Chapter 1 Premiere

Leo had been to very many premieres in his actor’s life. He was an expert, if there was such a thing: energetic on red carpets, quirkily humorous for interviews and sound bites, willing to pull faces at cameras or run over and tackle castmates into full-body hugs.

He should be perfectly relaxed. He should be immune to anxiety and the creeping nibbling tiny teeth that gnawed away inside.

He sat with one hand on the limousine’s door. He did not get up. The teeth gnawed some more.

Nothing to do with the film—he knew it was good. Nothing to do with the premiere—he honestly did like premieres. Nothing to do with his suit—he liked that too, expensive and velvety and rose-gold as a sunrise, nothing as boring as black or blue. He’d picked it on first sight, out of the options his stylist had waved at him.

He’d wanted to look good. He’d wanted…

No. That was silly. Weeks ago. Sam wouldn’t’ve come. Sam had a demanding job and lived in America and probably went around kissing men all the time and almost certainly had never given fourth-billed and featherheaded actor Leo Whyte another thought.

“Hey,” Tim nudged, leaning forward in their shared limo. Timothy Hayes was a good kid, Leo’d decided: eager and talented, enthusiastic about acting and playing a youthful midshipman, a whole future ahead of him. All of this meant that Leo’d had no qualms about including Tim in on-set pranks, both as target and as assistant. The boy needed to learn early on, after all, how to look innocent when pouring real rum into bowls of punch for an on-camera ballroom scene.

Tim at the moment raised eyebrows at him. “You getting out, or are we staying here all night? It’s a nice limo and all, but I kind of want to see our movie, grandpa.” Despite the teasing, his eyes watched Leo’s expression; he’d been learning from Colby, also. Lots of compassion there. Getting good at empathy. Dangerous, that.

Leo said back, “No candy at the movies for you , young man, with that attitude,” and took a deep breath. Opened the door.

The noise hit first, as it always did: a swelling roar that never failed to lift his steps and his spirits. Cheers. Calls to look over, to smile, to wave. Camera-clicks. Glamor and glitter and fame; it felt like being loved, and it reminded him that he did love this, all of it. The profession, the chance to tell stories, the way those stories meant so much to audiences and fans. He’d been to conventions, especially for that science-fiction series; he’d held fans’ shaking hands, and given hugs, and been awed by the passion and creativity. And he remained in awe of it all, though nobody’d believe him if he tried to explain with any degree of sincerity how honored he felt.

At the last convention he’d settled for walking out on stage in full space-wizard villain costume and shouting “Kneel before your master!” at the crowd. They’d loved it. So had he.

The press swung cameras and microphones his way. He gazed out at them all. He caught himself looking for dark wavy hair, tanned skin, golden-brown eyes.

He made himself beam at a journalist or two. He recognized several of them: familiar faces on the entertainment beat. He smiled and answered a few questions: yes, he was excited for this film; yes, he loved the story and the era and the costumes; yes, he’d really learned to fire the ship’s historic guns, though he’d not been the one doing most of the loading and firing on camera.

He hugged a few fans as they leaned over barricades. He signed some posters, posed for selfies, complimented someone’s shirt—it had a unicorn riding a unicycle on the front—and ran a step or two to catch up with Tim, who’d stopped, looking mildly overwhelmed. “Don’t worry, babe, they’re all here for me.”

“As if,” Tim retorted over an uneven exhale, “they’re here for Colby and Jason, really,” which covered up the attack of red-carpet shyness, so Leo only draped an arm over his shoulders and refused to think about the fact that even Tim considered Leo Whyte essentially secondary.

Colby and Jason were the story. All the stories: on-set romance, drama, injuries, true love. Everyone understood as much. And he wasn’t envious, or he didn’t think he was. He tried not to be an envious person, mostly.

One of the reporters called over, “Leo, who’d you bring as a date?” She even glanced around as if afraid she’d missed someone.

Leo put on an even larger smile. Squeezed Tim’s shoulders. “You mean this adorable one isn’t enough? Look at those pinchable cheeks, those big brown eyes…”

“Shh,” Tim said, “my girlfriend’s not supposed to know about us,” and batted the eyes in question at Leo: playing flirtation up for the cameras, and a good sport about it.

The question stung, though, and the sting lingered. Burning. Acid over skin, eating away protective layers.

He hadn’t invited anyone to this premiere. He normally did: a casual girlfriend or one or two of the friends he’d made on previous productions or even his parents, which fans and the media always loved. He liked sharing the experience with people; he liked getting to see them watch his films, the reactions, the emotions. He ended up watching his guests, rather than the film in question, more often than not.

He had thought about calling up a date, at least a platonic one. Adriana Cruz had just finished filming that new secret- agent thriller, and she was generally fun company, more of a friend now that the brief romantic fling was over; Matt Grant would be around, taking his British-actor rite-of-passage turn at Hamlet here in London, and Matt was always up for after-parties and enthusiasm on a red carpet. And of course his mother and father would’ve run right over from respective theatre-managing and college-of-dentistry department-chair meetings if asked.

He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t even know why.

No, that was a lie. He knew.

The person he wanted to talk to had large warm hands, and good taste in whiskey, and a terrifying profession. The person he wanted to share this story with— this story, about love between men, love amid war, love that became a banner raised high in celebration—had looked at him under Las Vegas lights and had thought that Leo Whyte was someone worthwhile.

He spotted Colby and Jason—impossible to miss, what with Colby’s hair and Jason’s shoulders—ahead on the red carpet. Waved. Ran over, trailing other cast members in his wake. Whipped out his phone and captured a snapshot or two of the moment, of Colby’s subtly rainbow-lined suit and Jason’s bisexual flag pocket square, because the social media army would expect it and he did want to share.

