Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Kip Grady, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe, Falling In Love, Sex, Trans Kip Grady

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-02 Completed: 2026-06-24 Words: 31,236 Chapters: 12/12

Beer League

Summary

Scott doesn’t often get stopped in his tracks by guys he sees. He doesn’t really ever get that birds-dancing-round-his-head, sweet-chorus-of-angels, crepuscular-rays-alighting-on-the-earth knockabout, or hasn’t really since Mike Johansson transferred into St Thomas in senior year of high school and he had, for the first time in his life, fallen in love. Unrequited, but still. That was fifteen years ago. He’s been in love since then, but he hasn’t been blindsided in a while. He’d forgotten how it feels.

Notes

This is a love story featuring a trans male character. I am a cisgender woman, but I really hope that the love and care and curiosity and research (listening to and reading trans voices) comes through in this work.

I absolutely cannot thank my sensitivity readers enough: groggygrogu and tarantuladad, your feedback and candour made writing this so rewarding.

Chapter 1

The rink is loud, but only in that way that all rinks are, when sound bounces off the ice and the scrape of blades cuts through the air like a drone of sharpening knives. Under his face guard, Scott Hunter sweats. It’s the final minute of the third period, and his team are up by two, but it feels like it matters. Hockey always feels like it matters. 

He’s on a breakaway straight up to the offensive zone, about the cross the blue line when he gets checked hard by a player from the other team. He swipes the puck to his winger, Perez, who’s charging up, ready. Snipe it. Goal. He fist-bumps Perez, impact muffled by gloves. 

“Nice shooting,” he says, grinning. 

Perez smiles back, whoops, heads back for the puck drop. There’s barely any point, but the opposing team fight hard for the last forty-five seconds. By the time the final buzzer sounds, it’s 4-1 to the Bladerunners. 

“Hoo boy,” Scott exhales, the adrenaline still coursing through him. He glides across centre ice, breathing heavily. Tough game. It’s early in the season, and everyone’s got something to prove. Not that it matters—the Bladerunners are practically undefeated in the Superior Hockey League: Long Island’s best adult men’s beer league. 

He joins the line at centre ice for the handshakes that follow every game, win or lose. Gloves off, fist bumps along the line of losing players from the Royals. 

“Good game,” Scott says as he passes along the line. “Good game.” 

“Scotty, see you at O’Malley’s after?” Barber, the opposing team’s centre calls out as he skates away. 

“After that fucking check? You’d better be buying!” Scott calls back, skating over to the boards. 

His team are clustered around the exit, chatting to a couple of spectators in the lower tier of seating right by the doors to the locker room. Scott skates up, clasps a hand on Perez’s shoulder. 

“Nice goal,” he says. 

Perez smiles back. “Nice assist. Are you going to assist me at the bar later and buy the first round?” 

Scott laughs. “Captain’s duty.” 

Captain of a beer league team comes with a heavy set of responsibilities: make sure the team pay their dues for the season, make sure the fucking goalie turns up, and make sure there are drinks ordered and ready when the team get showered and over to the Irish bar across the road. 

“Big Georgie!” Perez calls over to the man in the stands, getting his attention over the noise of the team recapping their best plays and shuffling off the ice. “You joining us tonight?” 

Big Georgie—George Grady—is a legendary Bladerunners goalie. He retired ten years ago, at the end of Scott’s first season with the team, when he complained that forty-four was not a respectable age to be getting hit in the face with pucks anymore. He still comes to watch a lot of their games, though, dressed in his old jersey and claiming that it’s cheaper than tickets to Islanders games and he can probably get as good a display of athleticism out of Hunter, here, than anything in the NHL. 

Scott usually laughs this off. His past as a player is public record. The rookie who quit. 

That was a long fucking time ago, though. And he is not taking the bait with the whole athleticism quip—he knows he’s no elite player, not any more. No access to trainers and doctors and the exigencies of the league. Thank god. He’s also no spring chicken, either, pushing thirty-two. No Stanley Cup in his past, but he does have a few years at community college, a CPA, and a good fucking job in the city. Hockey, as much as it’s in his bones, is now something that he does for fun, and because he’s very good at it, and because it makes him happy. 

Revolutionary. 

“No brewskis for us tonight, the Kipster here made me promise to go home and watch The Last Waltz with him after the game.” Big Georgie gestures over his shoulder at the younger guy standing next to him. 

Huh. 

Scott doesn’t often get stopped in his tracks by guys he sees. He doesn’t really ever get that birds-dancing-round-his-head, sweet-chorus-of-angels, crepuscular-rays-alighting-on-the-earth knockabout, or hasn’t really since Mike Johansson transferred into St Thomas in senior year of high school and he had, for the first time in his life, fallen in love. Unrequited, but still. That was fifteen years ago. He’s been in love since then, but he hasn’t been blindsided in a while. He’d forgotten how it feels. 

The guy—the Kipster, whatever that means—is fucking gorgeous. On the shorter side, like Big Georgie, but well built. Dark stubble across his jaw. Dark, curly hair styled casually, wire-rimmed glasses that flash with the reflection of the ice. Scott’s mouth runs dry as he swallows, trying not to stare. 

“Awww,” coos Lato, one of their defensemen. “Big Georgie, is this your kid?” 

Ahern, their current goalie, cuts in: “Georgie, no one’s making you watch The Last Waltz, we all know that shit is your favourite movie because we’ve all heard you, many times, three beers deep and yakking about—”

“—Scorcese’s forgotten masterpiece,” Scott and Perez chime in together. They laugh. They’ve all heard it. Big Georgie’s lore runs deep. 

“You’re all ingrates and philistines,” Big Georgie says, shaking his head. He puts his arm around the young man’s shoulders and tugs him forward. “And yes, this is my son. This is Kip. Back from grad school, and very kindly accompanying his father on an excursion to relive his glory days.” 

“Can’t relive them if they’re not over,” Scott says, and everyone laughs. 

He catches Kip’s eyes. He blinks, swallows, tries to smile. Those eyes are intense, dark brown and assessing. Scott is suddenly very aware that he looks like shit, with his hair a damp mess, his helmet tucked under one elbow, his jersey probably reeking of sweat. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling damp strands and trying to push them into some sort of order. Obvious.

Kip smiles back, a small and half-sure grin.

“All right, boys,” Scott says, tearing his eyes away. “Showers, bar. One beer. Some of us have to work in the morning.” 

“Scotty,” Ahern says, punching him on the back of his shoulder, “we all have work in the morning.” 

The bar is pretty quiet when they get there—the joys of it being a Tuesday night in Kings Park. He has his one beer—a Belgian lager that’s on tap, by some miracle, at an Irish bar—then says his farewells to the guys and heads back across the road to the parking lot at the rink. He unlocks his Prius and slides in, wrapping his hands around the suede of the steering wheel. 

It’s a forty-five minute drive back to his apartment in Jackson Heights. The roads are quiet enough at this time of night. Scott’s body is tired, the single beer making his joints feel warm. It’s a good tired, though—the kind of tired that accompanies a well-played game in good company. 

Interesting company, tonight. Or, at least, interesting people in the crappy plastic bucket seats that pass for stands at the rink. 

Kip. 

He knows he probably shouldn’t even go there, not if Kip is Big Georgie’s son. It’d be like trying to date the President’s kid. Big Georgie is lovely, has been a friendly acquaintance for a long time. Scott’s not sure he wants to mess with that, though. 

God, he thinks, as he takes the slip road onto I-495 back towards New York, you don’t even know if he’s interested in men. Do not get even remotely ahead of yourself.

He does, though. He replays that small, pleased grin for most of the drive. The way Kip’s eyes had glinted a little playfully behind those glasses. The confidence of his posture. The solid sound his body had made when Big Georgie had clapped him on the shoulder. Little things, little things adding up to a bigger picture in Scott’s mind. 

He was interested, okay? So sue him. 

He makes it home in one piece, despite the distraction. His apartment is in a six-storey building in Jackson Heights—a one-bedroom place on the third floor. He’s lived here for a long time, since he was eighteen and had nothing but meagre savings and a casual job as a labourer he was working while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life. The rent was cheaper then. The apartment’s seen better days, but he keeps it nice. It’s got hardwood floors and big windows and he repainted last summer, so everything’s fresh and light. The kitchen is actually a decent size, which is great, because at twenty years of age he decided he’d had enough ramen and frozen meals and actually taught himself to cook. 

The crowning glory of the place is the space in the building’s parking lot. He spent three years on a wait list for that, and they can claw it back from his cold, dead hands. He’d never really considered himself much of a driver, but he got the Prius second-hand a handful of years ago and never looked back. He does summer road trips up the New England coastline. And he doesn’t have to schlep his stuff on the subway out to the rink, which is a definite plus. 

He takes the stairs instead of the lift, his hockey bag heavy over his shoulder. Inside, he drops his stuff by the door and heads to the shower. The locker rooms showers do not cut it. His work wife, Janice, makes fun of his hair-washing routine, calling it his curly girl method bullshit, but he likes to take care of himself. Less of the hours in the gym than he did as an NHL-bound teenager, his head almost permanently crammed under a helmet. These days it’s more like one beer league game a week, plus a few gym sessions and occasional runs in the park. 

He’s not lonely, even if he is single. He’s had boyfriends before, had his heart broken. A few years ago, when he was twenty-seven, he spent six months in cohabitation bliss with Jordan Hornsby, a web developer he’d met on Grindr and seen seriously for a couple of years. It had ended, although not poorly. They wanted different things. Scott wanted to settle down in a way Jordan didn’t. Maybe it’s because he spent so much of his adolescence in transient spaces. Permanence calls to him, and he’s ready for love, but not necessarily chasing it. Finding a hook-up isn’t difficult—he knows what he looks like: tall, muscular, conventionally handsome with a full head of hair. But he’s always kind of been hanging out for more. Love like his parents had. Something real. 

After he’s clean and his hair has been washed (and it’s not even that complicated, Janice, get a grip), Scott drinks two tall glasses of water and heads to bed. He pulls back the bedspread and climbs under the sheets. He grabs his phone and replies to a couple of messages from friends that had come in while he was at the game: Nick checking in about movie times for the weekend, Drew wanting an opinion on a woman’s Tinder profile. 

His life is full. He likes his job in the city, and he has a career pathway there for him to follow. He has friends—lots of friends, from the team, from work, guys he’s clicked with at gay bars and ended up being close to for years. Janice, of course. A whole life he’s built up since he was twenty and alone and not knowing what the fuck to do with himself. A life he’s really happy with, and proud of. 

If the emptiness of the other side of the bed bothers him, he doesn’t really dwell on it. It’ll happen when it happens. 

He grabs his book from the nightstand: a Gillian Flynn thriller he hasn’t read before. The adrenaline from the game finally snakes its way out of his body as he turns the pages. He doesn’t think about Kip again that night, not intentionally. Maybe a fleeting glimpse of dark eyes and glasses and a small, returned smile, caught just before he falls asleep. 

At next Tuesday’s game, Big Georgie is in the stands as per usual. Kip is on the seat next to him, watching the game with mild interest, a paperback book curled, unread, in one hand. And if Scott plays a little harder, a little faster, and a little better tonight than he has in a while…well, there’s not really anything wrong with that. 

Chapter 2

Scott makes his way into the office building that houses D&H, the accounting firm where he works (renamed recently from the slightly more ridiculous-sounding Dalrymple & Hammer). He’s clutching a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand, the warmth of it long-since seeped through the cardboard sleeve. The building is way overdue for a cafe in the lobby. There used to be a sandwich place that served the most burnt, thickest drip coffee imaginable, but it had closed down late last year, possibly due to ongoing health code violations. The space it left behind sat empty for a while, but for the last few weeks has been emanating the sound of construction and the faint smell of sawdust. There are a couple of electricians in the space now, wiring in new lights—the bougie, exposed bulb kind. He prays for a hipster barista. The general rule of thumb seems to be: the more out there the haircut, the better the coffee. 

He takes the elevator up to the seventeenth floor to the office. He takes his coat off at his desk and slings it over the back of his chair, dropping his leather satchel on the desk. 

“Scotty!” Janice calls out from the desk next to his. “You’re looking extra fruity today, right on.” 

Scott looks down at his shirt: a favourite, purple pastel with floral print inside the cuffs and collar. 

“Why thank you, wife,” he says. “You look like you’re ready for the lesbian bowling league championship weekend.”

Janice is short, with cropped blonde hair, and a face that once won her an office celebrity lookalike competition when she went as Miranda Otto. She’s pretty and sly and Scott’s best friend in the office, and has been for five years. In terms of Scott’s emotional support, she has seen it all, from talking him through breakups to joining him for somewhere near a thousand hours of stolen coffee breaks complaining about upper management together. 

She shoots the cuffs on her colourblock buttondown and says, “I am in a lesbian bowling league. And the Slit Pins are going to be kicking serious ass this Friday, you’d better believe it.” 

He laughs, settling into his chair and starting up his computer. He places the Starbucks cup on a coaster on his desk. 

“Did you bring enough for the whole class?” Janice asks, nodding at the coffee. 

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a small paper bag. 

“Banana loaf,” he says, tossing it to her. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” 

“Score,” she says, peering inside. “Hey, when’s that cafe downstairs opening? I love the Starbies, but I don’t like walking in this cold-ass wind to get it.” 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Hopefully soon. We could do with a little excitement around here.” 

Janice turns back to her computer, opening her email and scrolling through the endless trawl of executive director newsletters and Confluence summaries. “Your lips to god’s ear, Scotty.” 

The thing is, Scott actually likes his job. He’s good at it, he makes decent money, he has a nice ‘senior’ before his job title and his director’s been hinting at making him a lead. He wonders what his high-school coaches would think if they knew what he was doing now. He sure knows what they thought when he first dropped out and quit the league. Coach Dalton had actually called him in tears, begging him to reconsider. The contract was already in the shredder by then, though, and Scott was sleeping on his agent’s pull-out. He thanks god every day for Todd Wheeler’s endless compassion—Scott wasn’t even making him any money at that point. Just a scared kid with too much future sprawling out in front of him like an endless bog of terrifying potential. Two weeks later he was signing the lease on his place in Queens and signing the contract to work for a residential construction company. Six months of knocking down walls in Manhattan brownstones for minimum wage was enough—the dust and the ache of it, the way he’d find plasterboard shards in his hair. But it put his muscles to use. The finely honed shape of him exorcised out into something new. 

He’d been on the subway when he’d seen the ad for community college night classes. At this point in his life, he was alone. He’d been alone before, but there had always been structure that guided him: high school, hockey, the idea of the NHL. All of those had come with guardians of some kind, who’d show him the way his future was going to be. And then, afterwards, eighteen and scared and undereducated, he didn’t have anyone to bounce ideas off. He was friendly with some of the guys at the construction gig, because he needed to be in order to survive. The loneliness of it was crushing—going back to his apartment alone, going to bed alone, waking up alone, adrift. He cried himself to sleep for half a year. Todd has said to call any time, but he couldn’t. That wasn’t for him, not anymore. But he wanted stability. A future. So he went to the community college information evening, picked up a course guide, and landed on the first thing alphabetically listed in the prospectus. 

He wasn’t overly bright, academically, but he was practical. He liked to read and to learn new things, even when it didn’t come easily. He was eighteen, then nineteen, and he worked for it, night after night. He eventually got enough credits under his belt to trade the construction gig for a bookkeeping job. The tears had dried up, and he’d made peace with his life. Was proud of it, even. He put his parents’ wedding photo up in the living room so he could show them: I made it. It’s something, but I made it all by myself. 

That was a long time ago. More than a decade ago. It’s different now. It’s so much better. He likes who he is, where he is, how he lives. His parent’s photo is still there, along with others now: some childhood photos he’d dug out of storage; and newer pictures of him camping with friends in the Catskills, and dressed in his Bladerunners jersey after a win, and standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. He votes regularly and has opinions on politics. He recycles and drives a hybrid and wants to learn to windsurf this summer. He has framed art in his bedroom: Banksy and Van Gogh prints he’d bought at MoMa; a completed five-thousand-piece jigsaw of Hokusai’s Great Wave off Kanagawa, which he glued and framed after finally completing it. Friends had come by over months and picked away at the puzzle. He likes it there as a reminder of the hands that helped to build it. He keeps houseplants alive. A patchwork quilt his mom made is slung over the back of the couch, and he wraps himself in it each winter while he watches reality TV and eats chicken soup, made from a recipe he’s still tweaking to try and capture the sense memory of it from his childhood. He is made of complex parts, the past weaving roots into his present, his life a tapestry of who he was and who he is spinning out into the complex fabric of who he’s yet to become.

On Thursday he drives out to Kings Park after work, his hockey bag slung into the back of the car.  Even towards the end of the work week, which has been fairly demanding, it’s so easy to find the energy for hockey. It’s easy now, when he’s playing because he loves it, and because it’s fun. 

Perez high-fives him when he gets to the locker room. “Hunter. Good week?”

“Pretty good,” Scott says. 

“Hey, Ingrid wants to know if you’re coming for dinner this weekend still.” 

“Yeah, absolutely. You going to let your kid join us this time?” 

Perez rolls his eyes. “That little terror. After you left last time, she was still awake. Just sitting up in bed and asking when she could come out and say hi to Scotty.” 

“She’s got good people taste.” 

“She’s four. She’ll love anyone who extends her bedtime.” 

Scott laughs. He gets his equipment on and tugs his jersey down over the top. 

“See you out there,” Perez says, as Scott’s lacing up. 

The game is a clean sweep of the Icees, a team of fresh blood, new to the league this year. They play like they’ve got a point to prove, largely to their detriment. 

During second period, Scott looks over to the stands. Big Georgie is in his usual spot. Beside him sits Kip, watching the game and leaning over to listen to whatever Georgie is saying to him. Scott doesn’t stare, but he does feel a prickle of heat on his skin when he looks over again later and sees Kip tracking him down the ice. 

After the game, they head over to the bar, as per usual. The team are keen after the win, high spirits buoying them through the cold of the evening as they cross the road. Scott orders a lager and drinks about half of it while chatting with Ahern about the latest Spiderman movie for longer than he can realistically sustain interest in. He draws a couple of other guys into the conversation to pick up his slack—another classic captain responsibility: leave no man talking about superhero properties alone. 

He doesn’t actively look around for Kip, but he does notice that he’s there. Sitting beside Big Georgie and listening as a few of the guys argue at length about the Islanders’ roster. And then, later, Kip at the bar, ordering himself a second beer. Eventually, he sees Kip alone off to one side of the group, leaning his drink on a dark wood table and checking his phone.

Fuck it, Scott thinks.

“Hey,” he says, sidling up to the table. “Kip, right?”

Kip locks the phone screen and shoves the device into his pocket. “Yeah, hey, that’s me. I hope I don’t have a reputation preceding me or anything. Dad will almost certainly be embellishing.” 

“Oh, no,” Scott smiles. “We knew he had a son in college, that’s about it. Believe it or not, most conversations in this place are more about glorious past saves and playoff standings.” 

