When dinner was done and the plates had been bussed, Vincent excused himself to use the bathroom, leaving Mal a second to collect his thoughts and talk himself down from the lofty high he’d climbed to. The evening hadn’t just gone well—it had gone wonderfully. A voice in his mind, jaded by years of seclusion and fear, whispered that Vincent was up to something, and that he was no good. Mal chose not to listen. Now that he was at a place where he was comfortable with his mental state and eager to move onward, he didn’t have anything to fear. If Vincent was up to no good, then he’d cope. Over the course of his adult life, he’d suffered far worse tragedies than a shady boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

A thrill ran through him, the sensation like creeping fingers down his spine, but brightened with excitement. It was what he should have felt as a young man encountering love for the first time, he realized. At fifty, it was a little late to be feeling it now, but Mal didn’t let it pull him down. He was seeing someone—someone who was intelligent, handsome, and engaging.

Someone he actually liked.

Cold, bare feet. Leering faces. Strange bedrooms. Memories like those crept out from the darkness in his soul, their tendrils slimy and sticky, ready to ensnarl him if he didn’t make an effort to keep them away. With his mind filled with Vincent, Mal got the impression that keeping them contained to the shadows wouldn’t be so hard. He’d found a source of starlight, and with it glinting overhead, the night wouldn’t feel as sinister.

Vincent returned, but didn’t come to sit at the table. Instead, he stood less than an arm’s reach away from Mal and nodded back toward the stairs. “You wanna get going?”

“The bill hasn’t come yet.”

“I took care of it already. We’re set to go.”

Had he? Mal glanced at the stairs, almost anticipating that he’d find their waiter standing there with the check in hand, only to find the stairwell empty. Mal wasn’t exactly hurting for money, but the thought behind the gesture was sweet all the same. No one had ever been so forward with their affections before, and Mal found himself both stunned and pleased.

“Where did you want to go?” Mal asked once he’d recuperated from the rush.

“I figured we could take a walk.” Vincent shrugged and held a hand out for Mal, which Mal accepted. The touch of Vincent’s skin did things to him, goosebump-raising, breath-taking, heart-racing things, and while Mal didn’t want them to end, he was also aware that if he didn’t make an attempt to limit their contact, he might start to lose touch with his surroundings. When he was near Vincent, it was too easy to slip into himself and enjoy his companionship from the comfort of his own mind. Vincent had much such a great attempt to keep Mal engaged in the conversation that Mal didn’t want that to happen. He wanted Vincent to have a good time, too.

“A walk sounds fine.” Mal let his hand leave Vincent’s, although he did so reluctantly. “I don’t really know the area, so don’t expect me to be a great tour guide… but if you’re looking just to wander and talk, that’s fine with me. I took out an extended rental on my pumpkin, so it’s not going anywhere this time.”

“The pumpkin!” Vincent laughed as he led the way to the stairs. “I forgot. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that you left like you did on the night of the wedding. Rental penalties are steep.”

“Hey!” Mal snorted and shot Vincent a look. “Really?”

“Yup.” With a grin, Vincent took the stairs. He looked back up at Mal, his expression ablaze with youthful exuberance that reminded Mal of how many years divided them. “C’mon, let’s go. Sitting beneath the stars with you over dinner has me craving the real thing. You ready?”

Mal was.

They took the stairs together and left Bistro Chatelaine for the busy streets of downtown Aurora.

At almost eight at night, traffic was heavy. Cars in tightly uniform lines crawled nowhere fast, halted by shifting stoplights and the inevitability of human error. Mal kept an eye on traffic unintentionally—Vincent stood between him and the street, keeping stride while they walked, and whenever Mal stole a glance his way, he also saw sleekly painted chassis and matte black wheels.

“You know,” Mal said after they’d turned the corner and established a comfortable pace. “I’m still sorry about what happened after the wedding… about leaving you in the middle of the night.”

“Mm?” Vincent looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“I figured that a note was my best bet. I didn’t want to wake you.” The apology felt hollow, and Mal tried to establish why in the few seconds he had before the conversation lapsed in uncomfortable silence. “I guess… I wanted to get back in touch, but I assumed that it was useless, since your business card had a West Coast address.”

Vincent made no comment, but Mal thought he saw the hint of satisfaction on Vincent’s face. It was enough to make him want to continue.

“So, I’m sorry. I know you apologized before about not getting back in touch after moving, but it really wasn’t all you. If anything, I’m the one more responsible. I was the one who left, after all, and I’m sorry that I did.”

It was still early enough in March that the nighttime temperature was crisp. Mal hadn’t brought a jacket, figuring that they’d be inside for dinner, then split ways after their meal was done. He wrapped his arms around his chest and tried not to focus on the chill on the back of his neck. Winter, it seemed, wasn’t going to be leaving Aurora early this year.

“You don’t need to be sorry. Something came up. I understand.” Vincent tucked his hands behind his back in a casual, easy way that made Mal wish he could be so effortlessly confident. “It’s tempting to think that others are trying to hurt you when something doesn’t go according to plan, but I don’t think that’s the case at all. You’re here with me now, aren’t you?”

Mal looked down the street, hoping that by distracting his eyes, he might distract his mind as well. It didn’t work. What Vincent said stuck with him, rattling in his mind until it was all he could hear. No one had ever been so understanding. Did Mal deserve kindness like that after what he’d done? He didn’t know.

“I…” Mal struggled to string a sentence together. Nothing seemed good enough for what he wanted to say. “Thank you. It feels too simple, but it’s all I have right now.”

“You’re welcome.”

