River regretted sending the text as soon as he finished pushing the button. Oh, he really fucking regretted it. He and Ash had only just begun to really connect again, making that text a very stupid move. The kiss was fine because it had been born of physical desire, something neither of them could help or hide.

But that touchy-feely, I-miss-you text had emotion in it, emotions which Ash very well might not return, and he just shouldn’t have sent it.

His suspicions were confirmed when Ash didn’t reply. Not all through that day, and not through the next. For four days, there was only silence.

“What do I do?”

River took to asking this question to anything that would hold still long enough for him to get the words out. He asked his storage unit, his desk, the ceiling, the floor, his car, his silent phone, and everything else that was in his way when his thoughts turned back to Ashton. And his thoughts were always turning back to him. How could they not?

Nothing ever gave him an answer or even made a suggestion, except for that one teenager who had been rollerblading by as River questioned his car’s trunk.

“Push the button, man,” the teenager called out helpfully while their worn-out wheels made terrible screeching sounds on the pavement.

It wasn’t very helpful relationship advice, though now whenever River came across a button of any kind that stupid kid was all he could think of. It was almost Pavlovian behavior, and he was one lovesick puppy.

For two of those four silent days, River operated under a permanent raincloud of despair. No matter how bright the day was, it always seemed gray. No matter what happened, it was never good enough.

On the second night, when he had finally finished storing all but his necessary belongings, River again asked the ceiling, “What do I do?”

And the ceiling still gave no answer, offered no advice for the man it had been sheltering for years. He supposed he couldn’t fault it for that, since it had always done its job. He had no right to expect anything else of it.

As soon as he thought that, something clicked inside him. The answer he’d been wanting all this time was finally here, had been inside him all along.

He had no right to expect anything from Ashton. Just because they had made vague promises to see each other again, didn’t mean it was actually going to happen. That lunch could very well have been their last meeting.

His heart ached with the sadness of that thought, but the pain wasn’t as fierce as the dreadful anticipation had been all this time. At least they talked and shared the difficulties of their lives together. That was more than many other star-crossed lovers could claim, a type of closure that endless others wished they could have. He shouldn’t waste it by lamenting what was gone; instead, he should think on what he now had.

And what did he have?

River sat up a little straighter in his chair, no longer looking at the ceiling but instead staring out at the darkness of night. Faint orange light from the street lamps illuminated the black, offering a pale glimpse of a roof here and a manicured yard there.

He had closure. Ash now understood that River hadn’t willingly abandoned him.

He had new awareness. That kiss had awoken some sleeping part of his body and brain. His desire was now like a muscle, testing its limits, strengthening slowly. He wouldn’t soon forget what he had felt now that he knew it was possible to feel it. In fact, he wanted more.

And he had his freedom. Ash was the first kiss. If they never spoke again, that first embrace certainly didn’t have to be the last.

The next day, bolstered by his newfound good cheer, River rose to face his new life like the alpha he was meant to be. He dressed like a bombshell, putting care into his appearance because he wanted to, rather than because it was expected of him, and then he went to five different open houses to begin the search for his own home. Head held high, shoulders back, and chest forward he drew attention like a magnet. Rather than hide from it all as he once would have, he met those curious gazes with open appraisal.

He would have been lying if he said it didn’t excite him that just as many men as women looked in his direction.

The next day, he did the same thing. Two more open houses. On the third, he fell in love.

The real estate agent giving the tour had quite a lot to say about the positioning of the house in the neighborhood, listing off the crime rate and the distance to the nearby school. Everything she added to the list of pros about this house in particular was clearly meant to market it towards young couples just starting out. River had to admit she did a damn good job of it, too. The house was small, but its compact size seemed more of a bonus than anything else, offering just enough room for a pair of lovers to spread out even when they had a child or three. The backyard was rather small, contained within a fence, but the front lawn was twice as long. Children could play out front and a parent wouldn’t have to be afraid about them getting too close to the road.

All the stuff about schools and daycare aside, River thought that everything about the house that made it good for starting out, also made it very good for a bachelor who didn’t want to live in an apartment. Complimentary lemonade in hand, he wandered around at his leisure when the tour was over. He liked the layout, and he was a sucker for kitchen islands. Already, he had spots picked out for some of his belongings. The matter of his office also took care of itself, as there were two extra empty bedrooms he wouldn’t need, just waiting to be taken over by his work.

When the agent was alone, River worked his way over to her and said it flat-out with no preamble. He wanted the house.

“I know I wasn’t your target audience,” he had joked, gesturing vaguely to himself. No matter how he styled it, his hair was still gray, and his moustache was still turning silver. There was no hiding his wrinkles either, though he thought that it looked like there was less of them when he smiled.