Kip laughs softly. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“I’m Scott.” He holds his hand out as he introduces himself. Kip reaches out and they shake; his palm is warm and calloused against Scott’s own.

“Oh, now you have a reputation that precedes you,” Kip says with a sly grin. 

“Yeah, right,” Scott laughs. “Depending on who you heard it from, it might be true.” 

Kip takes a drink from his beer, considering Scott over the top of the glass. 

“Do you play hockey, too?” Scott asks. 

“Oh, god no,” Kip says. “I’m more of a gym rat, pickup basketball kind of guy.”  

Scott glances down at Kip’s arms, his chest, concealed under a tight sweater. It tracks. He drags his eyes back up to Kip’s face: a mirthful quirk of the lips. He’s been caught looking. 

“So what do you do when you’re not captain of Queens’s best ever beer league team in the history of Long Island hockey?” Kip holds a hand up. “I think I got that right? I am contractually obliged, by being a Grady, to use the team’s full name.” 

“Yeah, I think that’s on the paperwork,” Scott laughs. “Um, I’m an accountant. Pretty boring. I work for a big firm in Manhattan. I spend a lot of time looking at spreadsheets.” 

“Oh god, a real job.” Kip makes a face. 

Scott laughs, shrugs. “What about you, what were you studying?” 

“I was doing my masters in art history at Boston University.”

“Oh, that’s very cool. What’s your specialty?” 

“I wrote my thesis on queer representations of the human form in, well, a very specific part of history that is way too boring to get into now.” 

Scott’s mind catches on it, because of course it does. Queer representations. He files it away, to turn it over later once he’s alone in his apartment. He doesn’t lean a little closer to where Kip is standing. What he does do is say, “That doesn’t sound boring at all.” 

Kip smiles, and it’s genuine and soft. “Well. We’ll see. I’m currently living the dream of the recently graduated: twenty-seven years old and back in my childhood bedroom, about to start a minimum wage job, and thinking about applying for a PhD to put off my real-life decisions for another five years.” 

“God, a PhD? So you’re smart smart.” 

Kip makes a little eh, maybe gesture with his hand and looks over at Big Georgie, who’s showing off goalie reflexes by flipping coasters up off the edge of the table and catching them in the split seconds before they drop. Still got it. 

“I swear there is a genetic component,” Kip says, and then sighs. “One too many pucks to the head.” 

“Hey, we love Big Georgie,” Scott says. 

“Oh, so do I. The best dad anyone could ask for, actually.” 

Kip smiles at his dad, and raises his mostly empty glass in salute when George looks over. George checks his watch, and then looks at Kip with eyebrows raised, nodding towards the door. 

“Well, that’s my signal,” Kip says, downing the last of his beer. He turns to Scott and looks at him as he places the empty glass back on the table. “It was nice to meet you, Scott. Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, trying not to do or say anything too awkward. “I’d like that. Kip.” 

Kip grins, a nice smile, wide enough to dimple his cheeks. Then he heads over to George, claps him on the shoulder, and the two of them make their way out of the bar. 

Scott watches them go. He cups his hands around a small flame, and urges it to burn. 

Chapter 3

Scott is hungover on Sunday, Saturday night having been spent out until way too late at a drag bar with friends, celebrating his friend Nick’s birthday. He is too far on the wrong side of thirty to do that many tequila shots, and so he spends most of Sunday tucked under the patchwork quilt and watching Homeland for the fourth or fifth time, desperately sucking down electrolytes and hoping he hadn’t done anything too stupid. He has vague memories of climbing onto a table, and he’d woken up with his shirt on backwards. There’s an unexplained straw cowboy hat hanging by the front door. Nick sends him a video file that he successfully avoids watching for almost the whole day, until he finally gives in around dinner time. Ah. It seems that the shirtlessness, the hat, and the table climbing were the same incident. He takes solace in the fact that, according to the video, he was not even close to the drunkest person there. 

By Monday he’s lost the queasy twist to his stomach and the greyish pallor of the hangover, but he is desperately in need of coffee. He takes the train to Manhattan, running late, no time to stop at Starbucks on the way in. When he pushes through the revolving glass door at the front of the building and sees that the new cafe is lit up and open for business, he sends up a quick thanks of prayer to whatever gods are watching over him and his lingering hangover. 

He approaches the front counter, which is unsurprisingly busy at this hour, with more staff pouring in through the doors and immediately joining the queue. He adjusts the strap of his satchel and looks at the neon sign hanging over the counter: Straw + Berry. God, these corporate cafes always have the worst fucking names. Bean & Gone. Daily Grind. This place seems to have an extensive smoothie menu up on the boards, which probably explains the berry thing. 

There’s a break in the crowd as an order is called. Scott looks at counter to see what the barista is like, praying to make good on his haircut-quality-to-coffee-quality theory. He gets a look at the guy who’s currently banging grounds out of a portafilter, one hand resting on the side of the espresso machine, forearm flexing. 

“Americano for Holly,” the barista calls, and the voice sounds a little familiar. He turns to place the lidded cup on the counter, and Scott sees him properly: it’s Kip. It’s serendipity. It’s divine providence, his brain supplies. It’s just Kip, he corrects. Kip wearing a tight black t-shirt, his muscular arms on display. Scott watches as he nudges a dark curl of hair off his forehead with the back of his hand and turns back to the espresso machine, grabbing a cloth and vigorously cleaning the steam wand, and that’s an image Scott does not need to transpose onto anything else right now. 

“Excuse me, are you in the line?” Scott turns and sees a short woman with huge headphones and a corporate goth suit standing behind him, looking expectant.

“Uh, no,” he says, flustered, turning away from the coffee counter. “Sorry.” 

He walks away from her, from Straw + Berry, his cheeks heating. He needs to get a grip. 

Upstairs, he ignores Janice’s teasing about his big weekend. 

“I tried to call you at like, ten o’clock in the morning yesterday, what do you mean you weren’t even awake?” She raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Probably because I’d only been home for six hours at that point.” He hits delete on a stack of mailing list junk emails that have gotten through his filters.

“Jesus, Scotty, you’re way too old to be out at four am. Unless you were doing a walk of shame?”

He flushes again. “Nope. No shameful walks here. I’m a respectable guy.”

She looks at him with an eyebrow quirked. 

“I am!” He holds up his hands. “You know me, my one night stand days are behind me.” 

“God, it sounds like you’re about to get revirginised,” she says. 

“I don’t think that’s actually a thing.” 

“Tell that to your reforming hymen.” 

“I don’t have a—you know what? I’m getting out of here.” He stands and pushes his desk chair in, then heads for the exit. “I need some fresh air, and desperately need caffeine.” 

“New place is open,” Janice calls at his retreating back. “And the barista is cute!”

It’s just after ten o’clock when he makes his way back downstairs to the lobby. The queue has mostly cleared from the cafe’s counter, and so he takes a second, squeezing his hands into fists at his sides and then relaxing them, trying to ease the nerves that have taken up residence in his stomach. 

It’s only coffee. It’s only Kip. 

Kip’s at the counter when Scott approaches. He’s alone, restocking the cardboard cups beside the espresso machine. The other employee seemingly has disappeared for a break while it’s quiet. He looks up when Scott gets closer, taking just a second to parse Scott’s face and place him, before breaking out into a big smile. 

“Hey,” Kip grins. “Coincidence, or you’re following me?” 

“Definitely just a coincidence,” Scott says, smiling back, trying to keep his body language casual. “I, uh, I work in this building. Level seventeen.” 

“I’m gonna have to see your access card,” Kip says, mouth folding into a mock serious little pout. 

Scott grabs the lanyard around his neck, leaning closer to the counter and holding it out. Kip takes it in his hands, turning the card over and looking at Scott’s ID photo. 

“Scott Hunter, D&H. Okay, I’ll believe it.” He peers up at Scott, still holding the card on its lanyard. It tugs against the back of Scott’s neck. “How’d you get such a good headshot? My student ID made me look like a war criminal.” 

“Um, good hair day, I guess,” Scott says, waiting for Kip to release the lanyard so he can lean back again. He’s aware of how they look right now: Scott tilting slightly over the counter, Kip’s head ducked to look at the ID. Too close. His heart thumps. Kip gently releases the card, and it swings back against Scott’s chest. He smiles, that big cheek-dimpling smile, and Scott smiles back. 

“So, what can I get for you?” Kip asks. “It’s before noon, so I can legally serve you a cappuccino.”

“What happens after midday?” 

“Oh, hordes of angry Italians. They’ll just, like, descend on the place. You don’t want to have to deal with that.” 

Scott laughs. “No, you’re right. But, yeah, a cappuccino would be great.” 

“I knew it,” Kip nods to himself. 

“Knew what?”

“That you needed a cappuccino.” He stops and looks at Scott, assessing. “You’re not necessarily a cappuccino guy. I’m guessing…americano. But today you need something a little sweet.” 

He turns to the espresso machine before Scott can properly parse his tone, if there was anything teasing there, any hint of innuendo. He can’t tell. He feels a little unsteady, in a very good way. He watches Kip make the coffee, heating the milk, pouring it into the takeaway cup, dusting it with chocolate. He snaps on a plastic lid, and then places the coffee in front of Scott with a flourish. 

“One cappuccino, as promised.” 

“Thank you,” Scott says. He takes the cup; feels its warmth. Kip rings up the till and Scott taps his card, then fishes a single out of his wallet for the tip jar. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Kip says, amused. 

“I really do,” Scott counters.

“Call it a Grady friend special.” He looks at Scott and bites his lip. 

Scott stuff the money in the tip jar anyway. Kip rolls his eyes, but it seems good natured. 

“I should probably get back to work,” Scott says, gesturing towards the elevators with the cup in his hand. 

“Well, thank you for dropping by,” Kip says. “It was nice to see you. We, um. We close up here at three o’clock, but I’m working again tomorrow.” 

“Oh,” Scott says, stupidly. “I mean, caffeine wears off pretty fast. I’ll probably need another one of these then.” 

“It’s for the best,” Kip nods.

Their eyes meet for a moment too long. 

“I’ll see you round, Kip,” Scott says. 

Kip gives him a little salute and then turns back to the espresso machine, cleaning it down. Scott scurries back to the elevator. He waits until the doors are closed before he tries the coffee. It’s good. 

He doesn’t really have much luck catching Kip at the cafe for the rest of the week. Tuesday he goes when the line’s too long, and Kip doesn’t have time to chat. Wednesday he works from home so he can be there for a delivery that’s arriving between the highly inconvenient hours of six in the morning and six at night. Thursday he goes down to the cafe after the morning rush. 

“And here I was thinking you’d abandoned me,” Kip says with a grin as Scott approaches the counter. 

Scott swallows. He knows when he’s being flirted with, even if it’s light, mild, plausibly deniable. 

“A caffeine addict would never,” he says. 

“You are not a caffeine addict,” Kip says. “The caffeine addict is the guy who comes down and orders a double macchiato on the hour, every hour. I think I actually need to cut him off, I don’t know how to do CPR.” 

Scott laughs, then orders his drink. He watches as Kip makes it again, appreciating the curve of his back, broad and muscular, under his shirt. He pays; he tips, ignoring Kip’s protests again. 

“Are you coming to the game tonight?” Scott asks, aiming for casual. 

“Sure am,” Kip says, his smile a thousand watts. “Someone’s gotta keep the old man company.” 

Scott’s gameplay is not his best tonight, because he keeps getting fucking distracted looking at the stands where Kip is sitting. He thinks he’s stealing glances, until Perez skates up to him at the end of second period and says, “Hunter, Jesus, just ask him out.” 

Scott startles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He picks at an invisible loose thread on his jersey, difficult to do in gloves, trying to avoid looking where he’d been caught staring. 

Perez outright laughs at him. “Yeah, sure. And I’m Sidney Crosby. What is it? You’re scared Big Georgie will kick your ass?” 

“No,” Scott mutters. 

“Well, you should be, if you fuck it up. Scotty, you’re a handsome dude. Just do it. Ask him.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Look,” Perez says, leaning on his stick. “If it makes it any easier, I’m pretty sure he’s been looking back.” 

Scott glances over at Kip again, for the hundredth time that night, keenly aware of his presence in the stands. Kip is looking at him, too. Scott lifts a hand in a small greeting. Kip returns it, hand up, palm out, the faintest wave of a hello across the ice. 

Scott’s so off his game that the Bladerunners actually lose. He lines up at centre ice for the post-game handshakes, his face burning, his stomach tying itself up into knots. He foregoes the bar tonight, claiming that he has to get home and catch up on some urgent work tasks that don’t actually exist. He ends up sitting on his couch, tucked in under the patchwork quilt, staring blindly at late-night TV, the studio audience laughing and the house band playing as Scott sits and considers his options. 

He does a little mental pro and con list. Pros: Kip is super hot, Kip seems to be somewhat interested in him, Kip is most likely into men, Kip is nice and age-appropriate and makes Scott laugh. Cons: potentially ruining his team dynamic if he read this wrong, and potentially losing his coffee source if he fucks this up. 

Some time around eleven he comes to the conclusion that he hasn’t read this wrong. That he won’t fuck this up. 

He really hates when Perez is right.

In the morning, he goes into the office. At half past ten he heads downstairs in the elevator to Straw + Berry in the lobby. Kip is there again, wearing a blue and white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans and smiling at Scott like he’s genuinely happy to see him. 

“Hey,” Kip says. “Post-game drinks weren’t the same without you last night. It should be illegal to have to take work home with you.” 

“It really should,” Scott says.

He lets the feel of it fizz up through his body and his brain, a little zip as Kip grins at him and turns to the espresso machine. Scott watches his back as he tamps the grounds and pulls the shot. 

Kip hands the coffee over. “Americano today, I believe. Right?” 

“Right,” Scott murmurs. “Thank you.” 

He pays, tips, and then holds the cup in his hands, loitering for just a second. Kip’s busying himself rearranging the milks lined up in the fridge under the counter. Scott takes a breath, then lets it out slowly. 

“Um, hey,” he begins, and Kip stands up from the fridge, wiping his hands on his apron. He looks expectantly at Scott. 

Just do it.

“Would you like to go out sometime?” His heart is hammering in his chest as he asks.

Kip stops for a second, assessing.   

“I mean,” Scott continues, cheeks flushing, “you’re probably sick of coffee, working here all day. But if you’re free this weekend, would you like to get coffee?”

“With you?” Kip leans his hip against the counter.

“Um, yeah.” Scott laugh softly, but his stomach twists, on tenterhooks. 

He looks into Kip’s dark eyes; he looks pleased, interested. 

“Okay. Give me your number. I’m free Sunday.” Kip grabs his phone out of his back pocket. 

And it starts just as easily as that.  

Chapter 4

Scott loves first dates, but he hasn’t been this nervous about one in a long time. His very first date, a very long time ago, had come maybe a little late in life. He’d skipped the awkward teenager chaperoned movie dates phase, given that his Catholic boarding school’s staff would not have looked kindly on him going out with another boy—and that would have been dependent on him ever finding the courage to ask another guy out in his tender years. From the time he’d started living in New York, he’d discovered the liberation of gay bars and the joy of being tall and built enough to never get asked for ID. He spent a good couple of years waist-deep in vodka sodas and going home with strangers, which was fun and freeing and exactly what he needed at that point in his life. 

It wasn’t until he was twenty-one that he slowed down a little and met someone he genuinely liked. Ian was a couple of years older, a paramedic who had taken Scott home and fucked him, but then had asked for his number and said are you going to Pride next weekend? And that was Scott’s first real date, overdressed in a t-shirt and jeans, goggle-eyed at the New York Pride parade, Ian holding his hand and then taking him to eat Dominican food and then pulling him through the door of an all-night rave in the Meat Packing District, laughing and joyful and everything Scott had never let himself be. They’d lasted a month, not-super-amicably breaking up when Ian met someone with whom he was apparently more compatible. 

A lifetime ago. 

His first date with Kip has a slightly different tenor to it. They trade text messages on Saturday to sort out the details. Scott suggests a cafe and wine bar in Jackson Heights; Kip chooses the time in the mid-afternoon. Half an hour before he’s supposed to be there, Scott is standing in front of his closet and sweating. He’s wearing nice jeans, is staring at two different sweaters (one soft mustard cable knit, one navy with small green and white spots that’s too tight but is nice) and having a minor meltdown. He really wants to make a good impression. 

He chooses the navy. He styles his hair and considers shaving but then decides to leave his beard short. No drastic decisions before a first date. He grabs his wallet and phone, double checks the time on his watch, and then slips into his wool blend pea coat. It’s still cold as balls outside today, and his breath fogs in the early January air as he steps out onto the sidewalk. 

It’s not a long walk to the cafe, and he gets there early, a handful of minutes before three o’clock. He grabs a table near the window, the sunlight weak through grey clouds doing its best to warm the wooden seats. The cafe’s heater is working overtime, and he shucks his coat and folds it over the back of the chair, and then sits and waits for Kip. He’s antsy, playing with the sugar packets, tapping them between his fingers. He resolutely doesn’t look at his phone, but sits with his butterflies instead. 

Just after three, he sees Kip come in through the doors. He’s wearing a navy duffle coat and a rust-coloured knit hat and he looks cute. Nervous, his eyes darting around, before softening with a smile with the catch on Scott sitting at the table. He makes his way over. 

“Hey, sorry I’m a little late,” Kip says, sliding into the seat opposite. He wrestles his arms out of his coat and slides his cap off, then runs a hand through his curly hair.

“You’re not late at all,” Scott assures him. 

“This place is great,” Kip says, looking around. “I’ve been here a few times before. A book reading from this local writer I wanted to see a few months ago. Oh, and the time my friend Shawn wanted to participate in an open mic poetry night.” 

He makes a face. 

“Yikes, huh?” Scott asks, laughing softly. 

“Big yikes. But, you know…” Kip snaps his fingers a few times. “He’s a braver man than I am.” 

“Oh, so you’re not going to get up and recite anything today?”

“God, please, no.” Kip says with emphasis. “I’m way more of a drunk karaoke mistakes guy than a public soul bearing mistakes guy.” 

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Scott says. “Go-to karaoke song?” 

Kip laughs. “It used to be Part of Your World from The Little Mermaid, but these days it’s gonna be Walking in Memphis nine times out of ten.” 

“Amazing,” Scott says. 

“What about you?”

“Oh, Thunder Road, for sure.” 

“Big Boss fan?” 

“It should be illegal not to love Springsteen.” 

Kip laughs again, and it’s easy, it’s so easy. Scott goes up to the counter and orders for them—lattes, and oat and cranberry cookies—and then heads back to the table. They talk for a little while waiting for the coffees to come: the easy chat of two people testing the waters, getting to know if the temperature suits them.

Once their drinks have arrived, Kip’s face turns a little serious, a little nervous. He stirs sugar into his cup, and then he places his hands flat on the table. He looks at Scott and takes a breath. 

“So, I like you,” he starts. “And I just want to be really up front. I’m trans. And I need to know if you’re really okay with that before I…before I keep liking you, I guess.”