He liked sharing. He always had.

Colby and Jason said hello to everyone, Leo and Tim and Kate Fisher and Jim Whitwell; Jim, being fatherly, started asking Tim about his girlfriend and her band’s mega-hit success. Tim got happier, chattering away about Beth and love songs; Colby looked at Leo and said thoughtfully, “I’m not certain I properly said thank you for intervening with the paparazzi at Andy’s stag night—er, bachelor party, for the Americans among us, sorry—you know what I mean, though. Thank you.”

Leo, moderately unnerved by this mindreading, said, “What? Oh, right, yes, of course,” and hoped those inquisitive blue eyes would find another distraction. Maybe Jason could be convinced that Colby needed cuddling. The air felt a bit chilly. London in February and all.

He spared a moment to envision Jason Mirelli sweeping Colby Kent up in both arms, bridal style, on the red carpet. Colby would certainly appreciate the muscles; the cameras would have a field day with the gesture. But Jason would have to be convinced that Colby required actual carrying, which would cause extra knightly worry, and then Colby also got a bit skittish around crowds and too much physical contact and touching remained a problem, though of course touching from Jason did not seem to be a problem, so probably that would be all right. Jason’s big arms could likely carry both Colby and Leo, and Leo would gleefully be swept off his feet, except that didn’t actually seem the sort of thing that was likely to happen, because if anyone was going to do any romantic gestures for Leo Whyte it’d be, well, Leo himself, based on previous experience, and also Sam wasn’t even here, which would’ve been some sort of romantic gesture, only it wasn’t , obviously, because Sam wasn’t—

Colby had carried on talking. Guiltily, Leo tuned back in. “—and then of course Jason and I had the threesome on stage with the drag queen, and—”

“You did not,” Leo interrupted promptly. “And if you did I want pictures. Proof. Photographic evidence.” Like the sort Sam would’ve acquired.

Why were all his thoughts about Sam? The man wasn’t even present.

He checked the line of press-shaped bodies again just to be sure.

“Okay,” Jason said, “what’s going on? Someone you know, someone you’re expecting, someone you don’t want to see, what?”

“No one,” Leo said. “He’s not—I’m not—I mean, nothing. I mean I’m fine and what was that about Colby being into threesomes with drag queens, again?”

“No, thank you.” Colby waved a graceful hand. “Only Jason, for me. Though, in terms of clothing…that one outfit with the rainbow ribbons was rather intriguing…”

“You know you can tell us,” Jason attempted. Leo appreciated the gesture, though he knew that was simply Jason’s innate bodyguard-for-the-world nature: nothing to do with Leo himself, a friend made via proximity, in the way of film sets and press tours and camaraderie. Jason went on, “We can help, if something’s going on. It’s not that obnoxious photographer guy, is it? Is he stalking you?”

“His name’s Sam, not Obnoxious Photographer Guy—” Which he’d now said aloud. Damn.

“ Is it,” Jim Whitwell said, reappearing in an avuncular swirl of interest and a gleam of complimentary cocktail glass. “And who is Sam, Leo?”

Deflect, distract, dazzle. Make jokes. Be random. Be himself. Leo Whyte. “Why aren’t we talking about Colby saying he’d wear a drag queen’s rainbow ribbons? That’s an important development and I want to know more. I will absolutely go shopping for ribbons if necessary. Any preferred fabric or texture? Oh, hi, yes, ask us anything—”

A reporter had come up. She waved a microphone at them with intent. “What can you tell us about the sex scenes in this film? How excited should we be?”

Jason glanced at Colby. Colby smiled angelically and offered, “Very. I certainly was; have you seen Jason? I’m quite fortunate, you know.”

Leo fake-smothered a cough of, “We all know,” which made the bodies closest to him chortle; and then he took the opportunity to step back, out, away from the camera-eyes for an instant.

A breath. Two. Exhaling.

Some more commotion happened. More big names. Sir Laurence Taylor, stepping out of a car with that Hollywood-legend charm and poise. Chatter on the red carpet as he encountered a famously reclusive author, the man without whom none of them would be here. Leo knew Colby had read and loved the novel, and had actually gone out to that tiny village and asked George Forrest’s permission to change the ending.

Leo himself would’ve never done that. He might’ve thought about it, but would’ve hesitated to disturb someone who wanted to be left alone; he would’ve not taken action.

Colby, in defiance of all his own old scars and the weight of his past, had. And now Sir Laurence was talking to George, who if Leo was any judge was very cheerfully grumpily interested in continuing the conversation, and they were all here, at this film premiere, with this glorious happy ending about to be showcased. No wonder Colby Kent was the hero. He deserved to be.

Leo, who did adore Colby, turned away and took a step—to go inside the theatre, to find a drink, to find a men’s room, he didn’t know—and happened to glance out at the crowd one last time, gaze falling blankly over bodies.

He caught a glimpse of dark messy hair, stubble over a strong jaw, treasure-chest eyes.

He froze.

The crowd eddied and swirled. Leo lost track of the place he’d been looking.

Voices murmured. Celebrity wranglers. A staff member, an employee sort of person. Telling him to come along, to come in, they were about to start.

“Wait—” Leo said. “Wait, I—there’s someone—”

“Someone you want to speak to?” The staff person checked her watch. Her eyes were pale blue as sympathy, half a foot below his and glancing up. “I’m sorry but we really don’t have time—if you give me a name I’ll try to arrange something after—”

“Sam,” Leo whispered. Colby and Jason were heading over, everyone else following, aiming for the grand theatre doors and the first-ever showing of this film, this epic love tale—“Sam Hernandez-Blake. I don’t know if—I only thought I saw—but if he’s here…”

“We’ll find him if he is.” She set a hand on his arm. “This way, please.”