The agent smiled in response. “Everyone’s a target audience when you’re selling a house, Mr…”

“Robinson. River Robinson.”

“Don’t you think your grandchildren would love it here as well, Mr. Robinson?”

He hadn’t bothered to correct her. There was no point to it. Not even his eldest child, Allison, had kids yet. Maybe watching your parents argue for your entire life made you wary of having a family yourself. “You don’t need to sell it to me any further. I’m already sold.”

“In that case, why don’t we make an appointment so that you and I can discuss this further?”

And they had.

Mary Stetson was her name, and she seemed very pleased to have him as a potential client. He suspected and hoped, that it was because he looked like a guy who had all his ducks in a row. An easy sell, an easy client, and an easy buy. They would both get what they wanted.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t meet up the very next day because her schedule was already packed. Then, the weekend interfered. That left them with a time at 10 a.m. on Monday morning. That was very, very soon in the grand scheme of things, but for River, the day couldn’t come soon enough.

And then something happened that made River momentarily forget about his good fortune and his newfound easygoing, dominant attitude. He woke up to discover the notification light on his phone blinking. That in itself was nothing extraordinary. He had his own clients who often reached out to him whenever they saw the need, even if that need sometimes came about in the middle of the night. Any number of other things could have caused that light, from an AMBER alert text, to a missed telemarketer call.

Somehow, he knew that light had nothing to do with any of that. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

“Ash?” he murmured, picking up the phone that lay on the pillow beside him. Ever since he and Jeanine split up, the bed situation was awkward. Neither of them wanted to be the one who gave up their position by moving to the guest room, but it also simply felt wrong to be in the same bed like a regular married couple. To that end, they fell into a pattern of swapping out. They never discussed it, it simply just happened. River tended to give in more often than not even though he didn’t want to, but tonight Jeanine had given him free reign of the mattress. She didn’t approve of having phones in the bed ever since River rolled over his and accidentally called 911, bringing a police car to their house at 6 a.m. The kids woke up, and it was just a mess.

So he was celebrating by having the phone in their marital bed, happy at this perceived victory.

But now, he was regretting it. He wished he could prolong this moment for as long as possible. Even putting it off for another heartbeat, the duration it took for him to reach over and grab the phone from the nightstand, would be fine with him. The strange brew of dread and anticipation in his stomach as he turned on his phone wasn’t something he would wish on his worst enemy.

There was a text from Ashton. The preview read, “Don’t call me.”

What felt like an ice pick punctured River’s head. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, but the words hadn’t changed.

This is it, then. He finally made up his mind, decided he didn’t want anything to do with me.

There could be no hiding from it. He’d been waiting for some response and here it was.

He opened the message.

“Don’t call me,” the message read. “Just text, okay? I know that’s hard for your old hands to do, but try for me. I want to see you today. Come down to my gallery? The address is 1554 Main Street.”

River let out a breath that he hadn’t known he’d been holding. The pain in his chest abated, but still he put his hand over his heart as if he needed to hold himself together. It wasn’t the farewell that he’d been fearing. It was something else entirely, something that might end up being very informative.

Maybe if he saw Ash’s gallery, studied the art that the other wolf created, he would be able to understand that lifestyle a little better.

Or maybe, he could drop the bullshit and allow himself to be ecstatic he heard from Ash again.

Straightening up, he tapped out a reply. “I’d love to drop by. I’ve got some work I need to do first but it shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

Before he could second-guess his response, River put the phone down. He smiled a big, dopey grin and slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom to get ready for the day. As he showered, his hand strayed down to his groin, then to the shaft of his swollen manhood. Morning wood was normally something of an annoyance to him, but this time, the stiffness in his cock made him feel playful and horny. He fondled himself with a slick, soapy hand, sliding his fingers all the way to the tip of his shaft. Trembling tingles stole throughout his body. His hips bucked, forcing himself harder against his own hand. The pleasure was great, but he made himself stop after only a few more strokes. If he wanted to get any work done, he needed his thoughts clear and free of haze.

The warm spray dripping down the length of his cock kept him hard as he finished his shower, not that he really minded. It was good not to have to hide this part of himself which appreciated sexual feelings as something spontaneous, rather than a thing that needed scheduling.

After dressing, he went into his office and settled in to shift around some stacks of paperwork. The front of his jeans tented up, pleasant but not distracting. Occasionally, he ran his fingers over the denim-covered bulge, savoring it.

His pressing horniness only started to become an annoyance when he was through with work. No matter how studiously he ignored the heat coming from his groin, the erection wouldn’t go down.