Scott stops, his fingers resting on the warm ceramic of the mug in front of him. He looks at Kip, the resolute set of his eyes. This isn’t a test, but an invitation. Scott’s not completely naive, he has a few transgender friends, men and women. He’s not ignorant. He’s just never dated, or been with, a trans man before. He takes Kip in before him: just Kip, his dark brown eyes, the gentle set of his mouth, the curl of dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s not surprised by how much he wants him. Wants this. The promise of it, whatever it could be.  

“That’s not a problem,” Scott says, looking Kip in the eyes. “I like you, too.” 

 Kip visibly relaxes, lips curling into a smile. “Okay, cool.” 

“Tell me more about Boston,” Scott says, and Kip does. 

“I was there for a couple of years doing my masters in art history, I think I told you that already? It was great, it’s a very cool city, but it is fucking expensive. I was in this shared apartment with like, three roommates, it was pretty painful. But the harbour is so beautiful, and the museums are great, and the bars do good happy hours if you’re a poor and struggling student.” 

“I’ve never been,” Scott says, which seems crazy considering it’s relatively close. “Three roommates sounds tough.” 

“Yeah, but is it harder than moving back in with your parents in your late twenties?” Kip grimaces. 

“Surely you can claim mid-twenties, still.” 

“Nope, in a few weeks I’ll turn twenty-eight, and then it’s all over for me. Late twenties and my mom is still washing my clothes.” 

“No, okay, that is embarrassing.” Scott laughs. 

“Hey, I try and stop her, but she is persistent.” He pauses. “What about you, what’s your situation?” 

“I, uh, I do my own laundry,” Scott says. “I live here in Jackson Heights. I moved here when I was eighteen, I had no choice but to learn to use the in-unit washer-dryer.”

“Is that when you started playing with the team?” Kip asks. “Dad said you’ve been centre for the Bladerunners since he was still playing, which feels like a thousand years ago.” 

Scott laughs. “Ouch. No, I joined the team when I was twenty-two, so like, ten years ago.”

“Have you always been that good?” Kip asks, and Scott grimaces when he thinks of last game’s shit show of a performance when he was deep in his Kip-related distraction. “You’re like, very fast. Not aggressive, just super competent. The puck just goes where you want it to. It’s pretty hot, I’m not gonna lie.” 

Scott feels the flush creep over his cheeks. “Uh, thanks. I am pretty good, I guess. I trained a lot when I was younger. I think you maybe have some idea of that, I’m sure Big Georgie has told you.” 

“It will never not be strange hearing my dad referred to like that,” Kip laughs. “But yeah, he mentioned some stuff. You were really drafted to the NHL?” 

“I really was. First-round pick, fourth overall. I was good. Really good. I spent most of my life training, up until that point. It took me a while to want to skate again, though. After, um. After my professional career-that-wasn’t.” 

“I can’t believe it,” Kip says, his tone trying for light. “You’re telling me I could have been on this date right now with an NHL millionaire?” 

Scott barks a laugh that’s probably more bitter than he’d like. “Well, had I stayed in the NHL, I doubt I’d ever have found a way to be sitting here with a guy like you.”

Kip doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile at the half-joke, because the truth of it is obvious. “You really walked away from all that?” 

“Yep.” 

“Why? I mean, I can probably guess a couple of things, but…” 

Scott takes a breath. He hasn’t talked about this in a while. His ex-rookie status is public record, and some people know: the guys on the team, Janice, a couple of other friends. But he’s worked hard to create a life that’s distant from that past. It’s weird information about himself, and he feels like sometimes it paints him in a strange light. Who works that hard for that long and then just leaves it behind? But Kip is looking at him with gentle expectation, curiosity, no judgement. He finds that answering honestly is easy. 

“It became very apparent to me very quickly that I couldn’t be myself if I stayed in it. I went to a hockey-factory boarding school when I was a teenager. It was light on academics and heavy on ice time, and there was this really pervasive air of masculinity there. Dozens of young guys all vying to be the best, to get scouted, to have their shot. You had to comply, or it could get rough. I figured out that I was gay when I was fourteen. That left me with four years of policing myself, the things I said, the things I wanted. I poured everything into being the best at hockey so that I could get out of there and have the best future I could. I don’t know, I was young, and naive. I had this big idea that I’d get drafted and leave school and play hockey and find a boyfriend—my big, romantic dream. And that I’d be able to bring these two separate things I wanted together.” 

“What happened?” Kip asks, his hands still and flat on top of the table between them, posture neutral and calm. 

“Well, I got drafted, I signed my contract. I went to development camp, and day two some kid’s getting hazed, getting called a fag in the locker room, and I just…” He watches as Kip’s mouth twists sadly. “I’d been in New York for maybe two weeks before then, after school finished. I’d been riding the train around the city, just kind of killing time. And I’d seen this couple, these two guys, holding hands and kissing each other right there on the subway. No one said a thing, and these guys, they looked so fucking happy.” He shrugs, clears his throat. “Sorry, this is getting deep in the weeds. But I was eighteen. I just couldn’t do it to myself. I finished up the last day of development camp and then called my agent and had him get me out of there. And now I’m here, years later, much happier and out and loving my life and on a date with a guy I really like, and I’m trauma-dumping all over him.” 

Kip laughs at that. “You’re definitely not trauma-dumping. Thank you for trusting me with all of that. I guess it makes sense. You’re a cool guy, Scott Hunter.” 

Scott blushes again. “Uh, thanks?” 

“No, it is cool. I bet the league hated you for a bit there.” 

“Yeah, I was persona non grata for a while. Not that I wanted anything to do with hockey. But, you know. The siren song of the ice. She calls to me.” 

“But now you get to play because you love it,” Kip says, nodding slowly. 

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Because it makes me happy.” 

“What a novel idea.” 

“Sorry, that got super heavy,” Scott apologises again. “Can I lighten things up?”

Kip nods. “Go right ahead.” 

Scott takes a steadying breath and then drinks the last of his now-cold coffee. “Who’s your favourite Muppet?” he asks. “And if it isn’t Gonzo, why not?” 

Kip cackles. “I don’t know why, but that totally suits you.” 

They order second drinks. They stay for over two hours, talking. When they leave, Scott points north up 77th Street, buttoning his pea coat with his other hand. It’s getting dark, and the breeze is cold. “I’m up this way,” he says. 

Kip motions south with his head, curls trapped again under his knit hat. “I’m heading back to Elmhurst. This was nice, Scott. I had a really lovely time with you.” 

“So did I,” Scott says. He looks at Kip, standing with his hands in the pockets of his duffle coat, his worn Vans and slim-cut jeans. His eyes are bright and clear. Scott really wants to see him again. Scott really wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t want to presume. So instead he asks, “Can I call you? Can I take you out again?” 

Kip smiles, big bright wattage, straight teeth and dimples. “I’d like that,” he says. He leans close, stepping right into Scott’s space, and then leans up and kisses Scott on the cheek. His stubble rasps. He smells woodsy, smoky; vetiver and sandalwood. His lips are light on Scott’s skin, and then he’s pulling away, his cheeks pink. 

“I’ll see you round, then,” he says, and then laughs, shaking his head a little, incredulous and pleased. 

“Bye,” Scott says, cheek still tingling, and he watches Kip as he walks down the block and away. 

Chapter 5

On Monday morning, he stops by Straw + Berry on his way into the building, braving the morning rush just so he can see Kip again without having to wait. Kip’s on the espresso machine, a stack of lids with orders piling up on the counter next to him. Scott doesn’t want to bother him, but they manage a quick hello, all smiles. 

Upstairs in the office, he lasts approximately an hour before he mentions to Janice that he’d been on a date.

“I can’t believe you asked him out!” Janice is mildly outraged, turning her office chair to face Scott directly. “Dude! That is our one source of caffeine in the building that doesn’t come from a vending machine. It is—and I don’t say this lightly—better than Starbies and I will not be able to cope if you get me blacklisted by association if you fuck things up with Kip.” 

“Why are you assuming I’m going to fuck this up?” Scott protests, throwing his hands up. “Or that there even is something to fuck up?” 

“Because you came in here all starry-eyed and clutching a KeepCup and saying you had a really good weekend and I can only assume it has something to do with that barista downstairs because—and I’m sorry for having eyes—I have walked through the lobby with you multiple times last week, including Friday after lunch when he waved at you and you almost walked into a wall.” 

Scott crosses his arms and looks displeased. “Well, Jesus, Jessica Fletcher, I didn’t know you were on the case.” 

“An Angela Lansbury reference? You really are the gayest person in this office,” Janice grins at him sweetly. 

“Aren’t you married to a woman?” Scott counters.

“My friend, I’ve been eating pussy exclusively since ninth grade and I’m still somehow less gay than you.” 

He blows her a kiss, which she returns with an obnoxiously loud smacking sound. Then she kicks a caster on his chair to get his attention as he turns back to his computer. 

“Hey,” she says, when he turns back to her with an eyebrow raised. “I’m happy for you, buddy. He’s a hot potato.” 

Scott grimaces. “Hot potato?”

“Look, I don’t know how to comment on men’s bodies. Sorry.” 

He laughs, and turns back to his desk. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated on my love life.”

“You always do, Scotty. You always do. And, if you end up with some sort of lovers’ discount down there, you can go and get my coffee for me.” 

He snorts. “Sure, Janice.” 

“That’s my boy.” 

After work, he takes the train home and changes into activewear, slips on a puffer jacket and heads to the gym two blocks over. He does his usual: lat pulls, bicep curls, weighted squats, kettlebells, chest press, and a punishing ten minutes on the cable cross machine. He jogs home afterwards, going the long way round, his gym towel and water bottle bouncing in his backpack. It’s cold, his breath steaming in the dark air, his hair sweating lightly under his knit hat.

He gets home and showers, then settles on the couch with sweatpants and a bowl of pasta puttanesca: leftover sauce, fresh noodles. He pulls his phone out and opens his message thread with Kip. There’s not a lot there, just them organising yesterday’s coffee date. He wants to text, but he doesn’t know exactly what to say, not wanting to come across as desperate. Even though he’s, like, desperately into Kip. What he wants to say is Can you come over right now and we can make out like teenagers? He reins it in. He’s done the casual hookup thing before—many, many times—and it’s not what he wants now. Maybe it’s because he’s getting older, or maybe it’s just Kip, but something tells him to slow it down. Do it properly.

He picks up his phone again and sends a message.

Scott: Hey! Just to reiterate, I had a really nice time with you yesterday. Are you free this week to do something?  

Very restrained. He’s almost proud of himself. The reply takes a little while to come. He flicks through Netflix while he waits, hitting play on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. 

Kip: i would love that. thursday is out, you’ve got important captain duties. i’m free wednesday night?

He holds the phone tight in his hand, feeling it warm against his skin. He balanced his pasta bowl in his lap as he texts back. 

Scott: Anything in particular you’d like to do?

Kip: surprise me. i want scott hunter’s second date special. let me see what you’ve got. 

Scott: I can absolutely do that. Let me plan, I’ll message you the details tomorrow?

Kip: perfect. what are you up to tonight? i’m curious

Scott sends back a photo of the pasta bowl and the Netflix menu. 

Kip: ah, excellent. equally as exciting here

He receives a photo of Big Georgie in his recliner, pointing and shouting at the television. 

Kip: go islanders! 

Scott: What’s the score?

Kip: 3-1 to pittsburgh lol

Scott: Yikes. Sorry Georgie. 

On Wednesday night, Scott meets Kip at a bowling alley in Elmhurst at 7 o’clock. He stands in the cold for a couple of minutes while he waits for Kip to arrive. 

“Second date special, huh?” Kip says when he turns up, looking up at the signage painted on white brick. “You know, I haven’t been here since I was a kid.” 

“It almost certainly hasn’t changed,” Scott says. “I don’t think it’s changed since the seventies.” 

“A minor miracle. They do burgers here still?”

“You know it.” 

He takes Kip’s hand and pulls him inside. It’s nice, having another hand in his. Kip’s palm is dry and broad, his grip firm. Inside, the bowling alley is an absolute dream: hard plastic seating and CRT screens with the scores, fluorescent lights and a diner window stacked with red plastic baskets with checkered wax paper. Not a black light or a disco ball in sight. 

They get a lane without waiting. It’s pretty quiet, save for a few lanes that are taken up by teams in matching bowling shirts, all chatting together as they play. 

“I think it’s league night,” Scott says. “That means we have to not suck too badly at this, or we’ll be judged by all these people who actually know what they’re doing.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Kip says, sitting to untie his shoelaces. “Some of us are perfectly proficient bowlers.” 

“Oh no, have I actually set myself up to get absolutely bulldozed?” 

Kip smirks at him. “Depends. Are you into that?” 

Scott feels his face heat. “I guess you’ll have to find out.” 

He sees Kip’s eyes darken, just a fraction, before he breaks out in a laugh. 

“All right, Hunter. Show me what you’ve got.” 

What Scott has, it turns out, is a whole lot of nothing. He’s strong, he works out, he plays sport regularly and has fantastic hand-eye coordination and core strength and all of those great attributes but the one thing he absolutely has never been able to do is bowl well. He can hold it together, but it becomes clear very quickly that he has no chance of winning at all. 

“Is this fun for you?” Kip says, turning around after he’s knocked the pins down in another spare in the fifth frame. “Like, are you a secret masochist?” 

“I just learned a long time ago that it’s not about the score, it’s about having a good time with friends, Kip.” 

He’s aiming for mock-sanctimonious but it falls short, because he really is doing terribly and it’s ridiculous. 

“Maybe if I don’t watch you bowl the next frame,” Kip says. “Take the pressure off. You want a beer?” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

By the time Kip comes back, Scott has managed to knock down three pins and is now receiving a lecture on arm placement from an old man with a thick Italian accent. 

“Aim for these arrows, just here, you see them?” The man has Scott by the elbow and is pointing to the lane markings. 

“I see them,” Scott says. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” 

“Try again,” the man says. 

Scott looks back and sees Kip trying not to laugh. He bowls, following the advice. He knocks down the remaining pins—spare. 

“There you go!” Kip says, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Is easy,” the old man says. “You get it now.” 

“Nonno!” A woman rushes over, grasping the old man’s hand. She smiles apologetically at Scott and Kip. “Leave these gentlemen alone.” 

“It’s really not a problem,” Scott says as she tugs him away. 

“No, sorry if he bothered you. He just really loves bowling.” She nods at the wall of plaques behind them celebrating perfect 300 games. “I’ll get him out of your hair.” 

 Kip hands Scott his beer. “I can’t believe you were so bad at this that you summoned an actual bowling ghost to improve your form.” 

“He’s not a ghost,” Scott points out.

“Sure, you think that now. Just wait til we go to leave and see his picture behind the counter. In loving memory, it’ll say.” 

“Just take your turn,” Scott says, squeezing Kip’s shoulder playfully. 

“I heard he was actually buried here, right under lane twelve.” Kip bowls a strike, just to rub it in. 

It’s fun. Scott is, as he suspected, thoroughly bulldozed, but it’s nice. They get the little print-out of their scores, and he watches as Kip folds it up and tucks it into his back pocket. 

“Oh man, I’m going to hang onto this. You lost so badly.” 

“Sore winner is a good look on you,” Scott says. 

“Everything’s a good look on me,” Kip grins. “What’s my prize?” 

Scott swallows. He can see the chance, and he wants to take it. “What do you want?”

Kip stills, and then steps slowly into Scott’s space. He looks up at Scott through his lashes, biting his lip just a little. “I think it’s only fair,” he says, slow and deliberate, “that I get to kiss you now.” 

“So that’s the going rate for a bowling win these days.” Scott smiles. 

“Take it up with the markets,” Kip says. “Can I kiss you?” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, easy as that. He ducks his head as Kip tilts his face up, hand coming to rest at the side of Scott’s neck. Kip smells like vetiver and sandalwood again, and his lips, when Scott meets them, are soft and warm. The kiss is fairly chaste, just a gentle press of their lips together, but it zips through Scott like a rogue electric current. He places a hand at Kip’s waist and tilts his head; Kip gets the message and adjusts his mouth, kissing him again, drawing it out a little. It’s so fucking nice. 

They break apart, smiling shyly. 

“Now,” Kip says. “I believe there was talk of burgers before I destroy you again in another game.” 

“Oh, you want to go again?” Scott asks, his fingers still pressing into Kip’s firm waist. 

“What? It’s only fair that I give you a chance to get your dignity back.” 

Scott does not regain his dignity, but he does get another kiss for his suffering. It’s just as soft and sweet as the first, leaving him tingling. They depart from the bowling alley just after nine; the temperature has dropped, and Scott winds his scarf around his neck against the chill. 

“So I don’t live too far from here, actually,” Kip says, looking around at the quiet street. He’s pulling his knit hat down over his curls again, his duffle coat buttoned high. “If you want to walk me home?” 

“I can do that,” Scott says. 

The walk isn’t far, but it is cold, and they keep their hands jammed in their pockets as they go. 

“You’ve lived here your whole life?” Scott asks. 

“Sure have. My parents bought their place here just after they got married in the early ‘80s. I went to school just around the corner. I have slept in the same bedroom since I was one.” 

“It must be nice, knowing a place like this.”

“It is, actually. Did you move around a lot when you were growing up?”

“No, I was born in Rochester, in west New York, and I lived there until I was twelve. Then after—uh, this is not a second date conversation, but my parents passed away when I was twelve.”

Kip doesn’t falter beside him, but Scott feels his hand come out and slide around his elbow, just lightly holding on. 

“So after that, I went to boarding school in Utica. And then I told you about moving here. So not, like, a crazy amount of places, but enough.” 

“That must have been hard. I’m sorry.” Kip squeezes his forearm.

“It was, but it’s not hard now” Scott says, but there’s not much more to say, not tonight.

Kip gracefully changes the subject, talking about the gentrification of the neighbourhood he’s seen over the years. 

“I never thought I’d see the day we had hot yoga in Elmhurst, but here we are. Hey, this is me.” 

They’ve come to a modest two-storey brick home on a dark, quiet street. There’s a light on in the front window, although the curtains are drawn. Kip stops at the bottom of the stairs. Scott steps in close, his fingers finding the edge of Kip’s coat, right where the buttons meet. 

“Are you angling for a good night kiss, then?” Kip asks, voice playful light. 

“God, I’m hoping,” Scott laughs softly. 