Leo went, obediently. He took a seat in the reserved row, and smiled at Jim and Tim and Katie as they plopped down beside him. He leaned around to say to Colby, “If Jason’s shoulders don’t fit in these antique seats I’m sure they can bring in another option,” because Colby was looking a little anxious, though whether that was about the crowds or the film Leo wasn’t sure.

“I like the seats,” Colby said, holding Jason’s hand. “I like the velvet.”

“Of course you do. Secret hedonist. Which I knew you were. Anyone who likes cheese that much obviously also likes velvet.”

“I don’t even pretend to know,” Jason rumbled, “how your mind works.”

“Darling.” Leo batted eyelashes at him. “You couldn’t comprehend it. No need to try.” The eyelash-batting was also an excuse to twist round and peek back at the theatre. No, too many people, all finding seats and shuffling around. Too difficult to pick out one man.

“Yeah,” Jason said, “incomprehensible sounds about right. If you’re still looking for your annoying paparazzi guy, we can try to find him for you. People tell Colby everything.”

“I’m not,” Leo denied immediately. “No need to invoke Colby’s superpowers on my behalf. Actually, no, never mind, invoke them. Get someone to tell you where I can find the best chocolate martini in London. Then make them bring us all a round.”

“His name was Sam, wasn’t it?” Colby’s smile was a gift: quiet and lordly and generous. “That must’ve meant something, if you’re thinking about him after all this time. We’d like to help, if it’s important.”

“Don’t,” Leo muttered, embarrassment now eating a hole through his chest. Colby and Jason had enough to worry about; they didn’t need to be concerned over his wistfulness about a man he’d likely only imagined in any case. “You don’t have to—”

Tim leaned over to hiss, “All of you shut up, come on, I’m supposed to be the dramatic teenager here, and Jill’s getting up to make a speech!”

“Sorry!” Colby said, to which everyone rolled their eyes—Colby, out of them all, had the least to apologize for—but no one had time to scold him, because Jillian was indeed getting up on stage, grinning ear to ear.

In pink and black ruffles and leather straps, a casual rock-star director with freshly re-touched color in her hair, she looked younger than half of them—she wasn’t, Leo knew—and utterly thrilled to be here; that was Jillian Poe all over. Someone who loved her profession and her craft, and the stories she got to shape and bring to life and offer to the world. He’d been fortunate in getting to work with her; he hoped to again.

If she’d liked working with him. If she thought Leo Whyte was worth having around, on a film set. If.

Jill thanked everyone for coming, briefly introduced the film, mentioned how passionate they’d all been about this project. Hearts and souls committed. A love story that needed telling. A history brought to light. She kept it quick, and sat back down.

Passionate, Leo thought. Had he been?

He’d loved the story, of course. Stephen and Will were brilliant central characters, and their love mattered, and the script had been among the best he’d ever read. He’d wanted to be a part of it and he’d wanted to work with Jillian Poe and Colby Kent.

But he hadn’t loved it the way Colby had, the kind of love that’d read the source novel multiple times and wept over it and rewritten it. He hadn’t been so caught up in character that he’d broken on set and begun crying for his near-death fictional other half, the way Jason had.

Maybe Leo Whyte just wasn’t good at love. Not epic. Too shallow. Once again: a silly puddle, not a towering ocean.

Leo Whyte fell out of boats while filming and laughed about it. Leo Whyte spent off hours orchestrating a delivery of a nineteen-eighties vintage mermaid-comedy movie poster just to tease his director about an early crush. Leo Whyte did not have deep conversations with silver-screen legends like Sir Laurence Taylor; what would they talk about? The time Leo’d convinced set decorators and carpenters to construct an entire second trailer around Tom Bradshaw’s trailer, so that when he’d stepped out he’d still been inside?

Tom had been a good sport and laughed. Sir Laurence would likely not laugh.

Leo’s chest hurt slightly, a bizarre hollow ache. He did not like that feeling, so he watched his movie instead.

On screen, he and Jason emerged into London streets: a captain and a loyal lieutenant, facing the wilds of polite Society. A mission. A goal. No less vital than those at sea: the desperate need for more men, more provisions, support from the Admiralty. Hence this ball: political connections, maneuvering, patronage.

Leo spared a thought for how dashing he appeared in period naval attire—his arms really did look splendid in that coat—and then watched Jason acting.

Jason was genuinely good. Leo saw that in a heartbeat, the way he’d seen it on set previously: a man of action, certainly, but the action-hero label would never be all that Jason was, not after tonight. Not with that complicated and contradictory emotion so skillfully portrayed: Stephen’s loathing of aristocratic games and awareness that he himself needed to play them, and the secret he hid about the directions of his desires.

Leo had had such fun playing off that broad-shouldered serious nuance. He could trust Jason to get the layers of a scene, a line, a simple glance of comprehension.

He took in the moment of Colby’s appearance on screen: bright and scholarly and sickly, enthusiastic about frogs and mathematics, afraid of nothing other than running out of time. The audience made appreciative noises about Colby’s beauty: bathed in sunshine, in a meadow, shirt fluttering open.

The film shimmered, and soared, and sizzled where it should, and swept them all away like sails full of wind, breathless.

Leo watched Jason and Colby flee a ballroom and run through a door and tumble into a historic library, hands and mouths busy, finding each other; he guessed that scene would’ve been so much harder than anyone knew, back when Colby did not like being touched, when even these days roughness might still hurt in ways both physical and not. He saw Stephen and Will coming together; he saw Colby trusting Jason, on camera.

That odd tiny spear poked him in the chest again. Not big, not hard. A small knitting-needle. A pointed tip. Not worth paying any mind.

