"Bennett, darling, you know I love you, but you're truly awful to be around tonight."

Bennett Marlowe's head snapped up and he realized he'd been staring down at his drink—water with lime, the kind of drink that looked alcoholic but wasn't—in silence for god knows how long. Peter and his husband Mohammed were watching Bennett with sad, slightly pitying smiles that they could get away with only because they were his best friends.

"Sorry," Bennett said. "I'm, uh… a little distracted."

Mo, who was far more polite, bit back a smile as Peter rolled his eyes.

"You're not chained to the table," said Peter with a wry smile. "You can go if you want."

Peter had been the one who dragged Bennett out in the first place, saying he refused to let Bennett turn into a total recluse. They were at some poetry reading in East Linfield for some friend of a friend of Mo's, and the worst part was that the event itself was lovely—Bennett didn’t even have an excuse to be so surly.

Well, he had plenty of excuses, but none of them Peter would accept.

"I keep telling you," Peter said, waving his hand vaguely towards the room, "there's plenty of people in Linfield who would jump at the chance to sleep with you."

Bennett blushed. He was used to having his sex life—or lack thereof—put under a microscope by Peter, but he glanced around at the nearby tables to make sure no one had heard. The room was crowded, but of course no one was listening.

"It's not that—" Bennett said, running a finger through the beads of condensation on the glass. "I've been thinking about… what you said and—" He paused and took a deep breath. "I'm gonna try writing about... what happened."

Seven years and he still couldn't bring himself to talk about it out loud.

Peter's face softened.

"Oh," he said gently, and reached a hand across the tiny table, resting it on Bennett's arm. "What made you change your mind?"

"You, mostly, of course," Bennett said with a crooked smile that felt almost natural. "As always. I know I was… a little short with you—"

"You think?" Peter said, grinning as he squeezed Bennett's arm before withdrawing his hand. Bennett had been less than polite to his friend the last time Peter had broached the topic.

"But once you mentioned it, the idea stayed in the back of my mind, and…" Bennett trailed off, looking around the room as if he might find the words he was searching for tucked up by the air conditioning ducts above. "Last night I was having trouble sleeping, so I got up and… wrote a bit, actually."

"How did it feel?" Peter said.

Bennett snorted.

"Terrible, of course," Bennett said. "But I think you were you right—oh, stop that."

Peter was grinning smugly.

"It's not polite to gloat," Mo said to his husband, with his usual serene smile. Peter could get away with acting like this—he was Bennett's best friend. Bennett had known Peter for years, had met in Singapore, of all places, when they were both just starting out as foreign correspondents.

"Really, though," Peter said, his voice gentle again. "I'm proud of you."

Bennett waved away his friend's affirmation like it was a moth fluttering in his face.

"I doubt it will ever see the light of day," he said. "It's just… Maybe it will help."

"I think it's a very good idea, Bennett," Mo said.

Bennett looked back down at his drink, taking a sip for lack of anything better to do to break the gravity of the moment. He was grateful his friends knew him so well, because Mo turned to Peter and made some blithe comment about the poet who had just finished reading, and Bennett was left to his thoughts.

He was tired of feeling damaged. The slight limp, the gnarled, ropy mess of scars running up his thigh—those he'd have forever. But the panic attacks, the sleepless nights, the constant running from the wild, relentless barrage of thoughts in his mind—

Maybe there was a way things could be different.

Bennett excused himself. The room suddenly felt claustrophobically warm. He was glad he'd come, glad he'd forced himself out of the house, but in that moment he just needed to be alone.

There was a small smoking patio out back, down the narrow, slightly dingy hallway that led to the bathrooms. It had been a long time since Bennett himself smoked, but it was times like this that he missed a built-in excuse to escape almost any social situation.

He yanked the door open and promptly walked right into someone.

"Oof—"

"Sorry—"

"My fault—"

They were talking over one another and they both stopped at the same time.