Then Kip’s fingers are wrapping around the back of his neck, tugging him down, and easy as that they’re kissing again, and it’s different this time to the bowling alley, there’s more want in the way their mouths come together. Scott’s hand comes up to cup Kip’s jaw, his other hand on the small of Kip’s back, pulling them closer together. The kiss tastes lightly of beer from the longnecks they’d had during their second game. Kip parts his lips with a sigh and Scott tilts his head and their mouths meet open now, kissing deeper, Scott slipping his tongue into Kip’s mouth a little and being rewarded with a soft, pleased noise. And it’s so good, so good, Kip’s fingers twisting in the hair by the nape of his neck, Scott’s hand fanned along Kip’s cheek, stroking the soft skin just behind his ear. They lose track of themselves in the heat of it, the soft, slow motion of their mouths together, and Scott doesn’t want this to end, could keep kissing Kip probably forever, Kip angling his head and sliding his tongue to meet Scott’s own, the sensation going right to Scott’s groin, and he kisses Kip harder, nipping at his bottom lip, guiding his head back further for leverage; Kip parts his lips wider now, and then sucks Scott’s tongue into his own mouth, and Scott groans, and—

The loud sound of a pointedly cleared throat interrupts them. They look toward the front door of the house where Big Georgie stands, the porch light on now, spilling light down the stairs to where they’re caught like guilty teenagers. 

“Evening, boys,” Georgie says, but his voice holds the tenor of a joke. “It’s pretty cold out there. You wanna come in for some hot cocoa, Hunter?” 

He’s looking at Scott with something a little guarded in his expression. Not disapproval, not exactly, but there’s a caution there. Kip sighs beside him, his hands dropping away from Scott. He feels the cold crowd in immediately. 

“Leave it, Dad,” Kip says. “We’re just saying good night.” 

“That’s right,” Scott manages, his face burning. “Uh, good night, Kip.” 

He looks at Kip, who is caught between laughing and looking apologetic. “Good night, Scott. I’ll call you, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Scott says. He takes a step back. “And, uh, good night, Georgie.” 

“Get home safe, Hunter,” Big Georgie says. 

Kip reaches out and pats Scott’s shoulder consolingly. “I’ll call you. I had fun.” And then he bounds up the stairs, ducking past Big Georgie and into the warm light of the house. 

George looks at Scott, a gaze that says I’m watching you, before he nods and heads inside, closing the door behind him. Scott tightens his scarf around his neck, pats his burning cheeks with the cold of his fingers, and heads back into the dark, the sidewalk leading him north, back towards home. 

Chapter 6

Kip is true to his word, and does call Scott the next morning as he’s approaching the office building. 

“I’m so sorry about my dad,” he laughs. “God, what a trip. Like being sixteen again. If I’d been making out with incredibly hot men at sixteen. Which I certainly was not.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Scott replies, adjusting the strap on his satchel. “I thought he was going to murder me with his eyes.” 

“No, no! We talked, it’s fine. He’s a little protective, but I think that’s because he’s had to clean up more than his fair share of my emotional messes.” 

“He’s a good dad.” 

“He is. You can expect a shovel talk at your earliest convenience.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Scott says, smiling. He notices the lack of background noise on the other end of the line. “You’re not working today?” 

“No, I have an appointment. Sorry to miss you!” 

Scott feels a slight pang of disappointment. “Will I see you at the rink tonight?”

Kip laughs. “I do not need to be in the same room as you and my dad after he busted us making out. But I’ll make it up to you. Are you free Saturday?” 

Warmth blooms. “Yeah, I can be free. Dinner? There’s a Greek place near me that’s obscenely good.” 

“That sounds perfect. And I’ll make you a coffee tomorrow. I can even forget to put it through the till for you.” 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Stealing from my minimum wage job is a small price to pay in exchange for the best kiss I’ve ever had.” 

“God, flattery will get you everywhere.” There’s a hot twist in Scott’s stomach, thinking about the kiss they’d shared, the feel of Kip’s tongue against his. Shit, he needs to pull it together. 

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Kip replies. “I’ll let you go. Send me details for Saturday.” 

After the game that night, Scott is sweating his way into the locker room, a little adrenaline twisting its way through his stomach. Big Georgie had been fine at the game, but Scott can guess it’s probably coming as soon as they’re in the bar. He takes his time showering and getting dressed, stowing his sweat-laden gear and towel in his wet bag, putting the guards on his skates. He loads everything into the trunk of his car before he heads over the road to meet up with the rest of his team. 

Ahern corners him at the bar as he’s ordering a beer. 

“Man, is it just me or is Big Georgie fixing to shoot lasers at you from his eyes?” 

“Oh god,” Scott groans.

Unfortunately for Scott, Ahern is smarter than he looks. “Ohhh, I see. Uh-huh. How is Kip, then?” 

“He’s good,” Scott says, regretting that he’s probably radiant at the thought alone. 

“Get right with your in-laws, Scotty. Best decision I ever made.” He claps Scott on the shoulder. 

“Yeah yeah,” Scott rolls his eyes. 

It doesn’t take long for Scott to be summoned. Big Georgie is at the bar alone when he catches Scott’s eye and motions for him to come over. Scott exhales and goes to face the firing squad. 

“Scott,” George opens. “Nice to see you on my stoop last night.” 

“God, I’m sorry, Georgie,” Scott apologises, and he does mean it. “Probably not the best look for me.” 

“I don’t care how you look, I care how you act. You treat him right.” It’s not a question. George picks up the beer that’s resting in front of him on the bar top and takes a drink, his eyes not leaving Scott’s own. 

“I like him,” Scott says. “A lot. I’m not going to jerk him around.” 

“I don’t like assuming the worst of people, but I know what hockey guys are like. I should, I used to be one.” Big Georgie grimaces, and Scott laughs, even though his heart is pounding.

“I’m ready for the shovel talk, Georgie.” 

Big Georgie grunts. “This isn’t a shovel talk. Anyone hurts my kid, a shovel won’t dig far enough for how deep down I’ll bury them.” 

“Ah. An excavator talk, then.” 

“Something like that.” George sips his beer again, eyeballing Scott over the glass. Then his demeanour changes. He claps Scott on the shoulder. “Okay, then! Can I buy you a beer? I wanna talk about that goal in third period.” 

On Saturday night he meets Kip at a small Greek restaurant a few blocks from his place, and he watches as Kip houses a distressing amount of dolmades and gigantes plaki and chicken souvlaki. 

“I just went to the gym,” he laughs around a mouthful of pita. “Stop looking at me like I’m a monster.” 

“Oh no, go ahead, I’m just impressed.” He watches Kip load a little more food onto his plate. 

“Have you ever been to Greece?” Kip asks. 

“No, never. You?” 

“I’ve never even left the States. Mom and Dad talk sometimes about taking a trip to Ireland to see their long-lost second cousins once removed. My sister’s travelled a bit, but that’s because she and her husband are both doctors and have no kids and way too much disposable income.” 

“I don’t know much about your sister. What’s she do?”

“Megan’s a haematologist. She lives in Maine.” 

“Jeez, smart family.” 

Kip shrugs. “I kind of want to do my PhD on the sole basis that I’ll also get to call myself ‘Dr Grady’ at the end of it. She’s going to hate that.” 

“It’s as good a reason as any.” Scott grabs more pita bread and scrapes it through the remaining tzatziki on his plate. 

“Have you travelled much?” Kip asks. 

“A bit. I like road trips. And I’ve been to Mexico, and to Paris. Canada doesn’t count.” 

“God, Paris is my dream. I had to learn French for my masters study—do not quiz me on that, I really don’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.” 

“I wouldn’t even be able to tell,” Scott says. “My French knowledge doesn’t extend much past the lyrics to Lady Marmalade.” 

Kip nods sagely. “A good place to start.” 

They chat more, eat more. It’s so easy with Kip, he has this infectious sort of energy, talking with his hands, gesturing expansively across the table. 

“What’s their baklava situation?” Kip asks as a waitress clears their plates. 

They get dessert to go. Scott pays the check and then they’re back on the street, Kip slinging his duffle coat back on. 

“What now?” Kip asks. “You wanna go catch a movie or something? I know you just said dinner, but I kinda want to keep hanging out, if you’re cool to do that.” 

Scott feels very far from cool as he says, “Do you want to go for a drive? My car’s not far from here. I know a nice spot.” 

“Oh my god,” Kip breaks out into a wide smile. “Do you want to go parking with me?” 

Scott flushes, then tries to save face. “No! I mean, yes, obviously, but I do just mean a place with a nice view of the city. If you want.”  

“That depends,” Kip says, tapping his chin. “What kind of car do you drive?” 

“It’s just a Prius—” Scott starts.

“I’m kidding, I seriously do not care. Get me in your back seat, Hunter. Let’s go.” 

When they get to Scott’s car, Kip sits in the passenger seat, buckling in. 

“It’s just a half hour or so, depending on traffic,” Scott says. 

“Where are we going?” Kip asks. 

Scott plugs in his phone and opens his music player, picking out an album of Springsteen’s greatest hits. He presses play. 

“How do you feel about Jersey?” 

Kip puts a hand on Scott’s knee. “I love New Jersey,” he deadpans.  

Scott laughs, and he puts the heater on and they toss their coats into the back seat. They drive across the expressway, then cut through Manhattan in the dark, the streets still busy but traffic flowing without too much trouble. Scott navigates onto the Lincoln Tunnel and takes the exit for Weehawken. It’s almost half past ten by the time they get to Hamilton Park. A miraculous street park is open on JFK Boulevard, and he noses the Prius in to a stop. 

Kip looks past Scott out of the window. “Wow, it’s so beautiful.” 

It’s dark, the cold outside the car sitting heavy like a blanket, keeping most foot traffic to a minimum. Across the Hudson River, Manhattan glows like gemstones set in a crown, reflecting light off the water. 

“Do you want to hop out and have a closer look?” Scott asks. 

Kip is busy warming his fingertips on the car heater. “Are you kidding? It’s like twenty-five degrees out there. This is more than fine.” 

They sit for a while, taking in the view. 

“I always forget how big New York is,” Scott says. 

“Upstate country boy likes to come and get dazzled by the city lights?” Kip teases. 

“Hey. Rochester is West New York, thank you.” 

Kip makes a face. 

“God, you city kids,” Scott laughs. 

“Pretend all you want, I know you really wish you were as cool as us.” 

“I’ve got time to prove myself,” Scott says, leaning in closer. 

“Oh yeah?” Kip says softly, his eyes dropping down to Scott’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Scott breathes, and Kip leans closer, and then they’re kissing again, and it’s just as good as last time—better, even, because it’s quieter, and they’re alone, and the car is warm, Springsteen playing softly in the background. Scott unbuckles his seatbelt and hears Kip do the same, and then they turn closer together, moving into each other’s space across the centre console, Kip’s hand on Scott’s knee, Scott’s hands on Kip’s face, holding him, trying to get closer. After a few minutes the kiss gets wilder, a little hungrier, and Kip makes a frustrated noise before pushing up and leaning, throwing a leg over the armrest and settling in Scott’s lap. Scott’s hands rest at Kip’s waist, fingers in the soft knit of Kip’s sweater. Kip’s a strong and steady weight on top of him, hands gripping Scott’s shoulders, tongue licking into Scott’s mouth. Fuck, he’s so hot, but it’s ridiculous in here, they’re two grown men squeezed into this cramped space. Kip’s ass bumps the steering wheel and the horn blasts, and they laugh into each other’s mouths. Scott fumbles for the lever to adjust the seat and then they tip back a bit, creating more space for Kip to settle properly into Scott’s lap. 

“Smooth,” Kip laughs, then gets his hands back into Scott’s collar, his lips on Scott’s neck, kissing hot along the side of his throat and up along his jaw, back to his mouth. 

The stereo plays. The lights of the city glow constant. The clock has ticked over past eleven, and they’re still pressed together. Scott is so turned on he thinks he might actually come in his boxers just from the feel of Kip’s mouth on his own, Kip’s tongue teasing his, Kip’s hands on his chest, skimming lower to toy with the hem of his sweater, fingertips ducking under a little, electric against his bare skin. God, he wants this. Kip adjusts in his lap and rocks down against him, pressing against Scott’s hard-on through two layers of denim, and Scott groans, sitting up a bit to kiss Kip harder. Kip rolls his hips again, biting at Scott’s lip, and then again, hands sliding up Scott’s stomach. They’re fogging the windows, but couldn’t possibly care. Scott’s panting low, and Kip keeps grinding down against him, small rolls of his hips, and soft moans are falling from his mouth now and right into Scott’s own, followed by a sharp and quiet “oh, god, Scott,” that sets his blood to boiling. Scott gets a hand around to Kip’s lower back, feels the roll of his body, slides his hand down the back of Kip’s jeans, to the flex of muscle. Kip whimpers, ducks his face against Scott’s neck, grinds his hips down again, and Scott clenches his teeth, desperate and wanting and so fucking turned on—

“Wait, stop, stop,” Kip says, “Hang on, fuck.” 

He sits back and closes his eyes, taking a second to breathe, his chest heaving, his cheeks pink in the soft light coming through the window. Scott just waits, his hands on Kips’ thighs. 

“We should probably talk,” Kip says, and it’s the furthest thing from Scott’s mind right now, when all he wants is for Kip to keep making noises like that, hot and eager in his lap, but he presses it down. They have time. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, let’s talk.”

Kip slides back into the passenger seat. Scott tugs his sweater down, covering himself. Kip reaches across the console and takes Scott’s hand, linking their fingers together. The touch is grounding; nice to have after the abrupt end to proceedings. Scott squeezes Kip’s hand as Kip lets out a long, shuddering breath. 

“God, I was really gonna just go for it there,” Kip laughs. “You’re so incredibly hot, I was just…Okay. Talking. Have you ever been with a trans guy before?” 

“No, I haven’t,” Scott says. “Is that a problem?”

“I hope not. You’re like, gay, right?”

“I, uh, thought that was obvious.” 

“Sorry,” Kip bites his lip. “I’m not expressing myself properly. Okay. I’m super into you, clearly. And I think that feeling is mutual right now.” 

“Extremely mutual.” Scott squeezes Kip’s hand again. 

“I’ve tried dating a cis gay guy before,” Kip starts, and it takes Scott a second to parse it but then he realises, oh. “I really liked him, it was…whatever. A while ago. But he freaked out at my…at the way my body was different to his. It really hurt, and he tried to be cool about it but I could just tell. It sucked. I did not, um, feel good about that. So I’ve been kind of steering clear of that situation since then.” 

Scott doesn’t like fighting, not even on the ice, but he would fight that guy in a heartbeat. 

“If you want to slow things down, that’s fine by me,” Scott says. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, just take your time. I really like you, Kip.” 

Kip gives a wry smile. “Part of me is torn because that’ll just make it worse if you don’t like all of me.” 

Scott can’t imagine a world in which he doesn’t. 

“So the other men you’ve been with have been…bi?” he asks.

“The serious ones, yeah. Bi, or pan, or trans like me. There’s less explaining. I’m not…I don’t want to be someone’s mental gymnastics coach every time we fuck.” 

Scott smiles and rubs his thumb over Kip’s knuckles. He waits. He listens, feeling the importance of it.

“I really like you,” Kip says, looking into Scott’s eyes. “But I also really love who I am, and I have a…a good relationship with my body. I love sex but it’s maybe different from what you’re used to, and I just. I don’t want to fuck this up.” 

“You couldn’t possibly,” Scott says. “I am so fucking into you, you have no idea.” 

He sees Kip smile, small and soft but real. 

“Let’s slow it down,” Scott says, and he means it. “When you’re ready.” 

Kip nods. “Okay. Thank you. Patience is a virtue, you know. So if you still want it, when we’re ready, I’ll be so happy to fuck your brains out.” 

Scott groans and flops back on the seat. “If you don’t actually kill me beforehand by saying things like that, then I’m looking forward to it.” 

Kip laughs, and then leans over and kisses him again, just once, his lips a pleased curve pressed against Scott’s own. 

Scott isn’t stupid, but he will be the first to admit that there are gaps in his knowledge. He spends the first part of Sunday morning jerking off in bed, thinking about Kip’s hands on his skin and mouth on his neck, because he is only human. Later, after lunch, he sits on his couch, feet tucked under the blanket again, scrolling through Reddit forums to try and address some of the things he should know more about. He reads widely, a cup of filter coffee going cold on the table, trying to absorb what he can. There are some posts from people like him who are dating trans men and want to do the right thing. Most of the advice in response to this is obvious, to just ask your partner, but he doesn’t want to put the emotional labour (thank you, Janice, for that lesson) onto Kip to teach him everything. He internalises a new vocabulary, makes notes on the Keep app on his phone. He doesn’t even know what parts of the conversations he’s reading are applicable, but there are themes. Approaches that he knows he can do because he was raised right and because this is important. Kindness, patience, curiosity, affirmation. He can do this. He’s excited to do this, because it’s Kip. Kip with his warm hands and his sexy laugh and his bright eyes, blithe and funny and interesting and exactly Scott’s type. He reads and he learns and the words bounce around in his head, over and over: it’s worth it; he’s worth it; don’t waste this.

Chapter 7

What follows is six wonderful weeks of courtship. Scott has not taken things slow with a man before, not ever. It’s actually really nice, once he gets a grip on how constantly horny he is. Kip drives him wild with a single look, a fact which seems to amuse Kip no end. He’s not being a tease, the promise of more is there, but he clues in pretty fast to Scott’s daily jerk-off sessions and seems deeply pleased, sometimes leaning in and hooking his fingers into Scott’s belt loops and saying how good Scott’s being, which creates a feedback loop of arousal that keeps Scott’s showers long at night. 

They spend a lot of time together, going out three or four times a week. Scott stops by Straw + Berry every morning that Kip is there, even bringing Janice down once after she’d berated him over Teams with a string of gifs that increased in threat and intensity. 

“I’m not afraid to commit a HR violation, Scotty. Now bring me down there and introduce me to your boyfriend,” she’d said. 

In truth, he and Kip haven’t discussed labels, haven’t put a name on what they are. They’re dating, and it’s exclusive, but it’s still so early in the piece that he doesn’t want to pre-empt anything. He knows what he’d like, though. He wants everyone to know that Kip is his. Not in a creepy way. The hickey he’d left high on Kip’s throat one night during a late screening of Her is kinda scratching that itch for now. 

He takes Janice with him down to the lobby to placate her, and she spends ten minutes being very charming to Kip, and very mean to Scott. They head back up in the elevator, Janice holding a stack of free cookies that Kip had just given her, apparently—a benefit not even Scott has received. She sits back at her desk and pointedly gives him none of the cookies, puts her feet up and declares, “I approve. You may continue to date him.” 

“Geez, thanks, I was really hanging out for your approval there, thank god I don’t have to break up with him now,” Scott grumbles, but he’s secretly pleased. Even if he needs to work on that free cookie situation. 

He starts to bring things to Kip, like he’s some sort of plumaged bird making courtship offerings. It’s a compulsion. They’re just small things. One afternoon there’s a girl selling enamel pins in the subway. He sees one of a cat flipping the bird with its paws, and for some reason he thinks Kip will really like it. He’s right, and Kip pins it onto his apron the next morning at the cafe, saying that even if head office came by—which they don’t—and gave a shit—which they won’t—he’d wear it anyway, because it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. He brings Kip his copy of a book he finishes, because he’d found the denouement incredible and wants to see if Kip likes it, too. He sees a postcard at a bodega with the Manhattan skyline on it, the same night view from Weehawken that they’d seen in the car that time, and he buys it. He writes on the back, Because I think we forgot to actually look and gives it to Kip one evening after work when they’re having dinner in a Korean place, Kip pausing in his crusade to eat his weight in kimchi to take the postcard in both hands, and then look at Scott with so much tenderness it makes Scott’s knees feel weak. 