He hoped Sam had come. He hoped Sam liked this film. It was good, and he was proud of it, and he’d given his all to the character of Edward Harper, supporting Jason’s Captain Stephen Lanyon in battle and in love. He hoped that’d been enough.

On screen, at that aristocratic party, Ned drank some port, chatted with a lord, glanced around for his missing captain. The moment was mildly funny, mildly sweet, a bit wry: Stephen’s falling in love was not, after all, their mission. And Ned would stay in the ballroom and attempt to navigate those tricky political waters, and draw no attention to his captain’s vanishing with the Stonebrook heir.

The moment worked, multifaceted if quick. Leo thought that he’d managed it well. He wanted to believe that he had.

* * * *

Samuel Hernandez-Blake, having charmed his way into the press tangle by the metaphorical skin of his teeth, forgot to feel utterly naked and out of place in his rented inexpensive suit and lack of tie, and got swept up in Steadfast instead. Watching the luscious color-drenched epic love story between two men, across history and a war and a viscount’s title. Watching Leo Whyte most of all, up there on the screen and larger than life.

Larger than life, he thought; and glanced down many rows to find the back of Leo’s head, the fashionable upswept hair, the sort of sandy blond that verged on brown like concealed veins of deep earth. Leo Whyte did not feel the glance and turn his way, because life was not a fairytale and Sam was nobody’s destined true love.

Leo Whyte was larger than life. That description sounded apt. Fitting. Just right for a man who had a flourishing film career, who had millions of social media followers and fans, who played lighthearted jokes on co-stars and made everybody laugh, and who had the sort of heart that’d step in front of a camera-bullet to protect friends.

Sam had wanted to kiss him on the spot. And then to shake him a little, because how could someone so amazing not see his own worth? How’d someone so full of affection ended up so blatantly lonely? How had no one else ever seen that hurt?

Maybe he wanted to shake the world, not Leo Whyte. Everybody who’d ever made those movie-star hazel eyes ache with self-doubt.

Leo on screen, in a role, played support like he’d been born to do it: funny and faithful and determined, letting Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli shine. But Sam ended up watching him, even if he stood in the background: Leo was always doing something, an expression, a reaction, a small character note. He did not steal the show, but he was working, building a scene, adding to the world.

Leo also looked damn good in Regency-era naval uniform. Those firm thighs. The shift of nicely muscled shoulders under a coat, and the long plane of his back as he turned to speak to a midshipman, and the curve of that delectable ass under costume fabric. Not overly bulky, but definitively masculine, and comfortable in his body, strong and relaxed.

Sam shifted in his seat. Crossed his legs.

He’d kissed Leo Whyte, in a late-night enchantment woven of whiskey and want and courage. His hands recalled the feeling of Leo’s back, shoulders, body. Of a strand of Leo’s hair, being stroked back into place by his fingers.

He didn’t know why he’d come here, now, to this theatre. He didn’t know what he’d hoped for, what he could’ve hoped for, what he thought he was doing.

He’d begged and pleaded and argued for this assignment. He mostly worked freelance—contract jobs, tabloids, whoever’d pay for the picture of the day—but he had a few steady employers, magazines and editors with whom he’d established a mutually reliable relationship over the years. They could trust him to get good useable snapshots and write some quick copy to go underneath; he liked being paid and working with editors he at least knew and understood.

Liking the editor in question was a whole different issue. Sam did not particularly enjoy meeting with Jameson Jay, who ran the Daily World News with a steely-eyed fixation on the profitable copy-selling line and who’d famously once thrown a coffee-cup at a photographer who’d brought in pictures too blurry to print. Sam had personally never been a fan of the attitude that regarded celebrities with predatory avidity, as if a glimpse of Colby Kent clearly on the verge of panic in a fan-and-paparazzi-swarmed shop had been set up as a gift from the moneymaking gods, sent via direct express to tabloid magazines.

Sam liked to think he wouldn’t’ve taken that picture, if he’d been there. He liked to think he still had some morals. Some sense of decency. The look on Colby’s face—

That same damn moral sense kicked him in the back of the head and said: you think you wouldn’t’ve? With the money you could’ve gotten for that shot? The money that could’ve gone to Carlos’s university tuition, Cynthea’s insulin, Thea and Diana’s school textbooks? You think you wouldn’t’ve clicked that shutter, sold that piece of your soul, for your family?

He knew. If he was being honest with himself, he knew. He’d known as much for years.

He’d been twenty-one years old for all of two weeks when his mother and stepfather had died in that car crash. When he’d fought like hell to get custody of his half-siblings, because someone had to, because there’d been no other family and no money, because there’d never been money, but he wasn’t about to let them get split up—

He’d always been good with a camera. Good at composition, angles, images that made people pause to look again. He’d won a few contests, local and statewide, with glimpses of Nevada cities and stones and sky and life, back alleys with tantalizing colorful artwork, a sunrise sprawl of suburban homes from a vantage point up on an old bridge. He’d been paying his way through college—a couple of scholarships, a few more loans, every odd job he could take, scraping and stretching but making it all work, knowing his mom and stepdad were proud, even if a bit worried about the fine arts degree instead of something more practical and less woven into his soul…

He’d dropped out of school. He’d found a job as night security for a rare book dealer’s shop, which had at least been a vaguely interesting place to work. They’d kept the house, but only barely; he’d been paying the mortgage out of what little savings his mom and Jack had had, watching accounts dwindle, getting Carlos ready for college and paying for tests and application fees, panicking over the twins turning thirteen and asking their oldest brother questions about sex and boys, making breakfasts and lunches and dinners and sometimes going over to the old local gym after hours just to punch a bag and scream…

He’d tried. He’d kept trying.