Bennett blinked in surprise. Somehow he'd managed to slam the door open on an absurdly handsome stranger, who was grinning up at him like they were sharing some hilarious joke.

"I should probably be more careful opening doors," Bennett said, collecting himself.

"To be fair, I probably shouldn't be standing right in front of them like an idiot," the guy said with a crooked grin. He had a flirty sparkle in his eye and Bennett instantly knew they both felt the attraction.

"Going in or coming out?" Bennett said, and he knew what he wanted the answer to be. The patio was small, and Christmas lights had been strung up all around, giving the space a cozy, intimate feel. At the other end of the patio, two young women sat smoking, but they were so busy staring lovingly at one another that Bennett thought they probably didn't even notice they weren't alone.

"Well, I'd just been sort of standing in the doorway," the stranger said. "But—coming out. Wanted to get a few shots of the city." He held up the camera that Bennett had just noticed was hanging from his neck.

"You're a photographer?" Bennett asked.

Scintillating conversation, Bennett, he thought. How long had it been since he was last nervous around someone like this? Bennett had been on a handful of dates after his divorce had been finalized, men and women that Peter had helpfully tried to set him up with, along with a few disastrous forays into online dating, but in the past few years, he hadn't bothered to put any effort into his love life.

"Yeah—well—no—" the stranger said, laughing lightly at himself. He really was stunning—young, definitely way too young for Bennett, with an energy and vitality about him that suggested his idea of a good time was waking up at five in the morning to hike. Long limbs, sandy hair in desperate need of a trim, and classic, elegant features, like he'd just stepped out of a black-and-white photo in a history textbook.

"I'm not a professional photographer," he was saying. "I'm friends with one of the people hosting—Kit—and they asked me to take some pictures of the event."

Bennett didn't know Kit, but he nodded like he did.

"I came out here for a few pictures of the view, though."

Bennett tore his eyes off this beautiful person talking to him and looked out past the railing.

"Oh," Bennett said, with a soft inhale. "This is lovely."

The patio was long but not deep, and it only took a step to cross it. Bennett stood at the railing looking out at the view. Linfield was full of hills—obnoxiously so—and the venue they were at was perfectly perched at the top of a particularly tall one. From here, Bennett could see the city sprawled out before him, glittering and glorious in the night. In the distance, he could just make out the illuminated dome of Bellamy University's most recognizable building.

"Right?" the stranger said, stepping up to the railing beside Bennett. Bennett couldn't quite believe it—this would have been the perfect time for this guy to extricate himself from the conversation, to take a few pictures and flee, but instead he seemed to be… interested in talking to Bennett.

Stranger things had happened, he supposed.

"I'm Jamie, by the way," the stranger said, sticking out his hand.

"Bennett." Bennett shook Jamie's hand—his hands were soft, his fingers long, like a pianist's.

He was so young though—even with great genetics and an excellent skincare routine, there had to be a good ten years between them.

Oh god, what if he goes to Bellamy? Bennett thought. He'd heard one too many stories of colleagues chatting up attractive strangers in bars, only to recognize them stumbling into some senior engineering lecture on Monday.

"Do you… come here often?" Bennett said, immediately cringing. He'd forgotten how to flirt, it seemed—hell, he'd forgotten how to have a conversation with anyone that wasn't Peter or Mo.

Jamie didn't seem to notice Bennett's lack of social grace tonight, or, if he did, he mercifully didn't say anything.

"This is my first time here," Jamie said, fiddling on the settings of his camera. "It's a great space, though—Kit's been trying to organize an event here for ages, so I was super excited to hear they finally got it. I live nearby, though, so I've biked past it a ton."

Bennett was doing mental calculations. If Jamie lived in this neighborhood, and if he was college-age, he probably went to West Fork Community College just across the river. And if Jamie were interested…

Well, a little flirting—if the awkward conversation Bennett was making could even be considered flirting—never hurt anyone.

