Evan stared at the ceiling, knowing if he left this bed right now, he could be at the Hillfoot train station in ten minutes. Ben wouldn’t try and make him stay, even if he’d still been awake, which he wasn’t. He would understand.

But just in case, Evan would write the most honest note allowed by law, explaining how he’d had a lovely time but wasn’t ready to be close to someone just now. How Ben deserved better.

He’d leave the note right here on this pillow. Right here.

But the minutes and hours passed, and Evan didn’t move. The thought of going out into the cold again…

Finally he looked at Ben sprawled on his back beside him, his profile standing out against a pure blue light. Before falling asleep, Ben had switched off the lamp but turned on a humidifier the size and shape of a cricket ball (“For my sinuses, so I don’t snore your ears off.”). It gave a steady, soothing hiss, and its cobalt glow cast the lampshade’s shadow upon the ceiling.

Evan sighed. There’d be no sleep until he made sure every room was as secure as this one. He slid from the warm bed, pulled on his jeans and T-shirt, and crept out into the hallway.

The stairs were thickly carpeted and solidly built, making no creaks as he climbed. The wallpaper in the foyer and stairway was a rich red-and-gold Victorian pattern, the sort his fellow architects would have deemed “trying too hard.” He was glad his current profession didn’t involve assessing the hipness of his surroundings. Memorizing details was a lot easier if he didn’t need to form opinions about them.

The upper floor contained a bathroom and three bedrooms, the smallest of which held the impersonal decor of a guest room: a neutral blue duvet cover, a trio of matching landscape paintings, a set of folded towels at the foot of the bed.

He continued to Mrs. Reid’s office. One wall featured three massive calendars, of the current year and its two successors. Evan noticed certain wedding-free dates common to each year, the next being 20-21 March, which was marked Naw-Rúz, the Persian New Year.

He stepped into the master bedroom just long enough to confirm it was empty, then crept back downstairs to the library, where he locked the door, took off his jeans, and slipped back into bed.

Perhaps the perimeter check had been what he’d needed to sleep, because when Evan opened his eyes, the room was painted with a dusky gray light, and the space beside him was empty.

Somewhere in the room, Ben spoke in an urgent whisper. “…none other God but Him, the Help in Peril, the Self-Subsisting.”

After a moment, Evan heard a soft rustle. The trajectory of Ben’s voice changed a bit. “Exalted art Thou above my praise and the praise of anyone beside me…”

Evan guessed this was the Bahá’í medium obligatory prayer, to be said between sunrise and noon, then twice again later in the day. Ben’s voice held none of the bored drone Evan usually heard people pray with. He sounded as though he was speaking to a real person, trying to convince them—or himself—of something vital.

Ben shifted position again, and when he spoke, his voice was softer, perhaps blocked by the end of the bed as he reached the final, seated portion of the prayer.

Evan marveled at this impulse to speak to a higher power. His mum and stepdad were ostensibly Church of Scotland but had never been particularly observant. Evan shared his father’s cynicism toward religion, born of watching people bomb one another—and innocent bystanders—in the name of their versions of God. He’d seen firsthand in Belfast and Glasgow how sectarianism drove people to wall themselves off from “enemies” whose choice of church made them less than human.

His leg twitched in a sudden jerk.

Ben’s prayer halted. “You awake?”

“Only just.” Evan rolled onto his back. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No bother,” Ben said as he stood. “I can finish reciting the name of God later.”

“Don’t start over on my account.”

“I won’t. I’m meant to say Allah-u-Abha ninety-five times a day. I got to twenty-one before I stopped. I should’ve gone to another room, but I didn’t want you to be disorientated waking alone.”

“Thanks.” Evan warmed inside at Ben’s thoughtfulness. “How do you keep count?”

“I’ll show you.” Ben crawled onto the bed to lie prone, propping himself on his elbows, then took Evan’s hand. “I touch the tip of my thumb to each knuckle on the opposite hand.” He demonstrated, beginning with Evan’s thumb joints before moving on to his fingers. Then he tapped each knuckle again with his own index finger. “There’s nineteen knuckles on one hand, and five fingers on the other hand. Nineteen times five equals ninety-five.”