He’d known, three years in and dragging himself back to home and bed as the sky lightened, that they were sinking. He hadn’t known what to do. What else to try. What might be left to give.

He hadn’t been able to sleep. With all the kids out of the house during the day, he normally attempted to; he couldn’t, then.

He’d taken his phone and gone to the store, on autopilot, mechanical, thinking about cereal and Thea’s sugar levels—

In the parking lot he’d spotted motion outside the seedy motel across the street. A flicker of red hair and a woman’s laugh, a recognizable man’s face. Both actors. Both famous.

He’d looked away—their business, not his—and then he’d realized he was holding his phone, and he was good with a camera, and people paid money for pictures like that, didn’t they—

They had. A lot. They’d asked whether he could get more.

Seven years after that, sitting in a historic movie theater in a squishy red plush chair, Sam bit a lip. Watched Leo Whyte get drenched by rain on a silver-screen ship, shouting orders to men, grabbing ropes and hauling sails around himself, all hands on deck and unhesitating, a second in command who men wanted to follow—

Leo Whyte came from a perfectly untroubled upper-middle-class English family, sometimes brought both beaming parents to film premieres, and had almost definitely never skipped a meal in that velvet-suit-wearing life. Leo no doubt believed the world was kind, and happy endings were real, and heroic historic lieutenants got rewarded with prize-money and adorable wives and invitations to visit viscounts in Italy.

Sam glanced at Leo’s head again. The whole audience was swept up in the film: alive and alert, rapt with tension. Leo had turned slightly, watching his co-stars watch the movie instead of looking at himself.

He thought, then, that it hadn’t been a fair thought, about Leo.

Leo Whyte might be flippant and ridiculous and privileged, but also knew about loneliness and loyalty and sacrifice. Maybe Leo’s version of the latter consisted of leaping in front of and distracting a paparazzi nuisance, but that did mean something. Not nothing.

And Sam had seen his eyes, his expression, when complimented.

When genuinely complimented. When wanted, not for the humor or the willingness to lose any shreds of dignity or the undeniable skill on camera, but as himself. Someone with the kind of soul that’d sacrifice every last piece of itself to save someone else, laughing and joking all the way, so that nobody suspected a thing.

Leo Whyte, he thought, was more complicated than most people guessed.

And Leo was too good for him, too clean and shining and untouchable; but Sam had gone to Jameson and sworn up and down and sideways to come back with pictures of Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli at their first-ever red carpet as a couple, pictures of Sir Laurence Taylor, pictures of Kate Fisher’s underpants if that was what Jameson wanted, anything, everything, if he could have an expense account and a trip to London and a way to be there for Leo’s premiere.

Jameson had said yes to all of the above. Expectations sat like lead on Sam’s shoulders. Like unclean lead: heavy and malevolent and dull. Leo Whyte wouldn’t approve of all that tarnish. Too ugly.

But that tarnish had let him be here. He’d been able to see Leo. He’d caught Leo looking at him, just once. He’d waved, though he wasn’t sure those wide hazel eyes had noticed; someone’d come along to usher all the actors inside.

He hoped Leo had seen him. He thought that maybe it’d mean something: someone who’d come for Leo, just for him, not for Colby or Jason or Jillian Poe or Sir Laurence. Someone who’d self-evidently never get to kiss or touch or even stand near Leo Whyte again, but who wanted to do all of those things with his whole idiotic heart, which hadn’t got that memo.

He hoped it would matter somehow. Maybe only for a minute, a second, a heartbeat. But something. Some lifting of the weight that hid so well concealed behind those mischievous dryad eyes.

He should watch the film. He did want to watch the film; he wanted to have an opinion about it, scenes to praise, details to mention, in case—

In case of what, he wondered, and nearly laughed aloud. In case Leo Whyte wants to talk to a random tabloid photographer again? In case he remembers you? Someone who stalked his friends on a street? Someone who kissed him once in a back alley in Las Vegas? When he could have anyone he wanted, men, women, both at once, partners from his world and his career, people who fit into his glittering life?

No. Not worth imagining. Daydreams didn’t come true.

But he was here, and the movie was good, and maybe Leo’d seen him and the sight had led to a smile. That was enough; that’d be enough.

Sam took a breath, let it go, and turned attention back to the love story on the screen. He wanted to talk about the history, the bravery, the courage in telling this version of history with men in love at the center of it; he wanted to talk about the detail, the embroidery in a costume jacket, the use of light and shadow and shots that tracked calligraphy and love-notes, emphasizing the role of writing, connection, communicating.

He did not have the sophisticated vocabulary that someone in the film industry would have. Someone who could talk to Leo about storytelling techniques without sounding ignorant and out of place.

He did love the film. That was real.

Along with everyone, he gasped and quivered with emotion and hovered at the edge of his seat; he hurt with Jason’s embodiment of Stephen’s fear when Colby-as-Will lay near death after that terrifying collapse. He felt tears scorch his eyes when Will heard his lover’s voice and woke.

He caught his breath with physical pain when Stephen’s ship went down: a spear right through the gut. Will was so broken and so strong at that moment, vowing to carry on—

Sam, like everyone in the theater, cried unashamedly when Stephen reappeared, minus an arm and thinner and sunburned but alive and real. Colby, on the screen, flung himself into his lover’s embrace; Sam’s heart overflowed. These men, this story, both the characters and the actors. So full of optimism. So nakedly courageously in love.

He’d figured out his own orientation over a few years and some experimentation—high school, those first couple years of college, exploring attraction to guys and girls and on two memorable occasions both at once. It’d been guys more often than girls, more and more so over time; he’d said gay sometimes when asked because that was occasionally easier, and bisexual sometimes because that was arguably more accurate: he could be, and had been, happy to dive into bed with Tanya, who’d been in his art history study group and who’d had sculptor’s hands, as well as Scott, who’d been his first real boyfriend, an out-and-proud track star who’d posed, laughing, for Sam’s camera lens.