The camera was an intimidating type of DSLR, with a lens that could double as a makeshift weapon if need be. It was the kind of camera the photographers Bennett had once worked with had, but he didn’t want to think about that right now.

Right now he just wanted to lean against the splintering railing and enjoy the warm summer night as he watched Jamie carefully aim.

"I think one of the most frustrating things about photography," Jamie said, face hidden behind the body of the camera, "is that there are just some shots that never quite come out right." The shutter clicked and Jamie pulled back, looking at the result of his shot on the digital display. He held it out for Bennett to see.

It was a nice shot, but nothing compared to the reality of sparkling city spilled out beneath them.

"See?" Jamie said. "Just not the same. But sometimes… it helps you see things you didn't notice before."

He was looking out at the dark cityscape, eyes narrowed, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"What do you normally like to photograph?" Bennett asked.

"All sorts of things," Jamie said, turning towards Bennett, leaning up against the railing. His eyes were green, maybe, or light brown—Bennett couldn't quite tell in the warm cast of the lights above. They were beautiful, though, like the rest of him. "Architecture, plants—people are my favorite though."

Bennett had gotten too lost in the graceful lines of Jamie's features to answer, and he realized they were standing there, just regarding each other. He averted his eyes quickly, swallowing hard.

"There's something just… really amazing about photographing someone," Jamie continued—and Bennett was glad that Jamie was doing most of the talking. Jamie's voice felt like champagne bubbles running over his skin, and Bennett wanted to sink into it like a warm bath. "Sometimes, I feel like… a camera is almost like… a scalpel—oh, I don't even know if that makes sense, but—you peel back the layers of a person, or an object, or a place—you see it differently, see all the lines and angles that make up its physical shape, and you see how the form of something gives it meaning—"

Jamie faltered, suddenly unsure.

"Sorry," Jamie said quickly. "It's dumb, I know—I just get excited—"

Bennett realized his mouth was hanging open slightly, and Jamie must have mistaken it for scorn or confusion.

"That's… brilliant," Bennett said, and he had the strong desire to fold Jamie, a perfect stranger, up into his arms. Who had made Jamie think that his enthusiasm, his insight, his wisdom and intelligence, was silly or worthless? "Please… keep going."

"Oh," Jamie said, looking surprised. "Well… that's it, I guess. I was never much for drawing or anything—and I can't sing to save my life—but this is something where I can… make sense of things."

He paused again, glancing at Bennett, who nodded.

"How long have you been doing photography?" Bennett said.

Jamie flushed again, a sweet light pink blooming across his cheeks that Bennett wanted to kiss away.

"Not that long, really," Jamie said. "I saved up for ages to get this camera, and I finally could afford it last year. Since then, it comes with me everywhere. But—when I was a kid, my grandma always got me those dumb disposable cameras for my birthday and Christmas, and I'd go nuts running around the yard taking pictures of bugs and stuff."

Jamie trailed off, smiling fondly at some memory Bennett couldn't see.

"Are you from Linfield?" Bennett asked.

Jamie grinned and shook his head.

"Nah," he said. "Georgia. Rural Georgia—like, handful of stoplights kind of rural."

"Winters up here must have been an adjustment," Bennett said. He wanted to keep looking at Jamie, drinking in all the smallest imperfections of his features, memorizing him, but instead he looked out over Linfield, at the pinpricks of light where hundreds of thousands of other lives were unfolding, unaware of his own.

"Everyone says that," Jamie said, laughing, and Bennett wished he'd thought of something more clever to say. Bennett had interviewed literal kings before and yet here he was, tongue-tied by some young, handsome stranger who kept fidgeting with his camera like he might explode if he held still for too long. "Really, though, I love the snow. I've been here for two winters now and the novelty hasn't worn off. It's beautiful."

"Maybe," Bennett said, raising an eyebrow. "I can't say I love it too much when it's March and everything's dirty and slushy and I haven't seen the sun in five months."

Jamie laughed, a sound as bright as wind chimes.