Evan’s entire arm tingled from Ben’s soft, deliberate touch. “That’s brilliant.”

“There’s also an app that vibrates after the ninety-fifth time you touch the screen, but I like this better.”

“Me, too.” Evan cleared the huskiness from his throat. “You can finish now if it’d be easier.”

“Nothing could make it easier. Feels so awkward after not praying for months.” He glanced at the bedside table clock, its antique bronze face topped by a pair of alarm bells. “Mind, you should leave within the hour, in case Mum’s home early.”

“What made you want to start praying again this morning?” Evan thought of the Bahá’í precept against premarital sex. “Did last night make you feel, erm, sinful?” He hoped Ben would laugh and deny it.

Instead his eyes drooped at their corners. “I’m not ashamed of being gay. I’d feel just as conflicted if I was straight.” Ben rubbed his cheek, which, though unshaven, looked freshly scrubbed. “Bahá’ís don’t believe that sex is wrong or impure. I was taught that it’s a perfectly natural impulse, one of the most beautiful parts of human experience. But also that marriage was created to make a place for those impulses.”

“Why?”

“Because when you’re in an equal, loving union, then sex is constructive instead of destructive. And by ‘constructive’ I don’t mean just making babies. It’s about nurturing each other, building each other up.”

“Okay.” So far none of this sounded odd to Evan. “Couldn’t two people be in an equal, loving union without marrying?”

“One would think. But there’s something, I don’t know, divine about having that unique bond with one person for the rest of your life.” Ben tapped his fingertips on the bed. “I don’t judge others for premarital bonking, I swear. Fault-finding is a big no-no for Bahá’ís.”

“So you don’t judge others, but you judge yourself.”

“Sometimes.” Ben pulled his pillow beneath his chest and hugged it. “See, being Bahá’í isn’t about mindlessly following a set of archaic rules. We’re taught that we’re rational souls, so we should use our discretion when it comes to applying the laws of our faith.”

“So you can decide for yourself whether to follow them?”

“Not in a capricious way, like, ‘Eh, I don’t fancy being chaste, so I’ve decided that law’s rubbish.’ We should reflect on whether our actions nurture our souls. Whether they serve God or only serve ourselves.”

Evan felt a bit lost. “Like what?”

“This’ll sound weird,” Ben muttered as he combed his fingers through the flop of dark hair on his forehead. “When I’m with a Grindr hookup, it’s all about them. I make it all about them, and they either don’t notice or they don’t care because they just want to get off. And I, for want of a better word, specialize in lads who are coming to terms with their sexuality. I make them feel good, and not just physically. I bring them peace.” Ben slowly shook his head. “And I’m not ashamed of that, not on any level.”

Evan wanted to kiss him then, to absorb a few iotas of the radical kindness dwelling within this lad. But he didn’t want to derail their conversation just when he was on the brink of understanding. “So it’s your own pleasure which feels wrong. When someone makes you feel good, it doesn’t nurture your soul?”

“Basically, I guess.” Ben looked at him again, pressing his cheek into the pillow. “When we were rutting against the wall, I wasn’t thinking of you as a person, only a body. I wasn’t thinking anything but, ‘Yaaaaaaasss!’” He waved his bare feet in the air.

Evan risked a gentle joke. “If it helps, I was thinking the same thing.”

“It doesn’t help, but thanks.” Ben picked at the seam of his pillowcase, looking as though he might weep. “It feels like I moved away from God by putting my own needs above yours.”

“It didn’t seem that way to me. Besides, you deserve to get what you want.”

“Mm. Maybe.” Ben switched on a winsome smile. “Maybe it’s all about being a Leap Baby.”

Evan blinked at this sudden shift in tone. “A what?”

“I was born the twenty-ninth of February. I’ve had but five proper birthdays in my life. I’m not complaining—on the regular years my parents still celebrate it on the twenty-eighth, or on the first of March.”

“Great,” Evan said, “but what’s that got to do with sex?”

“Birthdays make people feel special. I’ve had seventy-five percent fewer than other people.”

“You realize that being a Leap baby makes you more special, right?”

“Not special, just unusual. Och, you must think me a loon. I can’t even enjoy an orgasm without throwing a morning-after moody.”