He’d been lucky. At least, in that sense.

His mother and stepfather had supported his coming out. He’d had friends in school. The world these days was—if far from perfect—a little more accepting than the era playing out on screen. And he’d never wanted to hide. He’d wanted to share his story. He’d thought, once upon a time, that he could help people: with art, with pictures, with loving the world.

He’d been young and na?ve. He’d thought he could do anything. Before a late-night car crash, and a world bleeding out.

He’d been happy before that. He’d been happy when it’d been himself and his mother, them against the world, and he’d been happy when his stepfather had joined them too. Their life wouldn’t’ve compared to, say, Leo’s; but they’d managed. His father’d been nonexistent, out of the picture before he’d been born, but Carmen Hernandez had a nearly-finished teaching credential and a lot of determination, and they’d been a tiny family together, and her eventual elementary-school position might’ve not been prestigious but it’d been enough.

And then she’d met Jack Blake, who taught eighth-grade English literature and did not know how to cook and had asked for help making photocopies with ink on his hands and a crooked bow tie. Sam’s future stepfather had come over for dinner and smiled at Carmen’s shy art-loving son and brought along an old camera, one that he said had belonged to his father; he hadn’t ever done anything with it, but maybe Sam would like it?

Sam had. He’d seen the way his mother smiled; he’d watched Jack smile back while accidentally putting an elbow in sauce and then getting utterly dismayed, and his mother’d laughed, and Sam had quietly got up to put his own dishes away and leave them alone, laughing with each other.

Lucky, he thought now, not without that old faded edge of hopeless bitterness; and sighed. Ten years later, the loss hurt less like an open gash and more like a once-broken bone: never quite set right, healed around the snap in his heart, knitted inexpertly together.

He loved his siblings desperately, ferociously, helplessly. He’d tried so hard. He’d given up the life he’d thought he’d have. He thought he’d done okay: Carlos had ended up with an amazing scholarship, a real full ride to the university in Las Vegas—following in his father’s literature-loving footsteps—and was now in a graduate program, heading for a PhD, diving into the diversity of early modern narratives, which Sam would take photographs to pay for if necessary, bringing in those paychecks. The twins were happy and healthy and thinking about college admissions essays, being checked on by their retired next-door neighbor Annika when Sam had to be gone, and they could call him any time, they knew that.

He did try to check in every day. At least once.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real date. Not a quick hook-up while traveling for a job, not hurried hands or mouths in a cheap motel or neon-lit bar men’s room. Nothing that meant anything, other than casual mutual release and satisfaction.

Leo Whyte made him want more. Made him want to put arms around those well-muscled actor’s shoulders and take Leo home, not even necessarily for sex but to see if maybe that might make those layered hazel eyes feel secure, cared for, worth holding.

He’d gotten pretty good at comfort food. The simple kind. Macaroni and cheese. Spaghetti. Peanut butter or grilled cheese or straightforward ham sandwiches. Soup of various types. Inexpensive and easy and filling.

Leo Whyte probably lived on gourmet catering. Some sort of live-in chef. A personal nutrition consultant. Who no doubt wouldn’t approve of the picture Leo’d posted a while back with the massively oversized ice-cream sundae and the caption “Some days are just all about the sprinkles,” plus a heart.

For no real reason, recalling that post, Sam wanted to taste that ice cream, those expressive lips. Leo Whyte loved sprinkles and cherries. Felt right somehow. Fun and free.

The film finished on a happy ending: hope, and comfort, and a family that’d been found and brought together amid nodding color-drenched Mediterranean flowers and seas and skies. Colby and Jason, as Stephen and Will, waved from a terrace and ran down to a dock; Leo, as Lieutenant Harper, helped his on-screen wife out of the boat, here to join their friends. They were smiling, shading eyes against sun, waving back. In billowing shirts and with wide smiles. With joy.

The moment faded into credits, simple, profound.

Everyone sat stunned for a while: swept up, elevated, suffused by emotion. And then the applause began.

Thunderous. Cascading. Ringing off theater walls. Up on feet and hammering palms together.

Jillian Poe grabbed her actors and her loyal assistant director, and ran up on stage. They were all radiant with passion, with triumph. Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent were holding hands. Sir Laurence was gazing around with unconcealed pleasure. Leo gave the whole theater a grin and a half-bow: giddy, a performance, inviting the world to jump up and down and get buoyant with him.

Sam, at this distance, couldn’t see Leo’s expression well. But he wanted to. He wanted to know that Leo was honestly excited, elated, flushed with success.

Not lonely, under the flamboyance.

He amazed himself with how much he wanted that.

He took a breath, and took some notes: the cast’s answers about loving the novel, about adaptation, about characters. That’d be a story too: the news had been out for a few months at this point, but this was a reminder. Colby Kent had played Hollywood script doctor for years without anyone learning this fact, and had secretly worked on some absolutely massive projects, several award-winning: from Local News to Darklight to Princess , comedies and science fiction and even that Academy Award nominated animated feature. Steadfast finally had his name on display as a writer. Taking credit. Being known.

Colby talked about the courage of happy endings, and the ability to believe in them. He smiled at Jason as he said it.

Leo might’ve been looking out at the crowd, during that answer. Might’ve been looking Sam’s way. Might’ve been.

Someone asked a two-part question, teasing and serious, about Jason getting into shape for this role: both the muscles and the emotions, particularly when they’d had to film Colby’s near-death scene. Jason laughed, joked about lifting a lot of heavy things, and then turned serious as well: admitting that it had been difficult, being newly in love with Colby, getting lost in both Stephen’s and his own protectiveness. He was truthful, big and earnest, open-hearted; a sigh rippled through the audience.