They’d reached another corner. Ahead, the walk sign shone, and pedestrians took advantage of the break in traffic to come or go. Vincent and Mal came to a stop, rocks in a rushing stream of passersby. A cool wind played with the hairs on the back of Mal’s neck and crept its way under his shirt. He tucked his arms around himself a little tighter and wondered what he should say.

Vincent deserved to know the truth. If he stuck around, he’d be faced with Mal’s past eventually. It was better that he said something now, before he became attached, than spare him the details and have his heart suffer for it later.

“Vincent?” Mal asked. The din of car engines, brakes, rolling tires, and the rush of the passing crowd allowed their conversation to be private despite the open space. The transitory nature of a busy public place made the terrible bearable—like the glint of sun off a fish’s scales as it arrowed through the water, nothing here lasted for long. The memory wouldn’t linger with Mal, tied to his apartment or other well-loved location. It would pass, just like the people on the street did. Faces he’d never see again. Moments he’d recall in abstract ways, but never in grievous detail. “I want to tell you something.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I…” Mal struggled with the confession. Was it a big deal? It had been to men he’d tried, and failed, to date prior to Vincent. “I have a history.”

“Like, a criminal history?” Vincent looked at him now, a brow raised not in alarm, but in curious confusion. “You?”

“No. I mean… not exactly.” At fifty years old, over twenty years a survivor from the events of his past, he should have been able to talk about it like it was nothing. Baylor was dead. Lowe, while still alive, was old and feeble—his mind had gone long ago. The nightmares were confined to places in Mal’s mind he didn’t think about anymore, and for the most part, they left him alone. “I’ve… I’ve been through some very hard times, and had people take advantage of me. My vulnerability, my naivety… my body. Sometimes, I’ll be fine, but sometimes, I’m so far from fine, I can barely function. It’s been a long time since those things happened, and I’ve been through what feels like a lifetime of therapy. It’s gotten to the point where I feel like I can lead my life like normal—where I can have a family… find love.” He licked his lips nervously. “Every time I tried before, I messed it up. I got flighty, I got panicked, and the men I thought I liked left without ever looking back. I just… I need you to know that even though we had a moment in the storage closet, it might not always be so easy for me. There might be times where I… where I can’t. And if that bothers you, then I’d rather you know now and leave than feel disappointed later.”

For a moment, there was silence. It didn’t bear undercurrents of irritation or disgust, like it usually did when Mal opened up about his past to the men he was interested in. It was thoughtful, perhaps introspective. In it, Mal found the courage to look at Vincent.

He found sorrow in Vincent’s eyes.

Sorrow, not pity.

The distinction was subtle, but it made its mark upon Mal’s heart like it was a fingerprint—distinct and unmistakable. Pity would have created a divide between them, elevating Vincent to a state of normalcy, while degrading Mal to a state of different—other. Sorrow didn’t bear the same connotations. It equalized them.

Tears dotted the corners of Mal’s eyes not because he was giving in to panic, but because he’d never had anyone, anyone, look at him like that before—like they understood, like they knew. It was as if Vincent had gone through the same struggles and bore the same scars on his heart.

“Mal…” Vincent trailed off, his lips downturned at their corners and his eyes troubled. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine…”

Strange faces. Passing cars. The fluidity of the moment cushioned Mal’s fall, and he found it in himself to smile. “It’s okay. Right now, I’m okay. I just wanted you to know that if anything happens, it’s not you. All of it’s on me.”

“The hotel room that night?” Vincent asked cautiously.

Mal nodded. His spirits sank. “I couldn’t…”

“You don’t have to explain.” Vincent’s voice rose above the crowd, soothing Mal like he hadn’t known he’d needed. He didn’t try to touch. That small act spoke as loudly as his words did. “You never have to explain. Your body, your past, your rules. I’m not going to ask you to go against what you feel you need just for my sake. No one should ask that of you.”

What could Mal say to something like that? For so long, his body had not been under his rule.

But Vincent wasn’t like Baylor or Lowe. What he demanded from Mal wasn’t servitude, and it wasn’t delivered through manipulation or violence. All Vincent asked was that Mal be himself—to respect what he felt deep down, and be honest with his feelings. He didn’t expect sex, or conversation, or admiration. All he wanted…

All he wants is me.

Mal blinked the thought away, clearing unshed tears from his eyes while he did it. Then, as his heart constricted with admiration and adoration, he smiled at Vincent, then laughed in a short, brisk way that would have been a bark had his soul not felt so light and airy. “I think this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me.”

“Is that what you want?” Vincent arched an eyebrow playfully, but behind his cheerfulness, Mal saw the same heavy emotions that were wound tightly in his chest. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. This is about you.”

It had never been about him. Never. The newness of the situation was invigorating, stunning, inspiring.

“Yes,” Mal whispered. In Vincent’s eyes burned unchecked need, suppressed by his respect for Mal. Vincent wanted him, but he wouldn’t touch without permission. “It’s what I want. You’re what I want.”

It was all he needed to say. There, amongst passing pedestrians and evening traffic, Vincent brought Mal close and kissed him like Mal had never been kissed before. It was soft and sweet, reassuring, but passionate. It lit Mal up from the inside like he was a firefly in June.

Vincent didn’t take, nor did he demand—he shared.

Shared his emotions, his wants, and his respect for Mal all at once.

Mal squeezed his eyes shut and looped his arms around Vincent’s neck. The kiss deepened upon his insistence, and the rest of the world bled away.

In that moment, they were alone. Alone, safe, and sheltered. The world wouldn’t drive them apart, and Mal’s troubled past wouldn’t pock the moment.

All this time, all these years, this was what he’d needed.

Vincent was what he needed.

Here, amongst the faceless crowds and crawling traffic, happiness—even if only momentary—was his at last.