Maurice
Maurice stepped onto theCharlottesville Union Station platform with David at his side. Music blasted from a speaker somewhere near the entrance. People were cheering, and someone in a hot pink feather boa was handing out stickers shaped like tiny Pride flags.
Maurice adjusted the strap of his suitcase and muttered, “This is… a lot.”
David laughed. “It’s Pride, not a tax seminar. Try to look alive.”
“I’m alive,” Maurice said. “Just internally.”
They joined the boarding line, and Maurice tried to arrange his face into something that said, “I do this all the time” instead of, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” He loosened his shoulders, adjusted his grip on his suitcase, then immediately tightened it again when a group of guys behind him burst into laughter loud enough to rattle the windows. He forced himself not to flinch.
Relax. You’re fine. You’re a grown man, not a skittish intern on his first day.
The line inched forward. Rainbow flags fluttered from the railings, volunteers handed out stickers and wristbands, and someone in a mesh crop top was already dancing like the party had started without them. Maurice’s eyes darted toward the nearest exit before he could stop himself—pure reflex, the same instinct he had in crowded courtrooms when things got chaotic. His lawyer’s brain kicked in automatically, cataloging everything like evidence.
Too many people in too small a space.
No clear flow of traffic.
Zero crowd control.
A volunteer with a clipboard looked one question away from a meltdown. And absolutely no one seemed bothered by any of it.
David nudged him. “You’re gripping that suitcase like it owes you money.”
Maurice eased his fingers off the handle. “I’m fine.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, even though his pulse was doing a steady tap-dance against his ribs.
A group of men ahead of them cheered as the train doors opened, and Maurice tried to mimic their easy excitement—straightening his spine, lifting his chin, pretending he wasn’t calculating how many seconds it would take to retreat back down the platform.
He’d been to clubs. Bars. Dark corners where anonymity was the whole point. But this—sunlight, color, joy at full volume—felt like stepping into a world he’d only ever seen from the sidelines.
David leaned closer. “You look like you’re about to cross-examine the train.”
Maurice huffed out a laugh. “I’m just… taking it in.”
“Uh-huh. And mentally drafting a safety protocol?”
“Maybe.”
David bumped his shoulder. “You belong here you know.”
Maurice swallowed. He wanted to believe that. Wanted it more than he’d admit out loud. So he straightened again, loosened his grip on the suitcase, and stepped forward with the line—trying to look like a man who wasn’t one heartbeat away from bolting. Trying to look like he belonged.
Yeah. This was new.
A volunteer, with a friendly smile, presented them with lanyards, each bearing their name. “Welcome aboard the Pride Express! Car five for both of you. Head to the Welcome Car for drinks and music.”
David grinned. “See? Drinks. You’ll survive.”
Maurice rolled his eyes but followed him onto the train. The moment he stepped inside, the atmosphere just struck him—warm, bright, chaotic in a way that made him forgot how to breathe for a second. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or excitement. Maybe both. They dropped their suitcases in the rooms, then met in the hall. They pushed through the crowdtoward the Welcome Car, and Maurice was just relaxing when he saw him.
A young man stood near the bar, leaning against a rail like he’d been placed there by a lighting crew. His blond hair looked sun-kissed, eyes a bright blue, bracelets stacked up his arms, and he wore a rainbow shirt without it somehow looking ridiculous on him. Head tilted, he laughed at something the bartender said, smiling wide and easy.
Maurice stopped walking.
