crisp white sheets and a colorful throw blanket folded at the foot like someone had really committed to the theme. Above the bed, a long horizontal window stretched almost the length of the cabin, giving him a view of the platform and the blur of Pride flags outside. Sunlight spilled in, catching the glitter on his shirt.
There was a tiny built-in desk under the window, just big enough for a notebook and a drink. A little reading lamp curved over it like a friendly robot. Hooks lined one wall—perfect for his jackets and, honestly, his jewelry if he ran out of space. The air smelled faintly of clean linen and whatever citrus cleaner the staff used.
He tossed his suitcase onto the bed, the springs squeaking in protest. For a second, he just stood there, breathing because this was real. He was on the train, had his own cabin, and was about to spend a week surrounded by gay men and drinks, and questionable decisions.
One deep breath to steady himself.
Then he spun on his heel and headed right back out. No way was he staying in here when the Meet and Greet hour was calling his name.
Finn slipped into the Welcome Car with his easy, unhurried rhythm—like he knew the beat of the place and fell right into it. His bracelets gave a jingle as he moved, andthe car’s vibe shifted to make room for him. Mimosas tapping against each other on trays, someone laughing too hard and bumping a table, ice shifting in a cocktail shaker behind the little pop-up bar.
The air smelled like citrus and champagne, mixed with cologne—everything from sharp, woodsy aftershave to something sweet and vanilla-leaning that definitely belonged to the guy in the crop top near the window. The train carried a subtle, metallic aroma, cool and clean, reminiscent of steel warmed by the sun.
Men filled the space—every shape, size, age, and vibe. Some shy, some loud, some already tipsy and giggling. Finn grabbed a mimosa from a passing tray, the stem cool against his fingers, and took a sip as he let the room wash over him.
This was exactly the chaos he loved.
“Morning,” he said to the room in general, flashing a grin.
A few guys turned their heads to glance at him. One winked. Finn winked back. He scanned the crowd, sipping his drink, letting the bubbles loosen the last of his nerves. Cute guys everywhere. This was going to be fun.
The guy his eyes landed on was tall enough that Finn had to tip his chin up a little to meet his eyes—broad shoulders, ginger beard trimmed neat, the kind of steady presence that usually made Finn’s pulse do something embarrassing. He moved through the crowd as if he had all the time in the world, careful not to bump anyone, and when he stepped closer, he angled his body so Finn still had space. Nice. Thoughtful. Hot.
And that cologne was clean, and a little woodsy, making Finn lean in closer. Definitely his type except for the hair. Finn usually went for the tall, dark, and older ones. The ones who lived life and could hold you without gripping too tight. But hey, nobody’s perfect. A curveball wasn’t a deal-breaker.
“Love the outfit,” the guy said. “You look like Pride threw up on you—in a good way.”
Finn rolled his eyes. In a goodway? That was like complimenting someone’s cooking by saying it didn’t poison you. His spark dimmed a notch, but he didn’t let it show. Seasoned flirts didn’t flinch at a bad opener—they sidestepped it.
“Bold choice,” Finn said,“ starting with a bodily-fluid metaphor.”