I could fall in love with a laugh like that, Bennett found himself thinking, and he mentally shook himself. Peter was right—he needed to get laid, and quickly, if he was becoming infatuated with inappropriately young strangers he met at poetry readings.

"Can I—do you have more pictures you've taken?" Bennett said suddenly, surprising himself. "On your camera, I mean."

"Oh—I—well—they're not edited—" Jamie said quickly.

"Nevermind, I—"

"If you want to see—" Jamie said.

"Only if you want me to see—" Bennett said.

They both stopped short again, just like they had before when they'd simultaneously apologized for Bennett smacking Jamie with the door.

"I've got some stuff I haven't uploaded yet," Jamie said, turning back the small, brightly-lit display of his camera. "But you have to promise not to judge, okay? I haven't had a chance to delete the bad stuff."

"I promise I won't," Bennett said with a smile. Jamie held the camera out to Bennett, who took it. The strap was still around Jamie's neck, and Bennett was acutely aware of how close they were, of the heat of Jamie's body through his clothes against Bennett's arm.

Bennett cycled through the photographs—they were mostly of some neighborhood which seemed to be in Linfield from earlier that day, judging by the lighting and the familiar summer thunderheads low in the sky. Bennett had lived in Linfield for years now but didn’t recognize it.

"These are wonderful," Bennett said, and he felt more than saw Jamie blushing.

"I mean, it's just houses and stuff," Jamie said. "But—I like exploring—"

"Really, though," Bennett said, more insistent now. "These are—I've worked a lot with professional photographers and this is… this is on their level."

Bennett hadn't meant to let onto his personal history, and he prayed Jamie wouldn't pry, but it was true. These were more than just pictures of houses, pictures of some decaying Linfield neighborhood. They were moody and atmospheric, and each one seemed to suggest something, like the ghosts of hundreds of unremarkable lives were lurking just beyond the frame, crying out and begging to be noticed, for their stories to be told.

"Where is this?" Bennett said, stopping at one particular photo, some abandoned house. The windows had been boarded up and were covered with graffiti, and the porch was missing its railing and sagging heavily.

"It's this house I found in Brannon," Jamie said, referring to one particularly rundown neighborhood in Linfield. Back in the fifties, Brannon had been a prosperous, thriving area, but it had slowly sunk into a wasteland since then.

"It's… captivating," Bennett said, lingering on the photograph.

"Thank you," Jamie said softly. "This is actually one of my favorite ones I've taken in… a long time."

Bennett reached the end of the photos.

"You're very talented, Jamie," Bennett said, handing the camera back. Though there was no real need for it, they were still standing so close they were almost touching. The proximity sent pleasant shimmering tingles through Bennett's body.

Jamie turned towards him, angling his bright, open face up towards Bennett, and Bennett sucked in a breath.

"Can I photograph you?" Jamie asked, and Bennett almost flinched, startled in part by the question, but mostly by the low, intimate quality of Jamie's voice, the kind of tone one rarely heard beyond the lazy morning hours after a night of vigorous fucking.

"The lighting is perfect," Jamie said.

"I—" Bennett said.

"Sorry," Jamie said quickly, glancing away and flushing, looking suddenly quite young and vulnerable.

"No—that's—you can, I was just… surprised."

Jamie looked back at him, his broad, stunning smile firmly back in place.

"Really?" he said, holding up his camera. Bennett could practically see his fingers twitching in anticipation.

"I mean… if you really want to," Bennett said, indicating how far-fetched he found the concept.

"I do," Jamie said, nodding fervently. "Just… stay like that, okay?" He held the camera up to his face.

"Do you want me to… look at the camera?" Bennett asked, glancing around. The only other people were the two love-struck girls, and they wouldn't have even noticed if Bennett and Jamie had started fucking loudly on the table they were sitting at.

"If you want," Jamie said from behind the camera. "If it feels right."