“With all the selfish pricks out there? Your attitude’s kinda refreshing.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. Listen…” Evan reached out to take Ben’s hand. Then he paused, wanting to get the words right. “Please understand how much it would mean to me to make you feel good. How happy it would make me. How much peace it would bring me.”

Ben’s face softened. “Really?”

“Really. Giving and taking don’t have to be opposites.” He pulled Ben’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “They can be a team.”

Ben’s eyes grew suddenly damp. He turned his head to press his face into his pillow.

“Ben.” Evan moved forward and kissed his upper arm, just below the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Let me make you feel good.”

“You mean now?”

“Aye, now.” Evan hesitated, peering over the cliff of uncertainty. Then he leapt. “And later.”

Ben’s smile erased the sadness from his beautiful brown eyes. Then he rolled onto his back. “I suppose…if you must.”

I must, Evan thought as he slowly undressed him, his lips lingering on each new inch of skin. I really must.

Because there was no choice. Or rather, Evan had made his choice, between the security of solitude and the riskiness of romance. Before meeting Ben, Evan’s fear had always made this a simple, even automatic decision. But now there was something bigger and stronger than his fear.

In a way, that was the most terrifying part of all.

Ben couldn’t remember the last time he’d just lain back and let a man make him feel good. In fact, he’d only gone along with this idea to make Evan happy.

But now that it was more than an idea, now that Evan was settling between his legs, nudging his own bare knees beneath Ben’s thighs, all doubt was dissipating like fog beneath a hot sun.

Evan ran his hands up Ben’s legs, then slid his palms under Ben’s arse and clutched him hard.

Ben groaned and tilted up his hips. As he closed his eyes, the last thing he saw was Evan’s head descending.

Soft lips enveloped the head of his cock. Ben drew in a half gasp, half hiss. There was still a ghost of soreness from last night, but it faded with each gentle stroke of Evan’s tongue.

“Is this okay?” Evan whispered.

“Oh yeah.” A low laugh rumbled in Ben’s chest. “It’s okay.”

He felt the curve of Evan’s smile. “Show me what you want.”

Ben opened his eyes. “Hmm?”

Evan gazed up at him and licked his lips. “Put your cock in my mouth.”

It stiffened in response to the command. Ben grasped his shaft and shifted his foreskin down to expose the head. He guided it against Evan’s glistening lips, which parted in an instant. Instead of thrusting inside, Ben slid his cock head around the rim of Evan’s open mouth.

Evan moaned, his tongue slipping out for a taste. Ben echoed the sound, fully hard now. With his other hand, he tilted Evan’s head, just enough to let himself slip inside, halfway this time.

“God.” Ben dug his heels into the mattress as the sensations flared out through his body. “More.” Evan took him deeper, squeezing Ben’s arse with both hands. When his cock was secure within Evan’s mouth, Ben reached lower to cup his balls. “Ow.” Those were even more sore.

Evan halted, casting up a questioning look.

“That was my fault,” Ben said. “But talking of pain, won’t your neck get stiff like that?”

Evan released him carefully. “Maybe.” He slid off the end of bed, then went to the side near the fireplace and knelt on the floor. “Come here.”

Ben shifted over, mesmerized by the sight of this magnificent man on his knees before him. “Shall I sit up, then?”

“No need.” Evan took Ben’s legs and looped them over his shoulders. His long arms reached around Ben’s thighs so he could take his cock with all ten fingers. “How’s this?”

Ben wanted to say “Perfect,” but couldn’t find the breath as Evan began anew. The strokes of his hands and mouth remained light, yet his face was fervent, like he’d never felt such hunger or tasted anything so delicious. Ben pulled a pair of pillows beneath his head, the better to watch. He wished for his glasses so he could properly see past Evan’s bare, muscular back, down to his presumably perfect arse encased in those tight blue briefs.

For a moment Ben thought about how, when he’d get a blowjob or a hand job from a Grindr hookup, his pleasure was mostly for the other lad’s sake, for demonstration purposes. His sighs and moans had been mere feedback, encouragement. Lessons.

But this…Ben just wanted it. Needed it. Hoped it would never end.