I really can’t go see Ashton like this. Walk around in public with an erection? God, no way.

The only thing to fix it was to return to the shower, keeping the spray as cold as could be. His erection went away.

Unfortunately, it came back halfway through the drive to Ashton’s gallery. One moment he was driving peacefully and the next, he was hard as steel. His cock jutted straight up between his thighs, pushing uncomfortably against his zipper.

“Dammit,” River sighed. It seemed like his body was trying to make up for a lifetime’s absence of sexuality in only a few hours. The air-conditioning was already cranked up to full blast due to the oppressive heat of the day. He could do nothing else to fight it, nothing to dispel it, and the distance between himself and Ash grew shorter all the while.

This wouldn’t be so bad if he was on his way to visit a current lover, but Ash had only belonged to him in the past. He still had no idea where they stood as far as a relationship was concerned, and he couldn’t imagine walking into Ash’s gallery with his dick on display. That would be pushing it.

By now he recognized what part of Portsmouth he headed towards. It was prime real estate for businesses. There were people everywhere, crawling all over the streets like ants on a picnic blanket. How many of those innocent souls, men and women and children alike, were going to get an unwanted eyeful of cock while River walked by?

He supposed that would just have to be a risk that he took, because it wasn’t like he could just yank one out while sitting on the side of the road. Not only was it uncouth, but it was also highly illegal. He would just have to deal with it. Somehow.

His erection was almost painful when he finally reached Main Street. Shops of all sorts—movie theaters, restaurants, clothing retailers, jewelers, and dozens more—lined either side of the road. Cars inched along on the street, packed bumper to bumper, and the streets were crawling with shoppers looking for a good time. Parallel parking was a must unless he wanted to pay to get into a lot, but no matter where he looked he couldn’t see a free space.

As he drove through a green stoplight, he caught a glimpse of a building on the corner on the far sidewalk. The windows were large and impressive, offering an uninterrupted look at the art hanging on the walls inside. Canvases in all shapes and sizes hung everywhere a person looked, though from this distance they were only blurry smudges of color.

I hope they look better up close, River thought, and then immediately felt guilty. There had to be some sort of success involved here for Ash to have such a location all to himself. He shouldn’t go making judgments before he had any idea what he was talking about. River took a left turn and then two more, working his way through a quiet back alley so that he could rejoin Main Street heading in the right direction. He was still nearly a block away from the gallery when he found a spot on the curb, but he was still hoping to bring his hard-on down, and maybe a brisk walk in the heat would do it.

He parked a little crookedly, but close enough so that none of the other cars driving could feasibly hit him without trying to, and then stepped out. Spreading his legs apart to do so made his groin throb, the muscles stretching, and he knew right away that the walk wasn’t going to help. He was a fit man. All this was going to do for him was limber him up, ensure that he felt even more capable of taking on a sexual act if one just so happened to fall into his lap.

Maybe, just maybe, feeling dominant wasn’t all that he’d imagined it to be.

A gentleman never put his hands in his pockets, but that was what River did now, trying to subtly pull the denim away from his bulge so that it would be less visible to passersby. Denim wasn’t made to stretch, and he only dressed in clothes that fit, so he could feel that it wasn’t working very well. In fact, having his hand down there was giving his body all kinds of impolite signals.

If anyone noticed, no one called him out on it. River felt relieved at this aspect of city life, the desire a person had to mind their own business. All the other people who walked by him were too wrapped up in their own thoughts to spare a moment to his awkward gait. If they noticed that his cheeks were red, that he looked uncomfortable, they just ignored it all the harder and went about their day.

Finally he arrived at the entrance to Dust to Dust and pushed his way through the front door. Chimes that had been hung over the door jangled as he disturbed them, echoing and echoing in the wide open space. The moment the door shut behind him, the busy outside world seemed to fall away. It was only him and the art.

“Ash?” River called out. At least, he tried to call out. His voice didn’t seem to want to work properly. He felt hushed, quieted by the interior of the gallery. There was an atmosphere to this building which reminded him of a library, as if to yell was to violate some important rule. The animal in him was contemplative, silenced for the first time in hours. If he was still aroused, he no longer knew.

He tried again. “Ashton? Are you here?” Still he received no answer, which worried him for a reason that he couldn’t quite understand. The door hadn’t been locked so there was clearly still someone inside. Ashton could have just left for whatever reason and forgotten to close up shop, but River didn’t think that was likely even though he imagined artists as lazy and daydreaming. If their art was important to them, they would want to protect it. Locking a door was a simple task which even the laziest of souls could handle.

