Twenty-Five

GREG

After a tense, upsetting week at Martin's Place, Greg goes back to Manhattan to apartment hunt. The whole time, he feels like Goldilocks in the early parts of her story. One place is too big and expensive, one place is too small and seemingly infested with roaches, and even after scouring apartments with Anika and Josh all day, nothing just right materializes.

When he meets Stryker for dinner at a fusion restaurant that serves foam and caviar and foie gras, Greg wrestles with a pit in his stomach. A pit that only grows deeper and wider whenever he thinks about his room in Rufus's house, the coziness of the space, the comfort of hearing Rufus smashing the buttons on his Xbox controller downstairs.

Is this...homesickness?

No, it can't be. Allentown wasn't home. Home is where you're wanted and needed. Julien made it clear Greg wasn't needed.

The opposite is true here where, earlier in the week, Stryker sent via text: I need you to come with me to this restaurant opening in Tribeca. Free meal. All I have to do is post.

Need.See? Emotionally reserved Stryker Storm could say it. Why couldn't Julien Boire?

"So, basically, I've been arguing with them in my DMs about my rate," Stryker says, leaned back in his chair on the other side of the table, one leg crossed over the other. His suede purple loafer dangles off his heel, nearly tripping an oncoming ma?tre d'. Greg is distracted by this, sensitive to these things now that he's worked in a restaurant. He knows the trappings of the trade, and Stryker seems blissfully oblivious to the potential chaos he could cause. "If I'm going to do that many videos promoting flavored butt scrub, then I need to be paid above scale. It's nonnegotiable."

"Mmm-hmm." Greg nods, snapping back to the conversation. And not just because he's pretty sure he saw the same brand of butt scrub in Julien's bathroom, which leads to unwelcome thoughts of places Greg's tongue has been and will never go again. "That makes total sense."

"See? Thank you." Stryker flashes his teeth. "This is why I missed you. Anika and Josh told me I was being overly ambitious, but I've got a brand going. I can't just start peddling something new that goes entirely against that brand. You know how it is."

"Sure, yeah," Greg says, recalling a time when conversations like this with Stryker excited him. He felt a bit like a Jedi in a Star Wars film, deciding the fate of an entirely new empire he'd have a hand in building from the ground up. Now, he just feels vacuous.

"Speaking of which, we have to get you back to posting daily so you can pick back up some of those brand partnerships. I'll be sure to include you in my post for this place." Stryker's got his imaginary business hat on. Greg can hear it in his voice. The way he can code switch from intimate to professional within an inch of a single syllable. "The agency I'm with might be looking to take on a few new clients. Let me send a text while I'm thinking about it."

"Oh, you don't really need to do that." Greg doesn't like owing anyone anything.

Stryker glances up from the screen of his brick-like gold iPhone as the bustle of the restaurant blurs around them. "It's already done. It was no trouble."

"Oh." Greg once again finds himself borrowing Julien's buffer word. "I meant more that I'm going to be working at Bar Deco and readjusting to city life. I'm not sure I'll have the time. I don't even have a place to live yet."

"Of course you do." Stryker sets down his menu with a flourish, traps Greg with his penetrating gaze. "With me."

There was a time when Greg would've fawned over this declaration. His whole life would've felt like it was leading to this moment when a man he cared for deeply invited him to live together, to make a home together, but they've barely been at this table ten minutes, and Stryker is already monopolizing the conversation, steering Greg's life in a certain direction.

Maybe it's the direction it's supposed to go in. Maybe I need to smile and say thank you.

"Do you mean that?" Greg asks, unable to be sure.

In their previous relationship, Stryker was resistant to moving in together. Maybe it was too official, too serious. Greg never quite understood and was too afraid to ask. Now, he's less afraid to ask difficult questions when he has to because of how vulnerable he was able to be with Julien.

"Absolutely, I mean that. I know I let a good thing go once. Storms don't make mistakes twice."

Greg lets that sink in while confusion wraps around his heart. He's half elated, half uncomfortable. Storm isn't even Stryker's real last name. It's Hogdorf. Hogdorf doesn't have the same social media savvy ring to it as Storm does, though.

Is that really what matters in this moment? Stryker is offering him a fresh start and space in his apartment to call home.

Greg is about to exclaim his thanks for everyone in the restaurant to hear when they are politely interrupted by a middle-aged white woman with medium-length straight brown hair, pointy glasses, and a thin-lipped smile. On the lapel of her crimson blazer, Greg spies a circular pin that he knows all too well, except this one has a red rim and a gold interior. The words etched onto it are different, too. Where Julien's said Certified, hers says Master. Greg's heart squishes with uncertainty.

"Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Angelina Kovaski, the house Master Sommelier. Can I interest you in tonight's selections?"

Stryker is quick to say yes.

As Angelina begins her rundown of the highlights, Greg picks out words he helped Julien study in those late-night strip sessions that were equal parts sexy and serious. His heart wobbles as he wonders if being here tonight is a betrayal of all the growth he's made since settling in Allentown.

Without fully thinking about what he's saying, Greg orders one of Julien's favorites for himself—Lambrusco, a sparkling red wine from Italy. It's one they had at a paint-and-sip at Studio Artiste. Why he's so set on hurting himself through his taste buds is beyond him. The matter is only made worse when Stryker insists they get a bottle instead.