He squirmed with each wave of sensation, but Evan held him fast, forcing his awareness to shrink to the length of his cock and the skill of what enveloped it. It felt like he was mapping every contour of Evan’s mouth, even the deeper parts he couldn’t explore when they’d kissed last night.

Evan turned his head at a new angle, making Ben groan. He looked up at the sound, and when their eyes met, Ben felt something click into place between them, something sweet and sincere yet full of fire.

Evan let go of him and rose up, sliding between Ben’s legs as he spread his body over his and brought their faces together.

“Are your knees getting sore?” Ben asked.

“No.” Evan’s gaze focused on his mouth. “I just saw your lips and had to taste them again.”

“Oh,” Ben managed to whisper. “Go on, then.”

Evan’s eyes crinkled. “But I canna decide which one first.” He took Ben’s bottom lip between his teeth, then gently sucked it between his own.

Moaning, Ben slid his palms down Evan’s back, barely stopping his fingers from plunging beneath the waistband of his briefs. He wanted to beg Evan to fuck him right here, right now, but more than that he wanted to savor this almost reverential kiss.

Evan switched to Ben’s top lip, giving it the same devoted treatment as the other. Ben’s cock jerked against Evan’s warm, taut belly, as though begging for attention.

Evan glanced down, then met his eyes again. “Ben…do you want to come in my mouth?”

OH GOD YES PLEASE NOW NOW NOW, he thought, but could manage only a shaky nod.

After a last, lingering kiss, Evan moved down again. “I’ll be going a peedie bit stronger, so tell me if it’s too much.”

“’Kay.” Ben prepared to flinch at Evan’s firmer grasp, but there was only a hint of pain, which gave way to a whole new level of pleasure as Evan’s mouth joined in, sliding up and down faster and faster, his tongue pressing harder with each stroke. Ben watched Evan consume him—head bobbing, jaws bulging, face flushing—and again wished for his glasses so he could see every masterful detail.

But then his vision blurred anyway as his orgasm swept over him.

“Yes! Oh…” Ben’s legs jerked up, thighs spasming, toes spreading wide. A flood of hot come surged forth, coating his cock within the exquisite chamber of Evan’s mouth, a place he never wanted to leave.

When he could finally speak again, Ben blurted out the first thought that came to mind: “That was far better than I expected.”

Hearing his own words, he opened his eyes to see Evan standing beside the bed staring at him. “Wait,” Ben said. “That came out wrong.”

“What did you mean?”

Ben decided to be honest, since backpedaling might imply an even greater insult. “Most guys who are even half as gorgeous as you are, they don’t bother developing skills.” His voice slurred a bit in the post-orgasmic haze. “Maybe they think a man can come just by looking at them.”

“Okay,” Evan said, drawing out both syllables.

“But not you,” Ben said quickly, then covered his face. “Sorry, this must be the worst compliment you ever got.”

“Not the worst.” Evan sat on the bed. “Definitely top five, though.”

Ben peeked at his face to make sure he was joking.

Evan gave him a wry grin. “I’m happy you enjoyed it.” He leaned over to kiss Ben’s cheek.

Ben grabbed his face and kissed him full and deep. His own taste on Evan’s tongue made him want to return the favor, pronto. But that would defeat the purpose of the whole taking-without-giving thing, so he simply whispered, “Thank you.”

Then he closed his eyes, rolled over, and let himself relive the last twelve hours as he drifted off into the sleep of the satisfied.

Evan dressed quietly, as Ben had already dozed off, a lopsided smile on his charming face. Buckling his belt—careful not to let it clink—he realized he’d not so much as glanced at the door while he was on his knees just now. He’d been so focused on Ben that he hadn’t the headspace to relive the past. That seemed a good sign.

He left the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind him, and headed for the foyer. Passing the living room, he stopped when he spied the pairs of bowls, spoons, and mugs on the coffee table. The fact there were two of everything would be a dead giveaway that Ben had had a guest, which seemed to be forbidden.

No sooner had Evan washed, dried, and put away one set of dishes than a car door slammed out front—this time definitely not that of a neighbor. He began to wash the second bowl to cover up his attempted coverup, then took a deep breath, awaiting his reckoning.

The front door rattled with a key, then creaked as it opened. Evan kept the tap running so Ben’s mum would hear him before she saw him. No point in startling her any more than necessary.