They do this a fair bit over the ensuing weeks: Kip killing time in the city, sometimes at the library, which isn’t too far from Scott’s office, until Scott wraps up work and comes to find him. They hold hands and walk around in the cold night air, or sometimes get a drink, or stay out and find somewhere to go for dinner, taking turns to pay the bill, their feet touching under the table. Sometimes they catch a movie, Kip preferring retrospectives at this small independent cinema in Astoria. They sit together in the dark, Scott’s arm around Kip’s shoulder, Kip’s hand on Scott’s knee, and watch Jaws and Paris is Burning and Casablanca. They make out through almost all of a Mean Girls tenth anniversary screening, hands under each other’s shirts, Kip’s thumb brushing over Scott’s nipple in a way that feels way too dangerous for a public place, Scott’s fingers carding through Kip’s chest hair—and isn’t that an exciting thought. Afterwards they always take the train home together, kissing each other goodbye when Scott gets off first at Jackson Heights. 

They make out a lot. In movie theatres and parks and bars and the back seat of an Uber, on the subway and in the city, and on the steps of the New York Public Library. In the parking lot of Superior Ice Rink while the rest of the team is at the bar over the road, walking in to Perez’s knowing look that has Scott’s cheeks burning. Among the stacks of a second-hand bookstore in The Village, and in a quiet exhibition hall at The Met. Outside Kip’s house again another time when Scott walks him home, having been assured that Big Georgie is out. It’s compulsive, like they simply cannot stop, and Scott has dreams at night about the rasp of Kip’s stubble against his chin, his throat. Scott likes Kip in contacts when his brown eyes are clear and bright, but he loves Kip in glasses that get knocked askew from the force of their kisses. 

They take walks in Flushing Meadows, and go to the Queens Museum, and kiss under the bare branches of the cherry trees, Kip backing Scott up against the bark, hands at his waist and legs slotted together. They make plans to come back in the spring and see the blossoms. This is what they wait for: a future bloom, a flourish of love that’s unfurling up ahead. 

It’s not just all shared meals and long make-outs in public. It’s also conversations, dozens of them, long and meandering, pointed and exploratory, full of laughter and lightheartedness but also touching on serious and real. Kip tells him about Boston, about his ex there, about his thesis and his research and how his advisor has emailed him a few times about going back to do his PhD. He tells Scott about growing up in Queens, about his family dynamic, about his mom’s best recipes, how she’s ready to retire from teaching; about Big Georgie’s record collection and the twist of fate and twisted ankle had stopped his dad from being in Manhattan, on his sanitation route in the Financial District, on 11 September 2001. Scott talks about the NHL draft, the culture, the machine of it, and how grateful he is to be out. He tells Kip about hockey, explaining the rules using salt and pepper shakers at a diner one morning where they’re having breakfast. He talks about his parents, just a little, and then a little more one night in the same cafe where they had their first date, drinking red wine and listening to a frankly awful jazz trio on the small stage towards the back of the bar. They talk about books and movies and TV shows and art, about the stupid mistakes they made in their early twenties, about the horrible time they both had in high school, for varied-but-not-so-dissimilar reasons. They talk about heartbreaks, first crushes; the first man Scott had ever kissed at age eighteen in a Chelsea gay bar’s bathroom; Kip’s cheating ex that left his dad looking askance at anyone else Kip brings home. They build a foundation below them, between them.   

Kip’s birthday comes in late January, and Scott skips out of post-game beers to take him out to a Spanish wine bar in his neighbourhood, one with small tables with electric tea light candles, dark wood and dim lighting. They have tapas and drink tempranillo and hold hands, and the waiter brings Kip a crema catalana with a candle in it because Scott called ahead, and Kip’s eyes get all watery and he feeds Scott half the dessert from a shared spoon, and it’s cute, it’s probably too cute if any of their friends heard about it—Scott can only imagine the teasing he’d get from Janice if she knew—but it’s also perfect. They kiss outside the restaurant, half-tucked into an alleyway, and Kip’s mouth tastes like caramel and red wine. He presses his face into Scott’s neck and breathes him in. 

“I’m having the best birthday I’ve had in a long time. Almost as good as when I turned ten and spent the day at Coney Island and didn’t throw up even once.” 

Scott laughs and noses behind Kip’s ear, kissing softly down the side of his neck, thumbs brushing Kip’s waist. 

Kip sighs against him and says, “I’m having a hard time making good decisions right now,” as he slides his hands down the back of Scott’s jeans and sucks at Scott’s rapid pulse where it flutters in his neck. 

And Scott, because they’ve had half a bottle of wine each, caresses the side of Kip’s face and bites his bottom lip and says, “Me, too. My god, I want you. Soon. When we’re both thinking a little more clearly.” 

Kip whines but pulls his hands away and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Fuck. Okay.”  

They have the safe sex talk anyway, getting it out of the way for when the time comes. Yes, they’ve been tested recently. No, there’s nothing to worry about. It just kind of serves to make Scott hornier, which is ultimately unhelpful but the expectation is sweet. 

That Saturday Kip calls Scott and says, “My friends are doing this birthday thing for me tonight at this bar in the East Village. Do you want to come and maybe meet them?”

“Absolutely,” Scott says. “I’ll be there.” 

Kip pauses a second on the other end of the line. “I’d like to introduce you to them as my boyfriend. Would that be okay?” 

Scott’s never said yes to anything faster in his life. 

The party starts late, the bar sticky-floored and cosy, the walls are covered in band posters and pride stickers. Scott meets Kip’s friends, about twenty of them in all: friends from college, from the community, from Kip’s barista job when he was doing his undergraduate study, a couple from high school that Scott feels it’s important to impress. While Kip is dragged off to the dance floor, Scott’s held back by a woman called Elena who frankly gives off the air of a terrifying bodyguard, and he’s subject to a minor interrogation before being waved off with a blessing. He joins Kip on the dance floor and they don’t leave each other’s sides for the rest of the night. 

A week later, Scott organises dinner with his oldest friends, Nick and Drew, at their usual Vietnamese place, telling them there’s someone he’d like them to meet. They sit down at the restaurant, the four of them, and Scott says, “Guys, this is my boyfriend, Kip,” and it feels so right. Kip charms them easily, talking at length with Nick about his graphic design job, and matching Drew’s encyclopaedic knowledge of Survivor by getting into a heated conversation about last year’s fall season, seemingly on the same side of the argument. His friends take turns telling embarrassing stories about when they first met Scott—at community college and at a regular gay bar cheap drinks special Scott used go to when he was much younger. Kip laughs at their anecdotes and asks good questions and is so affable, and it’s so easy, easier than it’s every been with a boyfriend before. Nick messages Scott the next morning, saying: It’s nice to see you so happy, Scotty.

By mid-February Scott is pretty sure he’s developing some serious feelings. He keeps it close to his chest, because it’s too soon, but he pulls the thought out in quiet moments and examines it, its facets and its sheen and its warmth, before stowing it carefully away again. 

In late February, Scott meets Kip after work one Friday, and they get a drink in a quiet bar. Kip fills Scott in about the new girl at the cafe who had to go home halfway through the morning rush because she’d burned herself on the steam wand; Scott asks Kip about his weekend plans, and if they maybe want to go see this art show of painted skateboard decks that Nick was telling him about. They hang out for a while and then go get dinner at a wood-fired pizza place, where Scott eats all Kip’s olives without having to be asked, because he just knows now. After dinner they walk a few blocks, the weather slowly having started to become more manageable; Kip’s knit hat now stowed in his pocket. On a wide city sidewalk on a less busy cross-street they stop and kiss for a while, and Scott’s so happy he feels as though he could burst. They take the train back to Queens together, as is their habit by now. 

And then, and then, and then. As they approach Scott’s stop in Jackson Heights, Kip twists his fingers in the sleeve of Scott’s pea coat, tugs him down to murmur, finally, softly, hopefully: “Take me home with you tonight.”  

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

When Scott opens the door to his apartment, his hands are practically shaking. He manages to get his keys into the lock, and then swings the door open, gesturing for Kip to enter. They hang their coats in the hall, leave their shoes by the door.

“Oh, your place is great,” Kip says as he steps into the living room, taking in the bookshelves and the houseplants and the comfortable couch. “I think I’ve been either at home or in a shared apartment for so long that I’d forgotten how functional adults with their own space can actually live.”

“Yeah, I like it here,” Scott says, watching Kip bend to look closer at part of Scott’s book collection on the wall beside the television. “I’ve been here since I was eighteen. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” 

“Sometimes I look at the twin bed in my childhood home and think the same thing, but then I realise that’s just desperation talking.” 

Scott laughs, then rubs the back of his neck. “Do you want something to drink?” 

Kip straightens up. “A glass of water would be great.” 

They sip from their water glasses in the kitchen, Kip leaning against the countertop with his hip. He smiles at Scott, and then puts his glass down. “I don’t know why I feel so nervous,” he says. “It’s just you. You’re great.” 

“We don’t have to do anything,” Scott says. “We can just watch a movie, or I can make tea, and then I’ll drive you home later. There’s no pressure.” 

He means it, although his heart is pounding and has been since they got off the train. Kip finishes his water and Scott takes his glass, turning to put them in the sink. When he turns back, Kip is closer, in his space, leaning into him, and he backs up a little against the sink, letting Kip get hands onto his hips. 

“I don’t want to watch a movie,” Kip says. He leans in and kisses Scott’s neck lightly, then his jaw, then his cheek. “I want to take you to bed.” 

“Fuck, okay,” Scott says, and then turns and catches Kip’s mouth with his own. The kiss is heated from the start, Scott’s hands finding Kip’s waist, Kip gripping onto Scott’s shoulders and letting himself be walked backwards. Scott steers them to the bedroom, their lips not parting, Kip’s breath shuddering into Scott’s mouth. He’s nervous, and Scott wants him not to be. 

“You’re in charge,” he says as they pull apart, Kip’s hands already working under the hem of Scott’s sweater. “Whatever you want, okay?” 

“What I want is for you to be wearing significantly less clothes,” Kip says, and so Scott obliges, letting his sweater be pulled over his head, kissing Kip again as fingers trace down the buttons of his shirt, slipping it open. He tugs it off and drops it on the floor, feels Kip’s fingers on his bare arms, shoulders, pecs. 

“God, you’re incredible,” Kip says, pulling back to look at him. 

“I want to see you, too,” Scott says. “Is that okay?” 

Kip nods, and then leans back to pull off his sweater and t-shirt, Scott’s hands steady at his waist. He’s muscled, his arms and chest built enough that he’s kind of putting Scott to shame here. His chest is covered in dark hair, and Scott wants to bury his face in it. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, hands sliding to Kip’s back, feeling the ripple of muscle under his palms, the warmth and softness of skin against his own when he pulls Kip in close enough to kiss again. They stay like that for a while, hands roaming in the low light of the bedroom lamps, building comfort in this new space, this new way of being together. The kiss kicks up a notch, Kip’s tongue swiping into Scott’s mouth, sliding along his own in a slick glide, making him moan. 

“Pants off,” Kip says, fingers at Scott’s belt, and Scott is happy to oblige, and then he’s standing there in his boxers, Kip’s fingers trailing over his hard-on through the fabric, hissing out breath and biting his lip and resisting the urge to push into Kip’s hand. He’ll wait. He’s not driving tonight. Kip ducks his head and kisses across Scott’s chest, sucks a nipple into his mouth, and Scott lets out a pleased moan. He goes to return the favour, runs his hands over Kip’s chest, drags his thumbs across Kip’s nipples. 

Kip raises his head and looks at Scott, his eyes dark with want and also a slight uncertainty that Scott wants to drive out. “I’m not so sensitive there,” Kip says. 

“Okay,” Scott says, sliding his hands to Kip’s sides. “Show me where you like to be touched.” 

Kip smiles, then taps behind his ear. “Here.” 

Scott goes, lips trailing over the soft skin, kissing gently over to the point of Kip’s jaw. 

“And here,” Kip says, trailing a finger down the side of his neck. Scott follows it with his mouth, tasting the salt of Kip’s skin, sucking lightly where his pulse races, biting softly where his neck meets the muscle of his shoulder. 

“My wrists,” Kip says, and Scott picks up one hand, kissing over the veins and tendons at the joint, trailing his lips up the pale skin of Kip’s forearm and then back down, switching to the other arm, hearing breath hitching. 

Scott kisses Kip’s mouth again, wraps his arms around him so firmly, tells him with his body that he’s got this; they’ve got this.

“Where else?” he asks. 

Kip pulls Scott’s hands to the button of his jeans. Scott works it open, then the fly, and then pulls the denim down Kip’s thighs. He’s wearing black boxers, the bulge unmistakeable, but Scott doesn’t touch him, not yet. He kneels at Kip’s feet, working his jeans over his ankles and off, then urges Kip to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“My inner thighs,” Kip says, and Scott goes, strokes the skin, dusted with dark hair, just with his fingertips, and then his palms, then leans in and kisses up the inside of Kip’s thighs to where his boxers end, one and the other. Kip sighs and leans back on one elbow, his other hand cupping Scott’s cheek. Scott leans his head against Kip’s leg and their eyes meet, both dark with desire, the want electric between them. 

“Anywhere else you’d like me to touch you?” Scott asks, low in the quiet of the room. 

Kip pauses, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. “My dick feels good if you touch me there, too.” He shimmies off the boxers and they land on the floor with a dull sound, and Scott realises the bulge he’d seen before was a packer, because here is Kip, beautiful and bare. He’s smaller than Scott’s used to, maybe just a couple of inches and slim, but still gorgeous, framed in neatly trimmed dark hair. 

“Can I?” Scott asks. 

“Yes,” Kip breathes. 

He takes Kip in his mouth, and the geometry of it is new but the desire is not—the joy of pleasuring a man, the feel of him against his tongue, the sounds that Kip makes, throaty moans that cut straight to the core of him. This is what he loves. This is what he wants. It’s been a long time since sex has been novel, and even here it’s not, not really—the parts that matter are familiar, are perfect. 

It takes him a minute to get it right, Kip holding his head still and saying, “Like this,” and then rolling his hips to thrust against Scott’s tongue. He strokes his thumbs over Kip’s inner thighs and takes it, takes as much of it as Kip will give him. Eventually the hands fall away from his head as Kip drops back against the mattress, and Scott parts Kip’s thighs further and shoulders between them, attends to him with his lips. The demands are different to blowjobs he’s given before, and he follows instructions gratefully. “Slow down,” Kip says, and he does, easing the speed of his mouth. “Use your tongue,” Kip tells him, so he eases off with his lips, works the underside of Kip’s dick with his tongue, goes softer, slower, when directed. Kip’s so wet, slick and slippery and smells like sex incarnate, and Scott moans around the dick in his mouth, Kip’s fingers finding his hair again, tugging and holding him, saying, “Keep going, like that, fuck, like that, Scott—” and so he does, lets Kip hold him still while he works his tongue and Kip’s moaning louder now, legs shaking under Scott’s hands, so he keeps going, and going, until Kip cries out, thighs clamping around Scott’s head as he comes.

He pulls back and then crawls onto the bed where Kip lies with one forearm thrown over his eyes. “You have no right being that good at that,” Kip says, and then laughs. He peers at Scott from under his arm. “God, can I return the favour?”

“Absolutely,” Scott says.

Scott loses his boxers to Kip’s grasping hands, and then he’s being pushed back against the mattress and Kip’s hot mouth is engulfing his cock. He wants it to last, his hands cradling the back of Kip’s head, their eyes meeting as Kip looks up at him, mouth full, and Scott moans, head dropping back. He grips the bedspread as Kip curls his tongue and sucks, bobs his head and pulls back to lick around the head, then takes him deeper again, one hand working his shaft. He’s so fucking turned on, and they’ve waited so long, and he holds out for another minute, moaning and panting and taking what Kip gives him, until he gasps out, “I’m gonna come, Kip, gonna come,” and Kip holds his hips down and sucks him deep and swallows as Scott shoots hot and endless down his throat, teeth gritted and Kip’s name groaned towards the ceiling. 

He takes a second to breathe, and then sits up, sees Kip wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, chest flushed and dick still hard, pupils dilated. Scott leans over and pushes Kip back against the sheets, licks the taste of himself out of Kip’s mouth, and then asks, “Can I touch you again?” Kip moans assent against his lips and Scott reaches down between Kip’s legs and grasps his dick gently, rubs his thumb along the underside. Kip arches his back, gasps and lets out a keening moan, and Scott kisses his neck. 

“Fuck, Scott, I want, I want…” Kip murmurs, breathing heavy again now, and Scott will give him anything, says as much into the stubble of his cheek. “Suck me off again, please, please,” Kip breathes. And so he kisses down Kip’s body, down his stomach and his hips, and then takes his dick into his mouth again, gentle and slow like before, and Kip’s panting now, ribs flaring. He sits up, says, “Wait, wait, I want—” and then takes one of Scott’s hands from where it rests on Kip’s thigh, guides two fingers to where he’s warm and slick and soft inside, and tells him what to do. “Just in a little, yes, curl your finger, aim up a bit, yes, there, there, fuck—” Scott tongues at his dick and closes his lips around him and sucks softly, and again it’s different but it’s not, the desire unchanged, being inside this man, pleasuring him. 

He keeps going, his fingers curled and pressing fast inside, Kip’s body tensing beneath him, hips jerking up to ride against his face. He curls his tongue and lets Kip fuck his mouth, and Kip’s moaning loud again, “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” and he comes again, and this time Scott feels it, a rush of wet and warmth against his chin, his hand, his neck. He closes his eyes as arousal spirals dizzying through him again, chokes out, “Oh fuck, oh my god,” his spent cock twitching between his own legs. 

Kip’s sitting up on the bed, gasping, catching his breath, then wriggling back and saying, “Oh my god, I’m sorry, that doesn’t usually happen, I should have warned you.” Scott sits back on his heels, and wipes his chin, his chest. He looks at Kip, eyes dark, and then crawls over to him on the bed. 

“That was so fucking hot,” he says, voice low and meaning it. “You are fucking incredible.” He tugs Kip into his arms and holds him close, and there they stay, catching their breath, wrapped in one another atop Scott’s clean, white, waiting sheets. 

Afterwards, once they’ve shared a shower and have put clean boxers on and are cuddled together under the blankets, they talk. Kip’s wearing his glasses again, contacts abandoned for the night. 

“I really should have warned you,” Kip says again. “Some guys on T get really dry, and that happened to me for a bit, but it can also go the other way, and…Anyway, I think I just got pretty, um, carried away.” 

Scott snorts out a small laugh. “Please don’t apologise. I, um, I like it when…you can come all over me. If you want. Whenever you want.” 

Kip tucks his face into Scott’s neck. “You liked that, huh?” 