The last question involved what they’d all take away with them from this film, from the experience. Jillian and Andy talked about directing, bringing this story to life, the almost magical camaraderie; they both praised their cast and crew. Colby Kent, beautiful and articulate, answered that he’d learned about courage: about not being afraid to love, and to want that love, even if it hurt.

Jason said to him, “I love you.” More sighs and coos bounced off old-fashioned walls. Sam found himself smiling; the two of them were sappy and romantic and cheesy as hell, sure, but they were honest about their emotion. Not an act. Spontaneous and affectionate: they just were that way, as a couple. In words, in touches, in glances and smiles.

Jason’s answer started with, “This film gave me you,” and everybody watching saw Colby Kent melt into a puddle of utter adoration. Jason went on to give one of the best answers Sam’d ever heard about storytelling and inspiration and the way that any movie, every movie, could matter to someone, whether a groundbreaking historical gay romance or an explosion-laced action blockbuster. Important, all of it. Worth loving. This film had reminded him of that: loving what they did.

Colby ran over and flung arms around Jason and delivered a kiss. Everyone cheered, with a tinge of amazement: Colby Kent not only touching people but doing so without thinking, obviously wanting to, instinctive.

Colby sat back down, post-kissing. And then it was Leo’s turn to answer.

Sam realized he was sitting forward. Leaning into the anticipation. Trying to see Leo’s eyes, the way that expressive mouth shaped words, the tilt of that head.

He made himself lean back.

Then he leaned forward again anyway.

Leo, perched on a visibly uncomfortable wooden stool on stage, paused before answering, as if sorting out words. “Friendship, I’d say. What Jillian said. The people I’ve met, on this production…people who’re such good people. Who care. Who I’ll stay friends with, after.” He glanced down the line of co-stars, then out at the audience of critics and fans.

And Sam held his breath. Because he could’ve sworn that Leo was looking at him, finding him, in that second. No distance between them. None at all, for that instant.

“People,” Leo finished, “I can be myself with. That’s so rare. And so important.” Unusually for Leo Whyte, his tone was quiet, reflective, personal.

Sam, listening, wanted to kiss him. To take his hand and soothe away every old wound, every time Leo hadn’t been himself, had covered up isolation with practical or verbal jokes. To say, yes, please be yourself with me, I want to know you, you’ll be safe…

He couldn’t promise that. Not with the weight of his job around his neck. A chain, choking off the possibility of that kiss.

“And also,” Leo finished, tone flipping back to airy—to what everyone expected, Sam thought—and eyes all big and mock-innocent, “Colby makes the world’s best coffee cake. So I’m dropping by for brunch and taking some of that home with me tomorrow, thanks, Colby.”

“Tomorrow?” Colby echoed, playing along. “Well, yes, fine…but call or text before you come round.”

“Why?”

“Would you like me to explain it to you? When two people love each other very much…”

“Oh, God,” Leo interrupted, persona squarely in place, winsome English accent making every word funnier somehow, “just make sure you’ve put on clothing this time before you open the door.” The whole theatre cracked up. Merriment among the critics and the gold-leaf walls.

Because Leo did that. Leo made the world laugh. The right word, the right timing.

Leo Whyte was a better actor than anyone knew. The person who’d flinched away from being called good, who’d been so dismissive of his own generosity…

That person wasn’t on display. Luminous sparkles all intact. No cracks to be found. All sprinkles and whipped-cream toppings securely in place on that sundae.

Sam’s hands remembered the way Leo’d felt, melting into him, against him. Sam’s mouth recalled the sensation of Leo’s: not scared or inexperienced at kissing as such, but new to this with another man, and eager but almost shy, wanting more but so unused to being so wanted. A paradox: confetti exuberance atop shadows of self-dismissal. A mystery, a layered excavation, an exhilaration worth working for.

He did want more. He wanted more of Leo.

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Worlds apart. Whole galaxies. Universes. Expanding all the time.

“You think I’m joking,” Leo concluded, playing out the teasing to the end, “but you didn’t knock on their door that time in Italy!” and looked over to Sir Laurence: handing off the final answer.

Sir Laurence smiled at everyone. Began by, as expected, praising fellow cast, directors, the story. Then Colby and Jason in particular. Then talking about courage and sexuality, in that old-fashioned legend’s voice. Everyone listening nodded: good words, from a good ally, especially coming from a representative of an older knightly generation with a powerful voice.

At this point Sir Laurence calmly added, “I’d’ve loved to have had that. To have the chance, or the choice, for that freedom, if we’d wanted to. For instance, well, it was rather an open secret on set all those decades ago, but nevertheless I’d’ve never said outright that I was in love with Alec Flynn and he with me, much less admitted to anyone that we’d moved in together. But of course we were and we did. And it was wonderful.”

Sheer silence hit like lightning. Electric shock. The universe trying to take that in and comprehend it.

Sam grabbed his notebook. Journalist autopilot. That quote. Getting it down. Surely Sir Laurence Taylor hadn’t just said—

Someone, more daring than the rest, murmured a half-dazed question about Sir Laurence having been married to a woman, having married—and divorced—two women, in fact, and having a daughter. Sir Laurence agreed, helpfully, and mentioned having a granddaughter, now.

“But,” said the journalist. “Alec.”

“You see,” Sir Laurence said, serene and gentlemanly, “I’m quite bisexual, darling.”

And the room erupted into clamor. Questions. Shouting. Scribbling of notes, frantic texting, the news about to be heard round the world—

Leo, Sam noticed, was laughing. Applauding. Enjoying the tumult; appreciating Sir Laurence’s exquisite timing, no doubt. Leo would appreciate a good show and showmanship, with that sense of humor, with that skill at purposefully diverting the world.