Over heavy pours of memories in a glass, Greg remains as present as possible. Through four courses, two bottles, and several photos taken for branded content, Greg nods and agrees and chimes in when it feels appropriate in the small gaps Stryker leaves in his near continuous monologue about new clubs, old friends, and the many pitfalls of Ubering in NYC.

It's not until they're back at Stryker's cavernous apartment, which could be Greg's apartment soon should he play his cards right, that he comes to terms with two things: one, he never answered, either way, about moving in with Stryker even though their meal lasted just under two and a half hours; two, he's far more drunk than he intended to get.

It's a hazard of his medication. There's a woozy sleepiness that fills his body as he settles on Stryker's black leather couch that probably costs more than Rufus's grandmother's house.

"Nightcap?" Stryker asks after he's slipped into something more comfortable, which turns out to be the tiniest shorts imaginable that show off his thighs, a barely there tank top, and a kimono that scarcely clears his ass.

In his present state, with eye candy temptingly dangled in front of him, Greg figures why not?

The more alcohol he has in his system, the less Julien is on his mind. The less Julien is on his mind, the more Greg can, despite his double vision, imagine what his life might look like in this apartment. Waking up in the morning and making Nespresso. Filming TikToks in a real, enviable, picturesque kitchen. Having sex in a California king bed.

A California king bed which Greg, another glass of wine later, finds himself in, nestled against million-thread-count sheets and pressed against Stryker Storm.

Their kisses can't quite be classified—scorching, burning? Greg is too busy cataloging the differences between kissing Julien, a right he earned, and kissing Stryker, something Stryker seemed to expect from him when he suggested they relocate to the bedroom.

Greg, not wanting Julien to interfere with this, lets his hands ground him in the moment. His head may be bobbly and his heart may be hiccupy, but his palms roam with a desperate want. This isn't exactly a want for Stryker. No, perhaps, it's more of a desperate want to be satisfied with his decision. To belong. To know stability for once in his life. To not use positivity as a mask for what's uncomfortable but to manifest it through his everyday with ease.

Despite his best efforts, with Stryker grinding on top of him, pressing onto him with equal weight, Greg can't seem to get it up.

Stryker is, without a doubt, a prime specimen of human. Worked out in ways rarely seen outside of superhero movies. Hair so full and luscious it could have its own shampoo campaign. Yet no matter where Greg's hands land—the two perfect, smooth globes of Stryker's ass or his perky, pink erect nipples—Greg can't overcome the voices in his head asking him if this is the right move.

Tackling it almost as a challenge, Stryker moves to take Greg in his mouth. Ten minutes, maybe more. Stryker licks and sucks and fondles. Greg likes the sensation. He does. But it doesn't matter if he closes his eyes or watches, relaxes or tenses. Nothing he does makes his boner appear.

Dread covers Greg like a wet blanket when Stryker starts easing up and shifting away. His jaw is probably tired. Greg notices Stryker's dick is flaccid now, too.

"Sorry," Greg mutters, swiping his hands across his hot cheeks. "It's the wine and my GAD and the medication."

Stryker nods, not looking at him. "I figured. I guess I just assumed you'd stopped taking it. You seem so..."

Greg sits up. "So what?"

Stryker edges off the bed, lifts his broad shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. "Happy, I guess."

A freight train crashes into Greg's sternum. Happy? When he and Stryker reconnected, Greg was reeling from Julien's words in the airport drop-off lane which, now that he's had more time and distance from the conversation to process, he can admit were probably partially to do with his own bad timing. Regardless, how could Stryker have mistaken him for plainly happy? Isn't that a feeling reserved for those uncomplicatedly in love?

Love.

In a way, Greg loves Julien. It is probably too true to ignore now. But too late, all the same.

"Just because I seem happy doesn't mean I stop having a mental illness," Greg says.

Stryker is slipping back into his shorts and kimono. "Yeah."

The sentiment clearly didn't land the way Greg intended it to. Despite that, he still wants to reassure Stryker. Greg has quit his job. Greg has given up his room in Rufus's house. Greg has to make his second chance at life in New York City work.

"It's not you." Though, Greg will have to wrestle with the validity of that statement later, because maybe it is a little bit Stryker.

The comfort Julien provided him inside the bedroom was part of what mitigated the pressure to perform, which made the experience more pleasurable and helped his erection come to the party. Sure, the second medication helped, too. And it definitely didn't hurt that Julien was so delicately beautiful in an unbreakable way, but still.

Everything about this scene from the luxury mattress to the silky sheets should give him comfort, but the steely gaze of misunderstanding from the man on the other side of the room negates all other sensations.

"I'm sorry," Greg says, even though he doesn't want to be.

"It's fine," Stryker says. It's such a sharp contrast to Julien's open acceptance of Greg's ED struggles. "I'm going to shower."

When Stryker shuts the door to the massive, all white en suite, Greg finds his underwear at the foot of the bed and slips them back on. He curls into a ball and closes his eyes, sinking into the memory foam pillow and wishing he could go back in time, delete the email from Bar Deco, and live the life he wanted before he ruined it all.