So, where was the artist himself?

To the right of the main entrance stood a lone countertop with a cash register and a few other odds and ends. No one was manning it.

Puzzled, growing more worried by the second, River stepped deeper into the gallery. Cool air drifted through the building, stirring his hair around his cheeks, a welcome change from the outside heat. A small arched opening in the opposite wall hinted to the presence of a storage area, and he was about to wander in that direction when a painting caught his eye.

A man didn’t have to be a detective to understand that Ashton wanted him here to look at the art. Perhaps Ash thought it would change his mind about things, giving him new perspective on this career in particular. River came with the plan to give it the old college try, but he knew this trip wouldn’t end with him having a change of heart and that was because he wasn’t blind. He hadn’t gone his 41 years on earth without seeing a painting. To even posit that was absurd and misguided. He saw plenty of art, had some of it lying around his office building to put clients at ease—the same reason he had those damnable potted plants that kept trying to die, in fact.

He'd been to the museums, craft fairs, and art shows. He had watched all six of his children progress from talented, scribbling toddlers to young adults with average drawing abilities. None of it had ever changed his opinion that art was a pursuit for children and adults who wanted to pretend they were still children, avoiding their responsibilities by doodling the day away.

So, why this painting caught his eye, he couldn’t have said right away. It was just a fucking painting. They had them in the goddamn Red Lobster, and that didn’t automatically make it a high-class establishment worthy of above-average consideration.

The canvas depicted a forestry scene, dark pine trees surrounding a sun-dappled fragment of meadow. An ancient wishing well stood in the center of the clearing, looking for all the world as if it was older than the trees themselves, as if it, too, had sprouted from the soil eons ago.

River supposed it was good. If pressed, he might venture that it was better than good. If there was a gun to his head, he’d call it great and wouldn’t be lying. The brushstrokes were thick and had left hard ridges of texture on the canvas, but the paint had been worked in such a way that the image was almost photographic. He had to step closer to even confirm that it wasn’t actually a printed image.

He had to have seen this in real life somewhere. Right? It doesn’t look made-up.

Problem was, River didn’t know of any place in America that looked like this. Each individual aspect of the painting was fine on its own. Trees. Well. Sky. Meadow. But when placed together, pieced like a completed puzzle, there was something dreamlike about it. Something powerful.

The longer he looked, the harder it became to look away.

When he finally managed to wrench his gaze away from the painting of the well, he had to place one hand against the wall to steady himself. It was like awakening from a dream, like he hadn’t quite been present for the past minute.

Odd. Very odd. But, perhaps not out of the ordinary for an older man to be prone to a sudden fit of haziness. Pretty soon, he’d reach an age where afternoon naps were mandatory, and he would have to ask clients to speak up when they addressed him.

Ash still hadn’t made an appearance, and River knew that he should head into the back of the gallery to look for him, but he was curious now. What were the other paintings like, if that last one was so interesting?

He walked a little way down the wall and looked at the next canvas. This one was less imaginative than the depiction of the well: the skyline of Norfolk across the Elizabeth River, with the river itself in the foreground. The scene was set at some point in the night, and all the colors were muted to pale washes of gray except for the water, which was a familiar shade of silver. Not silver like that of spare change, lacking a metallic edge, but silver all the same.

I feel like I know that color, River thought.

The next painting was the same skyline, a compliment to the last. This time it was sunset and everything seemed to be burning, even the water.

River looked at several more paintings, feeling his intrigue grow despite himself. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly special about the subject matter. Anyone could paint trees and cities. There was something in the style of the art that made everything seem too real so that he kept looking and looking, trying to find out where the dreamlike quality was coming from.

After an eternity of browsing, he finally figured it out. The paintings grew muted around the edges, fading just the slightest bit in color and clarity. This seemed intentional, because River could think of no way in which this might be an accidental decline in quality. Each painting had the same effect, making him feel as if he was studying the scene through the eyes of someone who wore glasses.

Or, perhaps, through the eyes of someone who was dreaming. Yes, that was it. The intense focus and the sudden lack of peripheral detail. Just like a dream, in which the edges of things were always indistinct.

Something touched his hand.

Yelping, River spun around and brought his hands up in front of his face to defend himself from his assailant. No one attacked him, and he slowly peeked over the top of his crossed arms.

Ashton stood there with a crooked smile on his perfect lips, his head tilted so that a messy tangle of hair fell across his forehead. “Looks like I have a new admirer.”

River stepped back, bumped into the wall, and tried to pretend that he hadn’t. “I’m not sure what I think yet,” he replied. In some ways, that was very much a lie. In others, it was nothing but the truth. “Where were you?”

