Woody’s was more of a home to River than his own apartment, even with its cute artwork and comfy couch. A little style had nothing on the plain place with such a big heart.

He felt it every time he walked into Woody’s—and other gay bars, too, but most of his loyalty lay here.

Coming here meant potential friends and fucks and both in one. It meant safety, not having to worry that hitting on the wrong guy would land you dead in an alley later. It meant the joy of moving your body to music, at the same moment as a hundred others did in their own rhythm and style.

It meant the solidarity of looking around, knowing that if everyone here hadn’t gone through exactly the same shit, they’d at least had some shit happen to them. It was easy to tell who’d just had a bad day, and nobody had to say a word about it—but some people would listen, too, even to a total stranger.

Hell, it meant being able to wear whatever he wanted and know exactly the responses he’d get. Even if some of these muscled bros looked down on him for it, they weren’t going to do more than make some catty comment like they hadn’t once been skinny, badly-dressed, and eager to please.

It was the closest thing to a church River had ever experienced or ever wanted to. His love for the place, for the stall everyone had an unspoken agreement was for blowjobs, for the damn sticky dance floor and the cracked mirror that made it hard to reapply lipstick and the initials carved under the bar top, swelled so fiercely in his chest that he had to blink back tears.

People came here to love and be loved on days when they had nothing and the world had chipped away at both, and they came here to celebrate and draw out the end of great days.

Today had been one of those great days for him. His first day on the job couldn’t have gone better, apart from his own jumpiness.

But mostly, he was looking for someone to distract him, because as the day went on, he wished more and more that he could text Zeph about his day. Zeph would have laughed about him dropping knowledge on one stuck-up customer until she apologized for not taking him seriously.

That Vegas trip hadn’t been fucking long enough, and at the same time, it had been a little too long. Maybe if they’d done a deal for a week, or a few days, they could have walked out with their hearts intact.

Instead, here he was at the bar, sipping his rum and Coke and looking around at the faces—many more familiar than his own long-forgotten relatives and others new.

He could have curled up with Zeph in front of the TV while he talked about his day before they had great sex and fell asleep together, curled up, listening to each other’s breathing even out and slow down.

As he kept reminding himself: oh, well. That ship had sailed without them on board. He had to make the best of it.

But it was pretty hard to make the best of it with Zeph standing right there, wearing that half-smile that had first drawn him to the tall, broad man like a moth to a fucking candle.

Zeph had singed River’s wings, and he still couldn’t help picking his way through the crowd until he reached the part of the bar where Zeph leaned.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Zeph visibly brightened when he heard River, turning to take him in. “Oh. Come here often?”

“Not often enough.” The innuendo was too fucking hard to resist, even if it was the last thing River should have been doing.

“I’m sure we can fix that.”

“Hard to fix some things,” River answered.

“Easy to get hard sometimes,” Zeph countered.

“But it’s hard being easy.” River raised a brow. “Taking tips from my stalker?”

Zeph’s expression flickered for a moment, but then he grinned and took it in stride. “Fair enough. But you approached me.”

“I…” River blushed. Fucking fair enough, indeed. “Yeah.” He tipped back his glass and drained the rest of the liquid, then pushed it over the bar. Jesus, he hadn’t had nearly enough for this conversation.

Zeph eyed him. “I’d offer to buy you another, but I don’t think you want anything from me.”

“There’s one or two things,” River muttered, eyeing him. He could take that however he wanted.

Zeph drained his beer and set it aside. “Oh?”

“Use your imagination.” It’s fertile, to say the least. Half the creative sex they’d had came from Zeph’s ideas.

Zeph’s eyes darkened for a moment as he glanced River up and down. “I thought you didn’t want me doing that, either.”

“I never said that.” River itched to tip back another shot or two and do something dumb, but if he was going to do something stupid, he wanted to do it more-or-less sober.

“Anything for you lovebirds?” It was Austin, the other bartender. He hadn’t been privy to River’s melancholy mood on the other side of the bar, and they were standing about close enough to be boyfriends, practically whispering in each other’s ears.

Still, being mistaken for a couple now? It itched. It was time for him to go home. He was tired anyway, and clearly not getting laid tonight.

River shook his head at Austin, then turned from the bar and headed for the door. Zeph followed, and he’d expected no less. And the wicked part of him he was starting to hate was glad.

He was strong enough to say no to Zeph, but not strong enough to ask for him.