The lights of the patio glinted off the curved glass of the lens, and Bennett couldn't look away, like the camera were some strange, intelligent beast carefully regarding him.

The shutter clicked, then again, then again.

How many times had he been interviewed, filmed, thrust under a harsh, hot spotlight? And yet, somehow, Bennett felt like this was the first time in his thirty-nine years that he'd ever really been seen in this way, like somehow this… boy had managed to flay him, to lay him open.

It was so intimate Bennett could barely stand it. His cock stirred.

"Bennett—there you are—oh—"

Bennett's head snapped to the sound of Peter's voice, who had just appeared through the door.

"Just wanted to make sure you were still alive—" Peter said, his eyes darting between Jamie and Bennett and looking absolutely gleeful. He disappeared back into the building.

The spell had been broken.

What are you thinking? Bennett scolded himself.

And suddenly he saw the facts clearly laid out—here he was, an older divorcé, on the brink of getting hard just because of a little attention from some kid with great bone structure.

"I—should go—" Bennett said, and Jamie's face fell.

"Oh—" Jamie said. "Okay—"

"Nice talking with you," Bennett said gruffly. "Good luck."

"Thanks—"

And then Bennett was back inside, weaving his way through the line to the bathroom that had grown exponentially longer as the night had gone on. He found Peter and Mo at their table, engrossed in some debate about whether Casablanca was overrated.

Bennett sat down on the tall stool and Peter looked at him, shocked.

"What are you doing here?" Peter said. Bennett took a sip of his abandoned drink, the ice long since melted. "I didn't mean for you to come back—"

"We were—done talking—it was nothing—"

Peter rolled his eyes.

"That was not nothing—who was that? And was he taking your picture? That's a come-on if I've ever heard one."

Bennett grumbled, his face flushing.

"It was stupid," he said. "He's probably a decade younger than me. Not interested."

"Bennett," Peter said, in the tone that Bennett had learned long ago meant, stop being ridiculous. "Darling, believe me. People don't take pictures of people they're not interested in."

"He was the event photographer."

"He was looking at you like you hung the moon," Peter said.

"Stop that."

Peter sighed dramatically.

"This is why you're going to be single forever."

"I don't want to date anyone—" Bennett said. He was feeling cranky now, embarrassed at himself for letting himself get so carried away.

"Then get laid," Peter said. "Lord knows you could use it."

"I'm not going to humiliate myself chasing after someone so far out of my league—and so far out of my peer group."

"You're killing me," Peter said. "Even from across the patio I could see that guy was ready to get on his knees—"

"Peter—" Bennett hissed, glaring at his incorrigible friend.

"When I was younger," Peter continued unapologetically, "I would have killed for a chance to have mind-blowing sex with some hot older guy—"

Bennett looked at Mo for backup but Mo just smiled and shook his head.

"I know better than to argue with him," Mo said, bringing his hand to Peter's back and rubbing slow circles. "Especially when he gets like this."

"I'm just saying, you keep selling yourself short, Bennett," Peter said in a very matter-of-fact tone. He took a sip of his drink. "It wouldn't kill you to just admit that you're a catch."

Bennett couldn't have disagreed with Peter more on that particular point, but Mo saw how uncomfortable Bennett looked and took mercy on him, steering the conversation to a more neutral topic.

Bennett sank back into himself as Mo and Peter talked. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept an eye on the back hallway, both hoping and fearing he'd catch a glimpse of Jamie again.

It was hard to trust what Peter had said, but Bennett realized he probably could have very easily gotten laid that night. There had been a time, long ago, when Bennett had been a bit of a player. He was good-looking, charismatic, and had an absurd amount of far-fetched but absolutely true stories from his time abroad. Bennett now, though, felt very far removed from the person who had once walked into bars and surveyed the crowd, knowing he had a good shot at taking home anyone he wanted.