“In the back.” Ash pointed towards the doorway that River had noticed earlier.

River frowned a little. “Is it soundproof?”

“No. I can hear pretty much everything that happens in here.” Ash also frowned, which River didn’t like. He wanted that smile to return. “Why?”

“I’ve been in here for a few minutes now. I called out to you but you didn’t seem to hear me.”

“Oh.” Ash paused and looked at the ground. His expression went guarded. River didn’t like that, not at all.

“What’s going on? You didn’t hear me? Are you deaf?” This last part was a serious question and River hoped it came out that way. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ash might be disabled in some way, and that he might have left that part out of the story he’d told about how he came to be a painter. River leaned to the side, trying to see if those cute, round ears had anything in them.

“What? No! I’m not deaf, you idiot!” Ash laughed softly, reaching out one hand to push River away from him. “It’s embarrassing but I kind of…Well, I fell asleep.”

“You must really have been out if you didn’t hear me calling for you.” River leaned in closer, taking a good look at the other man. He hadn’t noticed before because he’d been too lost in Ash’s smile to pay attention to anything else, but pale gray circles underlined those sweet green eyes. He looked for sure like a man who hadn’t been sleeping well, who might fall asleep in the middle of his work.

Maybe this artist in particular wasn’t so carefree as River assumed. Not right now, anyway.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Ash looked around secretively, “but I haven’t been sleeping so great these past couple of nights. I really was out. I was painting, too. Hard at work. Ruined my canvas and got paint on the floor.”

River winced. He knew from firsthand experience how hard it could be to get paint off of a variety of surfaces, ranging from skin to carpet. That explained the smudges on Ash’s hands when they’d had lunch together. “I’m sorry about your floor.”

“I’m more concerned about the canvas. I might be able to salvage the painting I was working on but…You probably don’t care about this, though.”

River waved one hand. “Go ahead.”

“I’d just have to match colors and work everything back in again. It’s not easy. It might just be better to start over. I hate to waste a canvas, though.”“You can’t just paint it all white again?”

“I could, but let’s just say I don’t have time to explain to you everything that I learned about pigmentation binding and how canvas is better for that than any other surface, including dried paint. It would work, but it wouldn’t be great. I’d have to lower the cost and use more supplies. That’s just…” Ash’s voice suddenly lowered, turned moody. “That just isn’t a good idea, right now.”

The sudden spiral from conversational to sullen sparked concern inside River. Reaching out, he placed his hand on Ash’s shoulder and valiantly ignored the tingles that shot through him at this innocent touch. “Are you okay, Ash? Really okay?”

Ash shrugged a little. “At this point, I’m in so deep that I don’t think it matters anymore.”

“I don’t understand.”

Ash shrugged again, this time attempting to dislodge River’s grip. River loosened his fingers but refused to let go, somehow knowing that he needed to keep contact with the other man at such a pivotal moment. His instincts demanded it. “Maybe you don’t need to understand. I’m not up to a lecture from you, Mr. Financial Advisor.”

A puzzle piece clicked into place for River. “This is a money problem?”

“It’s my problem,” Ash replied. His tone took on an icy sheen, and River felt as if the temperature in the room dropped about 20 degrees in response. “Anyway, I didn’t ask you to come here because I wanted your opinion on my finances.”

“Then, what did you want?” And why did it take you so long to text me back?

“I had two reasons.” Ash held up two fingers, forming a peace sign. He touched his index finger and wiggled it. “First, I wanted you to see my paintings for yourself. But you’ve already said that you aren’t sure what you think about them. Mind if I ask why?”

River saw no reason to hide that information. “I don’t really like how they make me feel.”

“What, like you’re enjoying yourself?” Ash rolled his eyes playfully.

River scowled at him in return. It occurred to him that he still held onto Ash’s shoulder, and that Ash had given up on trying to get him to remove his hand, instead seeming to have embraced the touch. They stood closer together now. When had that happened? “No. It’s the haziness. It feels too much like a dream I’m trying to remember. And not really good dreams, either.” He didn’t know why he’d added the last part. The paintings were so innocuous, so harmless. “They feel moody, like things could turn around at the last second and become nightmares.”

Ash just looked at him for a long moment, utterly silent.

“I guess that must sound incredibly stupid, right?”

“No,” Ash murmured. “You’re about spot-on.”

“But why?”

Rather than answer him, Ash changed the subject. “Don’t you want to know the other reason I wanted you to come here?”

“Sure. What’s that?”

“For this.”

Stepping forward, Ash tilted his head up and pressed their lips together.