“Fuck yes,” Scott says. “I liked everything about what we just did. How was it for you?” 

“Obviously great.” He can hear Kip’s eye roll. 

“What else do you like?” Scott asks. 

“Lots of things,” Kip says. “I don’t really like being penetrated, though, except for while getting head. I usually top, but I…did not bring my cock with me to work in the city today, believe it or not.” 

Scott smiles, and then kisses Kip again, because it feels right.

“Does that work for you?” Kip asks. “If we do this again?”

“If? I would like to do this again, as soon as possible. I really, really like you. And yes, that works for me, I love bottoming.” 

“I guess I shouldn’t make assumptions,” Kip says, running his hands over Scott’s shoulders, over the breadth and the muscle of him. And then he asks, “Next time, can I fuck you?”

“God, yes,” Scott smiles. 

“Good.” Kip smiles back. “Seems like we’re meant to be.”

They lie for a moment, heads resting on neighbouring pillows, Scott watching the curve of Kip’s eyebrow and the flutter of his lashes. 

“Do you want me to drive you home?” he asks, although Kip leaving is the last thing he wants. “Or you can stay, if you’d like. I’d like that.” 

“Yeah?” Kip grins. “I’d like that, too. Just let me message dad so he doesn’t send out the search team.” 

He grabs his phone from the bedside table and shoots off a quick message to Big Georgie, which Scott sees. Staying at Scott’s. Be home tomorrow. Love you. The phone buzzes with a thumbs up reply, and then Kip locks the screen and puts his phone away. 

“Have you got a spare charger? I’m on like, fourteen percent battery.” 

“Just use mine,” Scott says, and then adds it to the delightful list of things that now grows in his mind—spare charger, spare toothbrush, contact lens solution. Small practicalities adding up to the dream: Kip, here, warm in his bed, spooned along his back as they sleep. 

Chapter End Notes

It’s 2026 so it probably does need to be said, but: All bodies, including trans bodies, are different. All people, including trans people, use different vocabulary for their anatomy. All people, including trans people, have different preferences for the kind of sex they enjoy. This is by no means a definitive representation of a monolithic human experience, because such a thing does not exist.

Chapter 9

They learn each other. Kip stays over a lot, and the small collection of practicalities grows to include a drawer with underwear and a couple of changes of clothes, a paperback on the nightstand, a sketchbook on the coffee table. There’s now contact lens solution in the bathroom, and a second bowl in the drying rack more mornings than not, and oat milk that’s taken up residence in his fridge. 

Some practicalities are more aesthetic and more fun, like the new sage green blanket folded across the foot of the bed. 

“What’s this? You’ve been redecorating,” Kip says one Saturday evening in early March, dropping by Scott’s to meet him before they head to a reservation at the Greek restaurant they’re starting to think of as their place. 

Scott steps into Kip’s space, hands coming out to hold him at the waist, to pull their bodies flush. “This is a waterproof blanket,” Scott says, tugging Kip down onto the mattress with him. “And now I’m going to make you come so hard you forget your own name.” 

They miss dinner. 

Kip’s harness and strap also take up residence in the drawer Scott willingly handed over, beside the underwear and t-shirts. 

“I’d prefer you never put it away,” Scott tries to joke but just comes off as desperately horny, “I just want you fucking me all the time.” 

And Kip says, “Let’s see what we can do,” as he drags Scott down into the sheets. 

The first time Kip wears it, he emerges from the bathroom with the black straps of the harness running around his waist and the backs of his thighs, his cock jutting proud and pink-tipped, and Scott doesn’t wait or even ask, he just falls to his knees and crawls closer, kissing up Kip’s thighs and sucking the silicone between his lips. The taste and the feel of it in his mouth is superseded by the flutter of Kip’s eyelids, the way he gets his hand in Scott’s hair and twists, thumbs over the hinge of Scott’s jaw and says, “That’s it, baby, suck my cock.” Scott thinks he might just die right there from sheer arousal. Maybe they shouldn’t have waited this long, Scott’s about to combust. 

Kip is strong, and muscular, crawling onto the bed like a panther on top of Scott, kissing down his neck and across his chest, pushing his thighs apart and stroking over his rim with lubed fingers. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t have to, Scott already breathing heavily and moaning, “Please, touch me, fuck, I need you, yes,” Kip breaching him with one finger at first, kissing Scott’s stomach and biting at his inner thighs as he waits for him to relax. Soon, he’s got three fingers deep inside, sucking on the crown of Scott’s cock as he adjusts his wrist and curls his digits and Scott jolts and moans loud and low. Kip pulls his mouth away and grins, a filthy and feral little grin, and circles his fingers on Scott’s prostate again, pressing with intent, Scott panting and his hard-on jerking and leaking and he could come just like this, he knows he can, but he wants that cock in him like yesterday. 

At the urging of Kip’s hands, he turns onto his knees and elbows, holding himself up. “Easier for the first time,” Kip says, kissing along Scott’s lower spine. “Later I’ll fuck you any way you want. Or any way I want.” Scott whimpers and Kip pushes the head of his cock inside, and Scott groans, head dropping, and Kip breathes and says, “Is that what you want? For me to fuck you every way, everywhere, that I can think of?” Scott’s cock is drooling precome onto the sheets at the idea of it, and he doesn’t know why he didn’t think Kip would be so dominant, but it pushes every single button he has, so he just nods and moans, “Uh-huh, yes, please, Kip,” just strings of nonsense on a theme as Kip starts to thrust inside him. Kip keeps up the dirty talk, the list of place he wants to bend Scott over and claim him—the hood of the car, the back of the couch, across the bed, the kitchen counter—nailing the right spot inside until Scott’s writhing, moaning, and Kip is panting from the effort, hands on Scott’s hips, pulling him back onto that cock again and again. He reaches for Scott’s hard-on but Scott pushes his hand away, says, “Like this, please, god, let me come on your cock.” 

Kip makes a strangled noise and then fucks him harder, slower, grinding at just the right angle and Scott lets loose a cry of pleasure, heat building between his legs. Kip’s moaning, too, fingers sinking into the flesh of Scott’s hips, undoubtedly bruising, still fucking him right, slow and perfect and not stopping, nonstop, can’t stop, oh god, as Scott comes hands-free over the bedspread, his brain shorting out. He flops into the mess and then rolls onto his back, turns to look at Kip who’s still watching him with dark eyes, neck and chest mottled pink from pleasure and effort, and Scott crawls to him again, fuck-drunk and slurring “I wanna suck your dick,” the term heated and correctly phrased because it gets him what he wants. Kip undoes the harness and pulls it away and Scott buries his face between Kip’s legs, tasting lube and the wetness of Kip’s own body, until Kip’s hands are in his hair and holding him still as he fucks Scott’s face, dick hard on his tongue, until Kip’s fingers grip tighter and his core shakes and his moans reach a fever pitch and he comes, bent double over where Scott rests on hands and knees, a supplicant at prayer. 

Afterwards, because he’s curious, he asks to see it, and Kip shows him where the strap attaches to the harness, where it joins with Kip’s body, the hollow where he slides his dick to grind against the silicone while he thrusts. 

“Can you come like this?” Scott asks. 

“Sometimes,” Kip says. “You make me want to.” 

It’s intimate and sexy and Scott runs his fingers over the cock, and then over Kip’s stomach and up his ribs and to his shoulders where he pulls Kip to kiss him, wet and dirty and open-mouthed and almost enough to get him ready for another round. 

And so it goes. 

They learn each other’s rhythms, and limits, and goals for intimacy and being together beyond the pursuit of orgasm. Kip doesn’t come every time, and that’s fine because he still assures Scott that he had a good time, that “Watching you writhe on the end of my cock and come all over yourself was everything I needed.” Scott finds the sex sometimes becomes less about orgasm and more about pleasure, about being together and being intimate and yes, sometimes coming their brains out, but also sometimes just about touching each other, taking Kip inside him, being on his knees for Kip. It’s a reorientation of desire, intimacy, I want to make you feel good without a finish line in sight. When Kip wants more Scott gives it, with his hand or his tongue or both, whatever is requested of him until Kip is crying out and soaking the blankets. And other times it’s goes differently, Scott strung out on Kip’s cock, chasing down a second orgasm at Kip’s bidding, knees folded up against his chest, ceding to this other man’s demands of his body because that is where the pleasure comes from today, that is what brings them closer. 

This particular Friday in April sees them together in bed in the early spring morning light. Scott is barely covered by the sheet, knees up and parted. Kip’s mouth is attached to Scott’s nipple, sucking lightly, grazing with his teeth. Kip’s fingers are in Scott’s ass, teasing him softly, stroking him inside. It’s slow and gentle and quiet but for the soft moans Scott is biting back. He’s hard, right on the edge of aching, has been since he woke up and Kip decided this was what they needed this morning. 

“Do you really have to go to work?” Kip mumbles against his sternum. “Just stay here and let me fuck you all day.” 

He accompanies this with a press of his fingers that has Scott’s eyes rolling back in his head. 

“That is…a very tempting idea. But don’t make me talk about the report I need to finish today while I’m about to come.” 

Kip laughs softly and lowers his mouth to Scott’s cock and works his fingers and Scott doesn’t think it’s been like this with anyone, ever before. He’s never been this crazy for someone, never felt so right and so easy that it feels like he’s tapped into some cheat code for life. 

Afterwards, they clean up in the bathroom, moving around each other to brush their teeth and wash their faces in a practised choreography. 

“Do you still want to go to that record sale tonight?” Scott asks, rolling on deodorant. 

“Yeah, I can meet you there at like, six-thirty? I’m helping dad out with some spring cleaning today, I’ll be desperate to get out of the house.” Kip adjusts his glasses as he finger-combs his curls in the mirror. 

“Sounds good,” Scott says. He catches Kip’s eyes as in the mirror, standing behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. He rests his chin on Kip’s shoulder. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked this happy before. 

Scott doesn’t hear from Kip for the rest of the morning, which is a little unusual, given that he’s usually getting hourly memes or updates or occasional selfies from the cafe during quiet times, usually accompanied by a quick bored, come visit? 

At around 3 he gets a message. 

Kip: hey not feeling super great, can we reschedule? 

He texts back that it’s fine, of course, and checks if Kip needs anything. 

Kip: no i just feel shitty. mom’s away and dad will be out with friends tonight so i’ll comfort myself with leftovers and bad tv

He lets it go, but it kind of chews away at him a bit. He doesn’t like the idea of Kip being sick and alone and having to fend for himself. Just before four, Janice sends him home. 

“Get out of here, seriously, your knee-jiggling is going to cause structural damage to the building,” she says, leaning an elbow on her desk and mock-glaring at him. “It’s Friday afternoon anyway, take the hour.” 

He heads home on the train, stopping off at grocery store on his way back to the apartment. The drive to Kip’s place will be negligible. He wants to do something to help. He stands at the stove and makes soup: chicken broth, vegetables, rice, lemon, basil. He boxes it up in Tupperware and wraps it in a dish towel, and then stops a moment and wonders if he’s being too much. If he’s being weird. And then he wonders what he’d like someone to do for him if he were alone and sick. And so he grabs his keys, his wallet, and his phone, grasps the overwarm container in its blueberry-print dish towel, and heads down to the car. 

Kip opens the door wearing sweatpants and black Henley and his glasses, looking very surprised to see Scott. Surprised but a little pleased. He doesn’t look too sick, maybe just tired and a little wan. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Scott holds the container up. “I brought you soup.” 

Kip smiles at him fondly. “Ah, Jesus. Come in, then.” 

Scott’s never been in Kip’s house. It’s comfortable, lived in. The carpet has seen better days and the kitchen door jamb has scratched and scrawled height markers over the years: proof of thriving life for the Grady children. The kitchen itself, when he follows Kip in, looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1980s, all Formica and wood grain cabinets. It’s a lived-in home. A family home. Scott loves it immediately. 

Kip’s kind of quiet as he puts the soup into bowls and leads Scott to the couch in the living room. The TV is showing an episode of Frasier. There’s a crocheted blanket pooled on the couch, like someone—Kip, probably—just got out from under it. He slips back into the spot and pulls the blanket over his knees and then pats the space next to him for Scott to come and sit. They eat, and Kip asks about Scott’s day, and then tells him about his progress with George on their project to clear out the attic. Kip’s still not giving Scott a lot to work with, and he wonders, selfishly and anxiously, if it’s something he’s done. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks, putting his bowl down on the floor. 

Kip pushes up his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. “Not really,” he says. “I was just gonna let it go, it’s temporary, whatever. I’m just having a shitty day.” 

“Oh. Do you want to talk about it?” 

Kip picks at a tufted thread on the blanket. He looks at the TV, the light glancing off his glasses. On screen, Niles runs around with a cockatoo on his head. 

“I got a text from my doctor today,” he starts, and then looks at the expression on Scott’s face and says, “I’m fine, don’t worry. It was a reminder that I’m due to go and get a pap smear next month, and that didn’t make me feel great.” 

Scott’s at a loss. “A pap smear?” He hadn’t even considered. 

“A cervical screening,” Kip explains. “I have to do it every four years or so, everyone with a cervix does. It’s a standard exam, but I don’t like…” He stops and picks at the blanket again. “There’s no self-collection, so I have to go to the clinic, and it’s a women’s heath clinic, and there are all these posters on the walls about pregnancy and IUDs and menopause and it’s… There’s a gender-affirming clinic in the city but they don’t accept my shitty work insurance, so…It makes me feel super dysphoric, and so I just wanted to be sad and alone on my couch. I probably should have told you, you didn’t need to make me soup and come all the way over here.” 

“I probably would have done it anyway,” Scott says. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Kip pulls his knees up and turns, tucking his toes under Scott’s thigh. “No. I am glad you’re here, by the way. And I’ll be okay, just…brain doesn’t want to play ball right now.” 

“No brain power required for my sake.” 

Kip smiles, a little lopsided and small. He puts the volume up on the TV and then leans into Scott’s side a little. Scott puts an arm around his shoulders. They sit like that for a while, Scott’s thumb brushing soft on Kip’s arm, the TV ticking over. Scott asks what it feels like, wanting to understand. Kip talks about the pit in his stomach, the itch of the wrongness, the anxiety that creeps up on him; the bell jar where everything fogs and he cannot bring himself to inhabit his own physicality. He says it’s hard to explain and Scott doesn’t know if he ever will properly understand it, and he certainly doesn’t have any answers, but he listens and knows that that’s all he can do. Scott kisses the side of Kip’s head. Kip sighs, long and low, the tension of his shoulders easing just a little. 

“I’ve got nowhere to be, if you want to hang out,” Scott says. 

Kip presses his face into the crook of Scott’s neck, breathing him in. “Okay, I’d like that,” he says quietly. “Want to catch up on Survivor?” 

They watch TV for a while and then switch over to a movie. They’re halfway through Goodfellas, cuddled on the couch together, Scott’s fingers carding through Kip’s curls, when the front door open and closes again, and Big Georgie is walking into the room. 

“Hey, Kipper. Scotty. What are we watching?” 

Big Georgie kicks off his boots and settles into his recliner. He doesn’t seem surprised to see Scott here. Maybe he should have been here sooner, more often. He makes a mental note to see if he can invite himself over for dinner soon. Family dinner in this family home. They’ve been seeing each other for three months now. He wants this; all of this. The Kip that exists in all these places. 

Big Georgie says good night as the credits start to roll, the stairs creaking underfoot as he makes his way up to bed. 

“What time is it?” Kip asks from where he’s warm and solid against Scott’s chest. 

Scott checks his watch. “Eleven-thirty-ish.”

“Hmm, it’s late.” He sounds tired, drifting off. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Scott asks, rubbing Kip’s back in slow circles. 

“No way you’re gonna fit in my embarrassing twin bed.” 

“I can go, it’s okay.” 

“No, hang out for a bit longer. Put on Forensic Files.” 

Scott reaches for the remote and queues it up. Kip makes it through ten minutes before he’s asleep, snoring softly on Scott’s chest. Scott stays up for a while longer, thinking. It feels important that he’s here tonight. No sex, not even a kiss, just comfort, just togetherness when Kip needed it. The emotional catching back up to the physical again. It feels good to have been here. To have helped, or comforted, even in some small way. He thinks of his own grey days—October, when the anniversary of his parents’ passing creeps up on him with sharpened teeth. The fuzz and the fog, the ache and the absence. The long drive to Rochester to visit their graves. He listens to the soft rumble of Kip breathing against him and he thinks that maybe this year he won’t have to do it alone. That they can be these things for each other, too, when they need it: a strength, a buttress, a hand grasping in the dark. 

At some point he falls asleep. He wakes with the first bluish light of dawn, a crick in his neck and Kip still in his arms. He looks down at this man and his beautiful face in repose; sees past it to the beautiful everything that hums and ticks inside. And here, in this house in Elmhurst, everything quiet at the breaching of the day, he sees that he’s fallen in love. 

Chapter 10

In early May, it breaks containment. Scott is officially invited to family dinner at the Grady house, and after stressing about what to wear and how to do his hair he turns up twenty minutes early out of sheer nerves. He’s dragged inside and put to work in the kitchen by Margaret, in charge of shucking corn and watching a boiling pot of water on the stove. Heavy work. Kip watches in amusement from where he leans against the countertop. Big Georgie comes in and fiddles with something in the oven, and then grabs two longnecks out of the fridge, offering one to Scott and the other to Kip. Scott can tell that Margaret wants to pepper him with questions, the full third degree, but she’s remarkably restrained until they sit down to eat: roast chicken and potatoes, vegetables and gravy. Kip tugs Scott into a seat next to his own, and then shuffles their chairs a little closer together. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Scott,” Margaret says, adding more potatoes onto his plate in a distressingly high pile. “I’ve heard a lot about you from George over the years. And of course now from Kip. I’m so glad you could make it.” 

“I’m very glad to be here,” Scott tells her, and then smiles as he feels Kip’s hand on his thigh. 

The questions are considered and polite: about Scott’s work, his neighbourhood, the hockey team.

“It’s so funny,” she says. “When Kip was a little boy he used to hate hockey—something about the smell of George’s gear bag—”

“Mom, come on,” Kip cuts in, embarrassed.

“No, it’s true!” Margaret says. “He wouldn’t have been seen dead in the rink, let alone dating a hockey player. And look at you now.” She pats Kip’s hand. 

The conversation meanders between the inquisitive and the mundane, Margaret reminding Georgie about a niece’s upcoming birthday, Georgie and Kip complaining together about the start to the Mets’ season. Big Georgie and Scott chat strategy for the next beer league season, and he’s surprised when Margaret has opinions on the team’s lines; he’s never had a partner be really interested in hockey like that before. Kip comes to a fair amount of their games, cheering from the stands when Scott scores a goal, and even that has been new and amazing. Scott soaks it in. He realises, a little sadly, that it’s been years since he’s had a family dinner like this. It’s familiar but not; a half-remembered refrain that echoes as it settles in his chest. Overall it is good, a comfort more than anything else. 