But, Bennett realized, what he wanted wasn't just a good lay, a hot stranger for the night. He missed having a person, a deep connection with someone that was his, and his alone. He didn't really miss Michelle, his ex-wife—their divorce had been for the best. What he missed was sharing a future with someone, of looking over at the person beside him in bed and seeing a past, present, and future overlaid on this person he loved so deeply.

Of course, he'd thought that person was Michelle, and look where he was now.

He watched his friends talking, Mo nodding patiently, his eyes glued to Peter, hanging on to every word as his husband chattered away about something completely inconsequential.

Bennett didn't want to get laid—he wanted something like what Mo and Peter had, who complemented each other so perfectly. Mo was calm and steady, an anchor for Peter. And in return, Peter, bright and fiery, was fiercely devoted to Mo.

Bennett was lost in his thoughts—mostly self-pitying ones—and didn't even realize the reading had finished until Peter clapped on him on the back.

"Let's go, my boy," Peter said. "Just have to settle our tab and then we'll get you home."

"I'll meet you out front," Bennett mumbled as Peter and Mo made their way through the crowd towards the bar. He was so tired suddenly, exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, but he knew once he got home he'd lay awake for hours, looking at shadows banding his ceiling from the light filtering in through the blinds.

Just like always.

Bennett felt better outside. It was late, but the street was still alive with little herds of people, laughing loudly as they stumbled from bar to bar. Above, he could see only the brightest stars through the orange haze of the city lights.

Bennett heard a noise, the scrape of metal on metal, and turned to see someone unlocking a bike from the lamppost nearby—Jamie.

Jamie straightened up, U-lock dangling from one hand, and seemed slightly surprised to see Bennett standing before him.

Oh, fuck it, Bennett thought.

"Would you like to get coffee sometime?" Bennett said, the words tumbling out in a burst of courage.

Jamie's eyes went wide, and then he smiled crookedly, chewing on his bottom lip—and, god, suddenly the only thing Bennett wanted was his own teeth on that smooth pink lip.

"I thought I'd scared you off," Jamie said.

"You did," Bennett said. "Well, it wasn't you—I was being an idiot. So, I wanted to ask—I mean, if you're interested—"

Goddamnit, Bennett, he thought. This was a dumb idea—this kid would get one glimpse of him in harsh, unforgiving daylight, see where age had crept into the corners of his eyes, and he'd take off running.

"Yes," Jamie said eagerly, cutting Bennett off. "I am definitely interested."

"Oh," said Bennett. He couldn’t help matching Jamie's broad smile. "Oh, that's—"

"Did you not expect me to say yes?" Jamie said.

"I… guess not," Bennett said, laughing at himself. "Well. Good, then."

"Are you going to ask for my number, or should I just stand in front of a door somewhere and wait for you to hit me with it?" Jamie said, cocking his head. Bennett blushed—it had been a long time since anyone had flirted with him like this, light and playful and innocent.

"Oh—right," Bennett said. He pulled out his phone and Jamie did the same. It was a tiny, ancient flip phone, and Bennett was willing to bet Jamie was the kind of person who had no social media presence, either.

They exchanged numbers, and Jamie never lost his smile as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. His camera was tucked away into a bulky, carefully padded bag that was slung over his shoulder, and he threw his leg over his bike.

"I'll see you soon then," he said.

"Looking forward to it," Bennett said. God, could you be any worse at this? he thought.

"Me too," Jamie said. Bennett watched his figure disappear into the gloom down the street.

"Well, well," said a voice, and Bennett turned to see Peter looking triumphant—and even Mo looked proud.

"Don't say anything—"

Peter held up his hands in protest.

"Wasn't going to—"

"You were," Bennett said as they crossed the street to where Mo had parked.

"I was," Peter conceded. "Can't I be happy that my good friend is finally getting laid?"

"It's just coffee—"

"Bennett, that kid was two seconds away from jumping you—ow—"

Bennett had slapped the back of Peter's head, which did succeed in shutting him up for the moment.

"Mo, contain your husband, please," Bennett pleaded.