Sir Laurence went on to talk about having the words for himself and his desires, finally; about being able to express this part of himself, and his gratitude for the film and the experience of getting to know Colby and Jason and Jillian and Andy, people who loved who they loved openly, a choice he’d never even had available; he thanked them, and the world.

Sam took half-hysterical notes. Such a story. The story.

The cynic in him approved of Sir Laurence’s timing and the publicity for the film. The newfound hollowness in his chest observed that the words all seemed truly sincere. His brain pointed out that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

They’d been asked not to take photos or video during the film and the Q the cast waved, bowed, received another standing ovation. Leo’s suit stood out: sunrise color against traditional navy and black hues around him. Always extraordinary, Leo Whyte; Sam bit a lip, felt the bite against his breastbone. Leo was himself, through and through, and spectacular.

The cast and crew, framed by security—separated from ordinary mortals, distant and protected—headed toward the exit. Assembled critics and journalists and fans and lucky premiere-ticket winners, all left behind, shuffled feet, milled around, sagged a little after all the emotion, and made hasty calls and texts about the seismic shift that’d just taken place in terms of classic movie-star love lives.

More stories. Everywhere. Upending what everyone’d thought they knew, which had been another type of story, concealing a truth.

So many stories. So powerful.

The ones he told, through unwelcome intrusive lenses, did not compare to the works of love he’d seen tonight: in the film, and on stage. With Jason and Colby, and Sir Laurence’s coming out moment, and Jillian Poe’s love for her cast and crew, and the whole world standing up to believe in happy endings.

Sam Hernandez-Blake, who sold voyeuristic glimpses of private lives, shouldn’t be here. Not in the same room with all that love.

He did it for family. That was a truth. But in the moment—in this moment—the guilt mattered more. The shame. If he wasn’t who he was—

If Leo could ever look at him with those dancing hazel eyes and see someone worth kissing again—not a sordid furtive stolen moment—

Sam breathed out, carefully, around the stab-wound in his chest. And he put away his phone, and headed for the exit, thinking about expenses and getting a cab and the dreadful hotel that’d been all Jameson and the Daily World News would pay for, with the painful mattress-springs and the distressing grey stain on the wall.

He’d had this moment. These few hours. He’d been here.

He’d go back and upload the rest of his pictures in better quality, and he’d even write up a short breathless article with lots of exclamation points because Jameson would pay for the description from someone who’d been there. He’d get it all sent in and he’d get paid.

He felt older suddenly. Exhausted. Thirty-one years old, going on a hundred.

His next footfall scuffed against deep red carpet, leaving the theatre, drifting out into the lobby. The carpet, which’d seen years of show-business anguish and ecstasy, gazed up in scarlet sympathy.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned.

A young man dressed in the night’s event staff uniform gave him a smile. The young man was generally speaking attractive, slim and stylish with red hair and grey eyes and an understated rainbow earring and a gaze that absolutely traveled up and down Sam’s body, lingering over shoulders, hips, Sam’s mouth; he was also very young, not necessarily in years but in the complete lack of subtlety. “Sam Hernandez-Blake?”

“Sure,” Sam agreed—no reason to be rude, even if he wasn’t interested—and shifted to one side, out of the flow of bodies milling around. “How can I help you?” And he thought, fleetingly, that he should have been interested; he liked people who knew what they wanted, who’d keep things easy, who clearly were into him as well.

He pictured Leo’s eyes, green and brown as springtime forests: new to kissing a man but unafraid. Expressing every over-the-top emotion, but also hiding behind all the expression. Multifaceted. A puzzle.

Complicated. Not easy.

But he wanted to see those eyes again, to touch Leo again.

He’d never have that. He’d only had tonight. He’d seen that Leo was well, looking happy, shining on a movie screen.

The young man, now regarding him with approval—had the blatant flirtatious once-over been some sort of test?—said, “He asked us to come and find you? I apologize for taking so long; he gave us a decent description, but this is quite a crowd?” and then lifted eyebrows at Sam expectantly, as if this ought to make sense.

“Um,” Sam tried, politely. “Who would that be?”

The young man seemed perplexed. “Er…Leo? Leo Whyte? Sorry, were you not expecting to see him? He seemed to think you would be? He’s waiting just round the back, where you’ll get the limo?”

Leo. Leo Whyte. Wanting to see him. Sending obliging minions out to find him. Waiting for him. With a limousine.

Leo, who Sam’d kissed and walked away from in a Las Vegas night; who Sam had kissed because he couldn’t stand the thought of Leo feeling unwanted a single second longer, and had left because he wasn’t the right man for that, the kind of man Leo Whyte deserved—

Leo, who’d been so wonderful tonight. In the film, bringing Lieutenant Harper’s love and loyalty and battle-courage to life. And on stage, bringing laughter to the entire theatre, giving the world that gift.

Someone should say that. Should tell Leo that. How incredible he was. How much he mattered. Someone needed to put it into words for Leo to hear.

The sympathetic red plush under his feet suggested that that person should be Sam. That he should follow this path, walk right along it, until he found neatly styled dark blond hair and hazel eyes and tempting lips at the end.

He wasn’t going to kiss Leo again. For all he knew, Leo Whyte wanted to yell at him. For turning up here; for interfering; for coming within photographic distance of their tight-knit group of friends. That’d make some sort of sense, he figured.

But still: he’d get to see Leo. And a tiny butterfly spread wings and did a hop inside his chest, wanting to fly.

He squared his shoulders under his rented suit-jacket, beneath opulent lights. “Show me where to go.”