Margaret sends them home with leftovers packed into tupperware and loaded into a canvas tote bag. She and Georgie refer to Scott and Kip as you boys: “What are you boys doing after dinner tonight?”, “Do you boys have plans for the summer?”, “We love having both you boys here, really. Bring him round again soon, Kip.” It makes him feel young, silly and infatuated and happy. 

They walk back to Jackson Heights in the dark of the evening, the weather much milder than when they’d first done this. Light cardigans and jeans, although sleeves are rolled up. They hold hands the whole way back to Scott’s place. 

In the morning, they wake lazy in a sun puddle, dropped from a perfect spring sky. New beginnings lend lightness to the day. They kiss slowly, then deeply, and then things follow their natural path from there, until Scott’s in Kip’s lap, Kip’s cock buried inside him. Kip props himself up on one elbow to watch, his other hand resting on Scott’s waist, feeling the flex and roll of his hips as he rides. It’s good like this; the movement of Scott’s body creating easy friction against Kip’s dick. They fuck slow, languorous undulation, until Kip’s panting, flushed, and then coming and crying out, thighs tensing and fingers tight in the sheets. Scott circles his hips, draws it out, knows by now that in this position he can keep Kip right in it, keep him coming for a minute or more, and it’s so fucking hot, watching him shake and cry out again as Scott rolls, rolls his body to work the length of Kip’s cock just right inside until he’s gasping, fucks himself slow while Kip clutches at Scott’s thighs and crests another wave. 

Afterwards, laughing quietly with post-orgasm delirium, they get back beneath the sheets and hold each other. Kip smooths his hand down Scott’s cheek, along the edge of his jaw, runs his fingers into Scott’s hair, and then looks into his eyes and says it, easy. “I love you.” 

And Scott squeezes Kip’s waist and smiles so big and says, “Oh, thank fuck, I didn’t think I could go another day without telling you that I love you, too.” 

And so summer is for lovers. They show it to one another in a dozens of ways, dozens of times, using their bodies to make manifest the feeling in their hearts. 

Kip is handsome, so gorgeous, but further to this Scott finds it incredibly hot how strong Kip is, how easily he can throw Scott around, manoeuvre his limbs or his torso, pin his arms or his hands behind his back, over his head, to the mattress—wherever Kip wants him. Kip is bossy, sometimes—domineering in a way that makes Scott’s knees weak. One Sunday afternoon in June he comes up behind Scott where he’s getting a drink in the kitchen, winds his arms around Scott’s waist, and says, “How many times do you think you can come before dinner?” Scott makes a reasonable guess of two, and Kip makes good on his earlier promises about testing the apartment’s various surfaces: stretching Scott out and stroking his cock in the shower until he comes all over the tile; then fucking Scott face-down over the kitchen bench, hair still wet and dripping onto the floor, hands scrabbling at the countertop as Kip reaches around and palms at him as he thrusts inside. Kip then demands more, and Scott gives it; they make love once more on the couch, Scott twisting his fingers in the patchwork blanket as his body seizes and arches, Kip kissing the tears off his cheeks as he sobs and begs and comes, dry, for the third time as the sunset smears purple across the sky outside.

Nowhere in the apartment is safe: they make out against the fridge, the wall near the coat hooks by the front door, on the living room rug. They have sex in every imaginable position: Scott on his knees, or on his back, or in Kip’s lap, chest to spine, warm hands at his waist and holding him up. On their sides, spooned together, or with Scott’s hands gripping the headboard with a firm order to stay, Kip’s knees in Scott’s armpits and thighs around his chest, holding his head up by the hair to fuck his mouth. The waterproof blanket earns its keep, Kip on elbows and knees as Scott rims him, tongue laving broad and flat. Kip reaches back and holds himself open as Scott slips a hand between his thighs and slides fingers inside at the front, other hand coming around to stroke Kip’s dick, sucking against his rim until Kip’s coming wet and hot. 

Early July is Scott’s birthday, and they host a picnic in Flushing Meadows, Scott’s friends and Kip’s coming together under the bright afternoon sun. They watch as Scott’s friend Drew tries to flirt with Kip’s friend Maria, which actually goes pretty well until Maria drinks one too many wine coolers and falls over on the grass, twisting her ankle. When they get home that night, Kip gives Scott his other present in the form of a pair of red lace panties, which Scott slips on over his hips, face burning in arousal. Kip eventually gets him on all fours and runs his hands over the lace covering Scott’s ass, kisses down Scott’s spine and palms at his hard-on straining against the front of the underwear. “I bought these cheap,” Kip says, thumbs against the waistband, “So that I could give you what you really want.” And then he twists his hands in the fabric and rips, tearing it apart. Scott gasps at the sound, the feeling, and then moans long and loud as Kip parts Scott’s cheeks to eat him like he’s the birthday cake. 

Scott gets bruises on his knees one afternoon on the kitchen’s hardwood floor, both of them driven by the sudden, pressing need to see how deep he can swallow Kip’s strap, opening his throat to the length of him while Kip thrusts softly inside, murmuring to Scott how good he is, how perfect. It’s almost embarrassing how much it gets him going, just these small words. He shouldn’t be surprised—it’s Kip saying them, and for this man he is remarkably easy. Scott jerks himself off and swallows around silicone, chokes on it, Kip questioning, “Yeah? Now?” and Scott nodding, and then Kip’s pinching his nose shut and Scott comes as his eyes roll back and his lungs are fit to burst. 

They sit, lazy with the heat, on the couch under the AC, Scott’s feet in Kip’s lap. Kip is gently working his thumbs into Scott’s arches, coaxing out tension. 

Scott’s on his laptop, looking at travel blogs. He looks at pictures of the sea, the sand, the big blue sky and he thinks, why the fuck not? 

“Hey, do you wanna get out of the city for a few days?” 

Kip is delighted and Scott loves a planning spreadsheet, even though they don’t really need one for four nights in Montauk. He takes a couple of days off work, and pays through the nose for the hotel room, even though it’s late August and the season is tapering off. They take the Prius and enjoy the couple of hours in the car together, Scott putting on cruise control and reaching over to keep a warm hand on Kip’s thigh as they drive. He cedes control of the music to Kip and his iPod, and they listen to The Shins, light and breezy as they make their way out to the end of Long Island. The hotel room, as expensive as it was, has the benefit of being quiet and clean and has a big, white bed. The AC is powerful and there’s a sea view from a little balcony. The weather is perfect: warm and sunny and only the faintest breeze carrying the smell of salt and sea into the room. And any qualms about the cost are quickly quashed when he sees Kip change into a ridiculously small pair of striped navy swim shorts. Kip catches Scott admiring the fit of them, the curve of his ass and the shape of his bulge, and he smiles, swaggering closer, backing Scott up against the bathroom wall and kissing him. 

“You like what you see?” Kip murmurs, before dropping to his knees and blowing Scott right there. Scott tries not to watch his own face in the mirror as he comes but it just makes him want it more: to see himself wrecked by this man. 

They make it out to the beach eventually, spreading towels down on the sand and lying down under the sun’s heavy touch. Kip is a picture, legs stretched long and crossed at the ankles, leaning up on his elbows, abs flexed. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and has a dusting of sand clinging to his curls; he looks like an absolute fantasy. He rubs heavy-duty SPF on Scott’s back and shoulders and Scott returns the favour, and they just lounge around, reading their books, chatting quietly. They head down to the water as the sun starts to sink a little lower, the light growing more golden as the day stretches. Scott wades in up to his knees, and then up to his waist, and then Kip comes up behind him, wraps arms around his middle, and tackles him into the water. They emerge, spluttering and laughing, the salt stinging Scott’s nose, Kip brushing wet curls from his eyes. A stupid game spirals out from there, taking turns dunking one another into the brine, until they get tired and their fingers get pruney and they return to their towels to air dry in the last clinging heat of the day. 

They walk along the beach for a bit, their shoes in their hands, until they find a place for dinner. They eat lobster rolls and drink a beer each and then Kip’s eyes light up upon seeing a pool table. 

“Please, no, I’m terrible at it!” Scott begs. Kip makes his big, sad eyes and Scott is helpless. “Okay. But I’m breaking.” 

He loses anyway, as he’d known he would. He would like to blame it partially on the sight of Kip bent low over the table, the tip of his tongue between his teeth in concentration as he lines up his shot. Kip only makes fun of him a little for losing, so he’ll count it as a success. 

Their second day is spent much like the first: beach, then book, then beach. Scott falls asleep on his towel in the late morning, his hat pulled down over his face. He’s getting tan lines from his board shorts already. They have fish sandwiches for lunch and then have a proper rest, showered and clean on their hotel bed. They fuck in the afternoon, and then head back to the beach to take a walk, Kip stopping to pick up interesting shells as they go. As the sun sinks low to the west, they head to the Montauket Hotel to watch the sun set over the ocean, beer glasses sweating in the last of the day’s heat. 

On the third day of their trip, Scott watches for the first time as Kip administers his T shot. A normal, small part of the life of the person he loves. Kip tugs his shirt back down after dropping the needle into a sharps container, and then smiles at Scott. 

“No more lobster today, please,” he says. “I need red meat.” 

They find a place with great burgers and Scott holds Kip’s hand across the table and hooks their feet together and never wants this to end. 

They have the kind of sex you have in hotel rooms when you don’t have to worry about seeing your neighbours at the grocery story later. That night, Kip grabs the tie from a bathrobe and affixes Scott’s hands to the headboard, then fucks two orgasms out of him before coming himself, grinding on the base of his strap, so hard inside Scott that they’re risking a third wave of pleasure spiking over, Scott trembling and gasping. In retaliation, once they’ve caught their breath, Scott gets Kip onto his back and pushes his legs up and sucks his dick, fingering him so precisely that Kip comes hard and long, gasping and bucking. Scott just holds his hips down and bobs his head and tongues at Kip’s dick again, fingers still pressing sweet inside, stretching the orgasm out into another, until Kip’s howling and squirting wet all over Scott’s chin, coming so hard and messy that they have to call reception, red-faced, for fresh towels.

The fourth morning they sleep in, tangled together, just being together, until the sun’s reaching its peak and their stomachs start to complain in hunger. They drag themselves out of bed to find something to eat, their muscles tired. They’re clingy with each other, feeling tomorrow’s departure looming. A last afternoon at the beach, because what else are they going to do? In the evening they find a place with a small stage and a band playing covers of last century’s hits, and they drink probably too much beer, dancing together in a dark, quiet corner to a rendition of Styx’s Come Sail Away that should feel cheesy but doesn’t. 

“God, I feel like I’m in that one episode of Freaks and Geeks,” Kip laughs.

“I’ve never seen it,” Scott says. “Which one am I?” 

“Hmm,” Kip considers. “Geek on the streets, freak in the sheets. Just the way I like ‘em.” 

Scott swats at Kip’s ass and they laugh and they kiss and the band plays some Have You Ever Seen the Rain? by CCR, and they end up getting another drink and then stumbling back to the hotel. Their plans for a final round of sex are stymied by the fact that they essentially fall asleep the second they hit the mattress, sun-drunk and sandy-footed and utterly content. 

The next morning they head back to the city, the drive feeling half as short as it was on the way out. That’s the way with holidays. The real world calls them back. Scott drops Kip off at home in Elmhurst, and Kip ducks his head to kiss Scott through the car window. He grins big when he pulls away, and then straightens up, tapping the car roof twice in farewell. 

When Scott gets home, his apartment feels too big, the space too empty. He misses the ease and the warmth of this other person, the shared space, the laughter and the sighs and the togetherness of the last few days burning a hole through his chest. He makes lunch and thinks of the ease with which they move around one another here, the comfort of going to bed together every night while they were away a temptation. He chews his sandwich, and he thinks of the meaning of home. 

Chapter 11

Fall comes, the leaves turning a riot of fiery tones through the city. Scott is spending a ridiculous amount of his work day down in Straw + Berry—it’s quieter down there, the office getting too chatty with the new wave of grads coming in to start their internships. So many young millennials. So many terrible opinions. Scott doesn’t want to complain, he’s only in his thirties, but sometimes the weird flirtation between two of them becomes too much to bear, and he needs to escape. 

“Oh, I know where you’re going,” Janice laughs at him. “Smooth, Scotty.”

“I just want a minute to finish my emails without listening to Damien telling Lydia that he really loves John Legend, too, while making those big eyes at her. I don’t believe him, and it’s impacting my ability to focus.” 

Janice shushes him. “They can hear you, you monster.”

“They can not,” Scott counters, leaning back in his chair to check. “They’re in the break room right now, I can see them. She’s giggling. Dear god.” 

“Now, now. Don’t you remember the first flush of new infatuation? I saw you down there with Kip in the early days. You were really embarrassing.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“Dude, I pretended I didn’t know you several times.” 

“To who?” 

“People who were like, oh, that handsome guy really wants to jump that barista’s bones. You were the talk of the elevator bank.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, I really hope you’re kidding.” 

Janice turns in her chair and leans over to punch him on the shoulder. Not an answer, but he’s not surprised. He gathers his laptop and slips it into his backpack. 

“I’ll be back,” he sniffs. She just laughs at him. 

It’s quiet downstairs, the morning rush over. There isn’t a lot of seating, but there are a couple of small, cushioned booths that are utterly unoccupied at this time of day, and he finds a seat and opens his laptop. Kip comes over after a minute, and slips into the booth across from him. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, smiling his big, dimpled smile. 

“You cannot give me grief for being here right now, I got enough of it from Janice on my way down.”

“Oh, baby. She’s not wrong, though, you’re very predictable.” Scott makes a face, and Kip soothes him with a foot hooked around his calf. “I mean that in the best way.” 

The cafe really is dead, Kip’s coworker Alice scrolling instagram behind the counter. Scott replies to a few emails, then signs onto the training portal to start the mandatory evacuation and anti-fraud training that comes around to suck the life out of him every year. At least he gets to do it somewhere nicer than his desk this time. Kip doesn’t seem to mind that Scott’s preoccupied, pulling out his own phone and leaning back in his seat. The foot at Scott’s calf slides higher to the back of his knee, and then up, slowly, up against the inside of his thigh. 

“What are you doing?” Scott asks, face heating. 

Kip smiles at him sweetly and pushes his foot higher between Scott’s legs; Scott realises, belatedly, that Kip has slipped his shoe off. 

“Oh, come on, really?” Scott asks, although he’s already starting to get a bit hard. 

Kip shrugs. “Lunch rush is still an hour away.” 

He massages his foot against Scott’s crotch, and Scott’s eyes slip shut. He breathes deeply through his nose, Kip’s vetiver scent a thread he chases among the smells of coffee grounds and sugar. He looks at Kip again and sees dark eyes glinting playfully, a questioning quirk of the mouth, dimples one-sided. 

“You can’t give me a foot job in the lobby,” Scott says. 

“Foot job?” Kip laughs, the presses his sole against Scott’s growing hard-on. “Not lobby.”

Scott bites back a moan. “Where, then?” 

Kip motions with his head towards a discreet door set into the wall behind the counter. Supply closet, he guesses. Scott has no hope of resisting, even if this is probably a fireable offence for both of them. He swallows and nods, shoves his laptop into his satchel and lets Kip pull him out of the booth by the hand. 

“Alice, I’m going to get more paper towel,” Kip says. 

“Uh-huh, whatever,” Alice says, not looking up from her phone.

Inside the supply closet, they giggle like children. The space is tiny, nothing really but a series of metal storage shelves stacked with paper napkins and towel and bags of coffee grounds, haphazardly layered stacks of cardboard cups in plastic sleeves. Scott recognises Kip’s backpack tucked away here, too. Tiny staff room meets store room meets…make out space, he guesses, by the way Kip’s wrapping arms around him and tugging him down for a kiss. 

“Is this a good idea?” Scott asks as Kip drags teeth up the side of his neck. 

“I like work-Scott, he’s so buttoned up” Kip says, smoothing his hands over the collar of Scott’s very reasonable business shirt. “It’s as good an idea as we want it to be.” 

And, well, Scott wants a lot of things, so he kisses Kip again, walking him back a bit until they bump into one of the shelving units, a package of paper napkins falling to the ground with a soft thump. Kip grabs at Scott’s ass, and Scott thrusts forward, grinding their hips together, and Kip chokes off a soft gasp right into Scott’s ear that gives him all sorts of ideas. 

“Can I?” he asks, trailing his fingers over the button on Kip’s jeans. 

Kip gets his fingers into Scott’s hair and tugs a little. “I don’t know if I should let you. Have you been good enough?” 

They don’t always play it like this, not at all, but Kip is feeling it and Scott is one-and-a-half seconds away from begging to be put on his knees, heat rushing through his belly. “Can I show you?” he asks, cheeks burning because he’s still embarrassed a little by how much he wants to prove it, to be good for Kip and give what Kip wants, and he’s especially embarrassed to be doing it in his office building, his ID lanyard still around his neck—but he’s also hard as a rock and his mouth is already watering and it’s not like this was going to go any other way, not really. 

Kip palms his cheek and kisses his neck and says, “Of course. Show me how good you take me.” 

He barely needs the hands on his shoulders urging him down to kneel. He pops the button fly of Kip’s jeans and tugs the denim down to his thighs along with his boxers. And fuck, his dick is so gorgeous, framed in neat pubic hair, and Scott wastes zero time, sliding his tongue along the underside and coaxing Kip to hardness. 

“God, you’re so good at this,” Kip moans softly. “You’re so perfect. Made for sucking dick. Baby, can I fuck your face?” 

Scott moans his assent and then Kip’s hands are in his hair again, twisting just this side of painful, holding his head still so he can thrust against his tongue. Scott loves the way he tastes, loves the feel of him against his mouth. He curls a channel with his tongue for Kip to fuck into, licks soft against him with every push until Kip’s gasping, hips starting to stutter. God, it’s so hot, and Scott’s own cock is pulsing in his boxers, he’s probably going to come in his pants like a teenager just from this, just from being used, just from the taste of Kip on his tongue and the hands firm on his head holding him still. 

He can tell that Kip is close, and he should just keep things relatively respectful, should just let Kip come and then he can try and get himself under control and then go back upstairs like nothing happened, but his co-workers will probably know, will just be able to tell with a glance how thoroughly used he’s been, how desperate for it he is—fuck, he wants to come so bad. He wants Kip so much. He wants to be wet with it, wants Kip to come all over him, wants to leave here marked up and smelling of sex, and he wants to lick his fingers later and taste Kip on him still. 

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but he nudges Kip’s thighs apart and then slides two fingers in front, right where he’s hot and slick and soft. Kip moans, a surprised and keening sound, and then Scott works his fingers inside and his tongue on Kip’s dick, and he knows what’s going to happen, and Kip does, too, because he’s saying, “Wait, wait, fuck, Scott—” And he should wait but he can’t, he wants it too much, so he keeps going just for the few more seconds required until Kip’s coming hot all down the front of Scott’s shirt, gasping and clutching Scott’s head, knocking a stack of cups onto the floor with a hand flung wide to grasp the shelf as he braces through it.    