"Can't be done," Mo said serenely.

* * *

Bennett had a variety of medications lined up in his medicine cabinet like little soldiers, waiting to be called to action. Some he took daily—low doses for anxiety and depression which he wasn't sure did much but wasn't willing to go off of, just in case—and others were for when things got rough.

It had been a long time since things were bad enough to merit the really heavy-duty stuff, and now he tried to avoid taking them as much as possible. In the year or so after everything had happened, he'd leaned far too heavily on medications, both doctor and self-prescribed. He didn't like who he'd been then—and his ex-wife hadn't either.

So although he had plenty of sleep aids at his disposal, Bennett lay awake, running through every deep breathing and meditation exercise he'd picked up over the past few years. He drifted a while in and out of fitful sleep.

At four in the morning, he got up. Four was close to five, which was close to a normal time that a functioning human might be awake and starting their day. He shuffled to the kitchen, oddly energized.

Bennett set about making coffee, a comfortable ritual he'd perfected over the years. Though Bennett had given up nicotine and alcohol, caffeine was the one vice he'd never managed to kick. He set the kettle on the stove to boil and looked out the kitchen window. It was still dark out, and his reflection regarded him warily, odd shadows cast by the tastefully recessed lighting, hair sticking up and eyes sunken from chronic exhaustion.

Bennett caught himself making that sour, pinch-faced look he always seemed to be wearing—Peter said he looked like he was chewing on a lemon. He relaxed his jaw, trying to set it more pleasantly.

He looked marginally more approachable that way, more like someone a person like Jamie—young, charming, hot—might want to chat up on the smoking patio outside a poetry reading.

The kettle began to whistle, a high, bright sound that shattered the night-quiet kitchen, and he set about filling the french press, timing it carefully so the coffee was strong but not bitter. He grabbed his laptop, pulled on an old Bellamy sweatshirt, and took his mug out onto the back porch.

After he and Michelle had separated, he'd found a small house close to the Bellamy campus—near enough that he could walk, and not so far that he'd wear out his leg trekking to work each day. What had really sold him on the house, though, was the backyard. It was tiny and overgrown and utterly secluded—when Bennett sat on the rickety little porch that jutted off the kitchen, he felt like he was a million miles away from the city.

Bennett sat in front of the blank page on his computer screen, glowing a harsh blue-white in the pre-dawn darkness, sipping his coffee and thinking. His therapist would be thrilled he was choosing such a healthy way to process things, even if it was coming years later—though, as she would say, there was no wrong time to process.

Ugh, he thought. Healing is so much work.

He wasn't really sure who he was writing for—himself, partially, but he knew the story already, knew what had happened. But maybe that was the problem. Perhaps, if he could pick it apart, the way he would any other story—deconstruct the pieces like a disassembled household appliance, gutted with the circuitry laid bare and demystified—maybe if he could do that, it wouldn't, or couldn't loom so heavy in his mind anymore.

And how refreshing that would be.

He couldn't quite bring himself to examine everything, though, so instead he sat and watched the cursor blink as he sipped his coffee, falling into a soft sort of trance. The words would come eventually—they always did. Bennett's mind was never not observing, writing, hoarding away details from the world around him like a magpie.

He just had to give it time.

The sun began to rise, the world turning gray then gold as the light grew. The city was still quiet, fresh, the day untrampled, the dew still beading the grass—possibility hadn't yet been interrupted by reality.

His email dinged, bringing him sharply back to the present.

He sighed. Of course it was Greg Archer, head of the department, who'd broken the tranquility of the morning.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: JR205

Ben,

I've attached the contact info for your TA assignment (James Larsson) for Intro to Journalism Ethics. There are also several assessment rubrics for your TA you will be required to fill out throughout the semester. Please take care to meet the deadlines which I have put in bold below for your convenience.