Scott feels it soak into the fabric, warm against his skin; he hears Kip’s bitten off moans and the harshness of his quiet gasps; feels the twitch of Kip’s hips against his face. He curls his fingers rapidly again, sucks softly against Kip’s over sensitive dick, hears Kip gasp out, “Oh my fucking god” as his knees buckle, and Scott’s rewarded with another rush of wetness over his fingers, feels it dripping down his wrist to soak into his cuff. It’s too much, too hot; he reaches down and palms at his own hard-on, just two quick passes of his hand, and then he comes into his boxers, barely touched at all. 

He sits back on his haunches. They’re both breathing heavily, Kip’s thighs still trembling. 

Kip wipes a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says. “That was…” 

“Yeah,” Scott says, voice raw. “I think I got carried away.” 

Kip looks at him, at the dark damp on his light blue work shirt. His eyes widen. “Oh my god, Scott! Holy shit, I am so sorry! Fuck, let me get some paper towel.” 

They are, at least, in a supply closet with an abundance of paper towel and napkins, but it’s kind of a lost cause. Once he’s got his jeans back on, Kip pulls his hoodie out of his backpack and offers it to Scott. 

“Fuck, I’m kind of embarrassed,” he says. 

“I’m not,” Scott says. He pulls the hoodie on. It’s a perfect fit. “I do think I need to work from home for the rest of the day, though.”

Kip covers his face with his hands. Scott gently tries to pull them away, Kip resisting. 

“Hey, now. It’s fine, totally fine. In case you didn’t notice, I also, uh, shot in my boxers you’re so fucking hot, so this isn’t on you.” 

Kip peeks at him from between his fingers, but Scott can tell he’s smiling again. 

He messages Janice from the supply closet—feeling sick, going to work from home—and then takes the most embarrassing subway ride of his life back to Queens. He showers and changes and finishes his mandatory training on workplace ethics from the comfort of his own couch. 

Later that evening, Kip is over with his own laptop, looking at grad school applications for his PhD. Admissions have opened for next fall—a whole year away. Scott wonders what they’ll be like then. He has ideas, most of which centre around asking Kip to move in with him, the vision of them here side by side every night in their home a tantalising future.

“Where are you applying?” Scott asks. 

“Probably in the city,” Kip says, opening another cursed PDF of application guidelines. “CUNY, NYU, Fordham, Columbia. Although…”  He trails off. There’s a bowl of pretzels on the coffee table, and they’re making Scott thirsty. He doesn’t want to get up, though. Not when Kip is so warm pressed up against his side. 

“Although what?” Scott prompts. He turns and leans back against the couch’s armrest, resting his feet against Kip’s thigh. Kip reaches down and places a hand over Scott’s foot, stroking his thumb against the soft skin near his ankle. 

“I got an email from my old advisor at BU.”

“Oh yeah? What’d she say?” 

Kip makes a slow, uncertain motion with his head. “She said she got a research grant approved and wanted to know if I was still thinking of doing my PhD. She said that she’ll be looking for a research assistant, and asked if I want support with my application.” 

“Really?” Scott asks. “Wow, that’s awesome!” 

Kip makes the noncommittal head gesture again. “Sort of. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to go back to Boston?”

“I don’t think I want to move again,” Kip says. “I mean, I loved it there, I had a great time. I miss the friends I made there, and it’s a really good school. I just…” 

“I mean, if the opportunity is good,” Scott says. 

Kip pauses, his mouth open slightly like he’s about to say something, before he closes it, and thinks for a second, and then says, “It’s a good opportunity, but I don’t think I want to be away from mom and dad again.” 

“Boston’s not that far, you can visit them.” 

“Oh, geez, can I? Thanks for sorting out the commute,” Kip snarks, and then he pointedly closes his laptop lid. “I can make my own decisions, Scott.” 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t! You just talk a lot about Boston and I know you liked it there, and if there’s a job already—”

“It’s not your choice!” Kip cuts in. His eyes are bright, hurt. Scott’s not sure what he’s done to cause it. “Fuck it, I’m going home,” Kip says, sliding his laptop into his bag. 

Scott’s a little stunned, and he watches Kip swing his backpack over his shoulder and get off the couch. He stands and trails after him to the door. 

“Kip, I’m sorry, I just thought—” he tries.

“Forget it,” Kip says. “I need to go anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” 

He leaves, closing the door behind him. Scott sits on the couch, his ears ringing. He’s not sure what he’s done. It seems like Kip’s future is bright in Boston, like he’s a shoo-in for the PhD program and the job and everything there. For Scott, it’s a no-brainer. He’s so sure about how brilliant Kip is, about how bright his future will be, wherever he chooses to build it. And he’s sure that they’ll make it work, whatever happens. He’s just not sure why that certainty seems to have tipped everything right off the rails. 

His bed feels empty that night, the sheets cool and lonely with the impending fall cold snap. A turn in the weather; and a chill breeze that steals its unwelcome way inside.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Kip isn’t at Straw + Berry the next morning, and doesn’t call Scott for the whole day. Scott, still feeling like he’s fucked up somehow, colossally, doesn’t call either, figuring that he’ll wait for Kip to get in touch once he’s cooled off. And then they can talk about what the hell this was about. 

He heads to his game that night, where there’s no sign of Kip. Big Georgie’s not there either, and Scott wonders if that’s related or if he’s just being paranoid. 

“Everything okay, man?” Perez asks him in the locker room after they lose, Scott flubbing essentially every shot he tried to take. “You seemed off your game.” 

“Fine,” he grunts. “Just got some stuff I need to sort out.” 

He skips the post-game drinks and heads home, but his apartment feels all wrong, too empty and too quiet. So he does the only thing he can really think of to do, once he’s tried calling Kip and gets sent to voicemail. He gets in his car and he drives to Elmhurst. 

Kip answers the door to Scott’s knocking. He doesn’t look surprised to see Scott there, and he comes outside onto the porch in his house slippers, wrapping his cardigan around his shoulders against the encroaching cold. 

“I missed you,” Scott says. 

“I missed you, too,” Kip replies, and Scott wants to kiss him so badly but he doesn’t. He needs to get to the bottom of this.

“I don’t like fighting with you,” he says. 

Kip adjusts the shoulder of his cardigan where it’s slipping down, and then sits down on the low bench seat on the porch. Scott sits next to him. 

“We don’t fight,” Kip says, “so we’re out of practice.” 

And it’s true, they don’t really fight, or even bicker. They just gel, just get along so easily that Scott had never even considered waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“We don’t really,” he agrees, and then he remembers. “Well, except that time you put my cast iron pan in the dishwasher.” 

He catches Kip roll his eyes in the dark. “I reseasoned it.” 

“Yeah, you did. We fixed it, and all it took was a little time and oil and it was as good as new. It wasn’t even a fight.” 

“Is this a fight now?” Kip looks at him, face unreadable in the dim, his glasses reflecting the glare from the sodium lamp across the street. 

“I hope not,” Scott says. “Maybe a…miscommunication. I clearly said something to upset you last night. And I’m sorry if I overstepped, you know? Wherever you go for school, it’s…it’s your future, right? I shouldn’t be pushing you towards anything.” 

Kip sighs. “That’s just the thing, Scott. Is it just my future? I was kind of hoping you’d have a place in it, that maybe it would be our future. But you seemed pretty keen for me to pack my shit and get back to Massachusetts.” 

Scott blinks. That wasn’t what he’d meant. Is that what Kip thought he’d meant? “What?” he asks, stupidly. 

Kip doesn’t even seem to have heard him. “I’m just…Okay. I’m fucking nuts about you, Scott. You get that, right? I love you so much, but would you just be fine if I left? If you don’t see this as serious for us, if you don’t, like, see the same future I do, that’s fine. I’d just rather know now so I can temper my expectations.” 

Jesus Christ. No wonder Kip had left yesterday. He kind of wishes he’d had a chance to explain himself in the moment, but it’s better now than never. He turns and reaches for Kip’s hands, sliding their fingers together. 

“Listen. Listen. I fucking love you, too, alright? Your future is so important to me, your success, your opportunities. You want to do your PhD, you go where your best option is. I just thought it might be easier at BU if you’ve got connections there already. You’ve got an advisor who wants to work with you, and you’ll get your scholarship and your research assistant gig and you’ll do so well there, if that’s what you choose. And you wouldn’t be starting til next fall anyway, and that’s practically a year from now, so that’s—”

“That’s enough time for you to figure out that you’re done with us?” Kip asks, small and unsure and Scott’s starting to figure it out—that it’s not just him, it’s not just them, and it’s not just Boston, it’s everything. The whole big question mark that hangs over Kip’s professional and academic future if he chooses this path that he so desperately wants. And so what Kip needs now is certainty. 

“I was going to say that it’s enough time for me to look for a job in Boston,” he says. 

This time it’s Kip’s turn to be struck dumb. He pauses for a moment, eyes searching Scott’s in the half-dark. “What are you saying?” 

“I didn’t want to make a big deal about it,” Scott says. “Not before you’d applied. And I know we’ve only been together for nine months but I’ve thought about it, okay?” 

“You’ve thought about moving to Boston with me?” Kip asks, and his voice sounds thick, a little wet. 

“Yes. I’ve thought about how if you were moving, we could talk about it and I could talk to head office about a transfer and maybe I could…come with you. If you wanted.” 

He hears Kip let out a small sob in the quiet. “Really?” he asks. He leans in and presses his face into Scott’s chest, voice muffled as he asks, “That’s really what you want? Because I think about it all the time, Scott, I really do. I want that so badly.” 

“It’d be the easiest decision I could ever make,” Scott says, although he’s sure there’d be easier ones ahead, ones that involve getting his ring on Kip’s finger and a new surname on all his official documents, but…one step at a time. “You’re my person, Kip. You’re the one for me. I love you so much. And I want all of that. I want to argue with you about the dishwasher, and I want to split utilities—” 

He hears Kip let out a wet little laugh at that, because he knows all about Scott’s budgeting spreadsheets. 

“I want to wake up next to you every morning,” Scott continues. “And I want to hear you laugh every day. I want to listen to you complain about your thesis for five years straight. I want to be with you, so please, don’t think I’m pushing you away.”

“The opposite?” Kip asks, head still pressed against Scott’s chest, Scott’s arms around his shoulder now, rubbing warm circles on his back. 

“The opposite. I’m hitching my wagon to you, if you’ll have me. Wherever you’ll have me.” 

“I love your wagon,” Kip murmurs, and then raises his head and kisses Scott, and it tastes like salt as Kip sighs into his mouth and grasps at Scott’s shoulders. Scott holds on and kisses him back. 

“I love you,” Kip murmurs against Scotts lips, grasping at the back of his neck, fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Love you so much.” 

They stay like that til it settles—until the seas calm and the boat rights itself, sails billowing and full speed ahead like the squall had barely passed over at all.

Ten months later

At the tail end of summer, they pack the last of their things into the trunk and the backseat of the Prius for the drive ahead. They’ve shipped Scott’s furniture but have boxes of books, clothes, kitchen miscellany and Kip’s records stacked into every available square inch of space. Scott is playing Tetris with the last few items: the vacuum cleaner and his favourite houseplant, which was a gift from Janice a few years ago. She’s sad that he’s leaving. She’d punched him really hard on the shoulder when he’d told her, no trace of irony in it at all. 

Big Georgie and Margaret are standing on the porch with Kip, and Scott can hear them talking. 

“You’ve got your doctor in Boston?” Margaret asks. 

“Yes, mom,” Kip says. “Same one as last time, I’ll be fine.” 

“And you’re sure you’ve packed everything you need? It’ll be getting cold soon.” 

“Mom, I’m not moving to Mars, they have shops in Boston in case there’s anything I forgot. It’s going to be fine.” 

Scott climbs the front stairs and stands beside Kip. Margaret is looking teary. Big Georgie is looking stoic in his flannel, but Scott can tell he’s moved to see them leave. 

“Everything ready with work?” Big Georgie asks Scott.

“All squared away. They’re expecting me to start in a week. I took a little vacation for the move.” 

Head office had been remarkably accommodating. Not only was there a job in Boston, but there was a lead CPA position coming up in the office, and they’d assured Scott he’d be a great fit. So a pay rise, too, which is not unwelcome.

“You’ve got the number for my buddy at Power Play?” Georgie asks. 

“Sure do. I’ll be calling, don’t doubt it. My gear was the first thing I packed,” Scott says. 

Margaret pulls Kip into a hug, and Georgie does the same with Scott—the first he’s received over the many years of knowing the man. It’s a good hug, a dad hug, and Scott hugs him back. Then they awkwardly shuffle places, laughing lightly, Margaret pulling Scott to him and saying low, “Look after my baby boy.” Scott promises that he will. 

“You both look after each other,” Big Georgie says, pointing and Scott and Kip in turn. “Anything you need, you call us. And come home once in a while, for Christ’s sake.” 

“Thanksgiving,” Margaret says, “at the very latest.” 

“We will, we promise,” Kip says, and then he takes Scott’s hand. He turns to look at him, and Scott catches his eyes, the excitement and the promise that’s there. “Shall we?” 

They drive off down the Gradys’ street, Kip leaning out the window and waving until they turn a corner. 

“Shit, I can’t believe we’re actually going,” he says as he sits back down in his seat and adjusts his seatbelt. 

“Together,” Scott says. “I’m so excited to be doing this with you. Just so you know.” 

“Oh, I know,” Kip teases. “I’ve seen the spreadsheets. I know how excited you are.”

“Shut up,” Scott laughs, and squeezes Kips hand across the centre console. “You know what I mean.”

Yeah,” Kip says. “Me too. I fucking love you.”

“I fucking love you, too,” Scott says, easy as anything. 

“And I’m going to start my PhD, holy shit,” Kip laughs. “What on earth am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking that I’ve worked hard and deserve to marry a doctor someday,” Scott says. 

“Dr Grady,” Kip says, waving his hand through the air like his name’s in marquee lights. 

“Dr Grady-Hunter?” Scott asks. 

“Hmm. I don’t know. I was thinking the other way around.” 

Scott picks up Kip’s hand and kisses his knuckles. His left hand. He hasn’t officially proposed or anything yet, but he’s thinking about it. He’s been thinking about it for over a year. More, if he’s honest. They’re on the same page. It’s going to happen, and probably soon. 

They take the New England Thruway up through Connecticut, taking turns to pick the music. Kip winds down the windows and sings along loudly to New York State of Mind, until Scott reminds him that he should be singing songs about their destination instead, so he plays Shipping out to Boston and they both shout along to the chorus, and then Kip puts on More Than a Feeling by the band Boston, and which feels silly and prophetic, until Kip asks, “Who the fuck is Marianne, anyway?” And Scott laughs, because he has no idea, and the tyres chew up the miles until they’re there, beating the delivery van by ten minutes, which is just enough time—after Scott pretends he forgot the keys and Kip pretends to throttle him—for them to make out in their new, empty living room on the second floor of a red-brick building, sunlight cutting through elm trees right outside their window. 

Scott will miss his old place—the hard-won parking spot especially, although their new place in Boston has one, too. They’ve found a two-bedroom apartment in Back Bay, a place with big windows on a tree-lined street, with a brick fireplace and white walls that they’ll fill with art and photos and life. 

They get the furniture set up and tip the movers and then start to unpack. They spend hours reassembling bookshelves and folding clothes away and delicately hanging Scott’s framed Hokusai jigsaw on the wall over the fireplace. Scott’s mother’s blanket gets draped neatly over the back of the couch, Kip running his hand over the stitching. 

They order pizza and make the bed and shower in the new bathroom, squeezing in together under the spray and comparing it to the water pressure at Scott’s old place in Queens. They crawl into bed under clean sheets, nervous and feeling brand-new in this unfamiliar space, the walls different, the light coming through the blinds hitting at new angles and with different brightness to before. It feels a little like a holiday, but they know it isn’t—it’s the start of a whole life together. They kiss there in the new night, hands warm and familiar over the shape of each other that they know so well. They make love, murmuring promises into each other’s mouths—the first of many small intimacies they’ll share here. 

In the morning they explore their neighbourhood, finding coffee and a bakery and a bookstore, an Italian restaurant and a hole-in-the-wall birria place that they make a note of for later. There’s a queer bookshop on the corner a block over, and a wine bar next door that they decide to come back and try tonight. They test out Kip’s commute to campus, and then they walk back home and fuck again, on the living room floor this time, determined to christen every space before the summer is through. Before the week is through, if Scott has it his way. 

They miss New York, at times. They miss their friends, but they keep up in group chats, sending photos of themselves down at the harbour, and at Quincy Market, and at the Museum of Fine Art. Janice messages Scott every day on Teams from the New York office, and he schedules regular calls with Nick and Drew to keep in touch. Kip has ridiculous Skype group calls with his friends where everyone seems to be shouting at each other, and it makes Scott really happy. Scott sends his old teammates a photo of himself in his new team jersey, filling a gap as winger for The Slapsticks, reigning champs of the A Division at Power Play. Kip comes to his first game, and cheers so loud Scott can hear him, doesn’t doubt it for a second. They make new friends, too: at their neighbourhood gay bar, at school, at work, and new friends from hockey. Their social life is vibrant and joyful and sometimes exhausting, and when that happens they just curl into each other on the couch with Thai food and TV, quietly sharing the night.

The rhythms they settle into feel good—predictable, reliable, building into strong bones that will bear the weight of their future. They join a gym and work out together, where Kip keeps winking at Scott in the mirror in the weights room, turning his cheeks pink at the flirtation. Kip thrives once his PhD starts in the fall, but is occasionally run ragged by TA work and research work and reading, constant reading. Scott makes him coffee and rubs his shoulders and reads his drafts. Kip has bad days sometimes when the stress of the shift into academia again becomes too much, and Scott makes him soup and gives him space, or holds him close on the couch while they watch The Amazing Race—whatever Kip needs. It’s the least he can do for this man who changed his life; who gave him everything.

Their life is together is whole, the completeness of it warming them through their first Boston winter. They spend Christmas in New York with Kip’s family, his sister and her husband coming down from Maine, Margaret beside herself to have both kids back in the house, Big Georgie beaming from his recliner when Megan tells them that she’s pregnant. It’s everything Scott’s ever wanted: family, love, to be known and welcomed and held in the hands of something he thought he’d lost a long time ago. 

On the drive back to Boston two days after Christmas, Kip takes Scott’s hand in the car. “You’re quiet,” he says. 

“Just thinking,” Scott replies.

“Oh yeah? What about?” 

He looks over at Kip, who’s wearing that rust-coloured knit hat again, the one he’d worn on their first date almost two years ago. His curly hair is peeking out from under the edge of it, his glasses perched on his nose, his smile warm and dimpled and perfect. God, Scott loves him so fucking much. 

“I was just thinking,” he says, squeezing Kip’s hand, “that I’m really, really happy.” 

Kip squeezes back. “Me, too.” 

They make it home before dark. 

Chapter End Notes

The end! Thanks for coming on the journey with me. I wish this version of them every happiness. 😍