Bennett rolled his eyes as he scanned the rest of Greg's email. Bennett hated being called Ben, and at this point he couldn't tell if Greg was doing it on purpose—he certainly wouldn't put it past Greg. True to form, the rest of Greg's email was similarly passive aggressive, detailing in a very condescending tone what Bennett needed to do.

Bennett hadn't even wanted a TA—from what he'd seen, undergraduate teaching assistants were no more than one more person to babysit, and all his colleagues complained that it took more time to explain to the TA what to do than to just do it themselves. The kids at Bellamy were sharp and hardworking, but it was simply an extra layer of responsibility for a class that Bennett didn't even want to be teaching in the first place.

He fired off a quick email to [email protected] to set up a meeting the next day at three—the Sunday before classes started. It was probably a little more brusque in tone than it needed to be, but Bennett had a hard time caring.

He normally taught the upper level journalism classes, and he preferred it that way. He liked the intimate setting, where he could get to know the students and their styles, where he didn’t have to waste time going over the basics that really should be intuitive for any student seriously considering journalism as a profession. He knew he had a reputation for being a bit of an asshole, but he simply didn't have patience for the lower level classes, even at a school like Bellamy.

He was not looking forward to teaching an intro class to a lecture hall full of bright-eyed and completely clueless freshmen and sophomores.

Bennett's mood was sour and his coffee was cold. He closed his laptop and went back inside, leaving his mug in the kitchen sink. The sun was fully up now, so he closed the blinds, threw himself down on his bed, and finally, finally, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Bennett woke up groggy, overheated, and disoriented. He sat up, scrubbing his hand over his face and glanced at the clock—it was almost five in the evening. He was going to have to get his sleep cycle back under control before the semester got underway or he'd be miserable for months.

He grabbed his phone. He knew before he even looked he'd have a zillion texts from Peter, most of them either pictures of Mo, looking half-patient, half-harassed, or banal updates about what Peter was doing that day.

He sat upright, suddenly wide awake. Jamie had texted him the hour before. Bennett swallowed hard, excitement fizzing in his stomach. He caught himself not wanting to open it right away, to savor the anticipation.

You are being absolutely ridiculous, he thought, but at the same time, there wasn't too much harm in letting himself enjoy the simple pleasure of a text from a cute guy.

>>JAMIE: instead of coffee how do you feel about jellyfish?

Bennett paused for a moment, laughing to himself and trying to figure out what to say in response to a text like that.

>>BENNETT: I can't say I've ever eaten a jellyfish before, but I'll try almost anything once.

Jamie responded almost instantly.

>>JAMIE: i like that attitude

>>JAMIE: theres an exhibit about jellyfish at the natural history museum and tomorrow is half priced admission

>>JAMIE: interested?

Bennett smiled down at his phone. Of course Jamie wouldn’t settle for a bland date like getting coffee.

>>BENNETT: Sounds great. Time? I'm free after 4.

>>JAMIE: perfect see you there

* * *

The next day, Bennett drummed his fingers on his desk and checked the clock again, feeling irritated. His teaching assistant was now ten minutes late for their meeting—he wasn't exactly making a great first impression.

He smoothed his hair down again. He'd caved and told Peter about the date, mainly because after the fifth text message about it, Peter had worn down Bennett's defenses as usual. That was Peter's style—he waged the most charming wars of attrition until he got what he wanted.

The last time Bennett had gone on a date—nearly eight months ago, he realized—he'd felt a dull apprehension leading up to getting dinner with some friend of a friend of a friend's cousin.

He was looking forward to this, though.

If I ever get there, Bennett thought grimly. If the TA was any later, Bennett would have to text Jamie and warn him he'd be late, and he hated the idea of Jamie standing outside the museum, growing increasingly impatient with him.

Jamie didn't seem like the type to get impatient, though.

Bennett turned to his computer, prepared to send a terse email to the TA, when his door burst open.

"I'm so sorry I'm late, I—oh my god—"

Bennett looked up, startled and completely confused.

"Jamie?" he said. "What are you doing here?"