“Erm...hello?”

Evan turned to see a face familiar from her wedding planning website and the photos in the house. Giti Reid was taller than he’d expected, but her black hair and olive skin were as elegantly made up in real life as in the pictures.

“Hello.” He dried his hands on the closest tea towel. “I’m Evan. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“Not really, I...” Mrs. Reid half-turned toward the hallway. “I saw what I assume is your jacket on the peg.” Rather than looking as uncomfortable as he felt, she just looked angry. “I pretty much joined the dots.”

Evan could only imagine what she was imagining. “Ben’s sleeping. I’m away in a moment, once I’ve finished the washing-up.”

“Stay for a coffee.” She gestured to the kitchen chair nearest him. “Please,” she added, though this was clearly an order, not a request. Was she being hospitable, or was she hoping to interrogate him? Either way, she was no doubt reeling at the live evidence of her son’s immorality standing in her own kitchen.

Evan maintained his serene smile. “Thank you, that would be lovely. Shall I wake—”

“No. Sit.” Mrs. Reid tugged off her black leather gloves, one finger at a time. “Let’s get to know each other first.”

A lifelong eavesdropper, Ben had been twelve years old when he’d bought a stethoscope to replace the traditional empty glass against the wall. At this moment, he’d never been more grateful for the upgrade.

Standing upon the head of his bed, he pressed the stethoscope’s bell against the wall’s thinnest spot, marked by a tiny penciled dot.

“…hard enough leaving Orkney for Glasgow,” Evan was saying. “I canna imagine the culture shock coming here from Iran.”

“At the time Iran was very Westernized,” Ben’s mother said. “But that was changing. My parents could see the writing on the wall.” There came the familiar hiss of butter meeting a hot frying pan. “The day my older sister was expelled from university simply for being Bahá’í was the day my father told us to pack our bags. She was told she had no human rights because Bahá’ís weren’t human. Every Bahá’í who could afford to leave, left.”

“What happened to those who couldn’t?”

Ben knew he should run to the kitchen and derail this conversation. Evan was broaching a topic Mum never discussed. Ben himself had heard the stories only from his father.

“The Iranian government,” Mum said, “claims the Bahá’í Faith is not a religion but a political movement. They accuse us of being enemy spies in league with the so-called Zionists.”

Evan remained silent, letting her continue. Ben heard the muted suction thumps of the refrigerator opening and closing, the jam jars rattling in their rack on the door.

“They claimed we were a security risk,” Mum said, “so their treatment of us was not religious persecution but rather a defensive measure to protect the state.”

Ben’s fingers tightened on the stethoscope. Now that she’d given Evan the political background, would she change the subject and let him draw his own conclusions?

“There was a man I called ‘Uncle,’ though he was no blood relation. He was a leader in the Bahá’í assembly. When he was arrested for spying, they promised to release him if he recanted his faith and converted to Islam. Of course he refused.” There was another long pause. “In the end, they used a firing squad.”

Ben’s eyes heated with sympathy. Evan’s voice was barely audible through the wall. “In the end?”

“After he was tortured,” Mum said, her voice curdling with bitterness. “Over two hundred Bahá’ís have been killed in Iran since the revolution, and thousands more have been imprisoned or sacked from their jobs or expelled from university.” She raised her voice over the sound of a wire whisk against a stainless-steel mixing bowl. “Now those people come here wanting to steal our freedoms with their sharia laws.” The mixing bowl banged against the marble worktop. “And the police do nothing. They don’t want to offend the Muslims by arresting the ones who break the law.”

Ben sighed. She was clearly still watching those fearmongering TV documentaries.

Evan took a few moments to respond. “I think the vast majority of UK Muslims support our values. It’s the handful of violent extremists I’m afraid of, especially as a gay man. I understand they object to my orientation, but my safety deserves more protection than their prejudices.”

“I agree,” Mum said.

Ben rolled his eyes. So she believed gays shouldn’t be assaulted in the streets. How liberal of her.

Evan spoke again. “I worry things’ll get worse now we’ve got marriage equality. Bigots like that see it as an affront to their values and they want to fight back.”

Ben winced at Evan’s misstep. Had he just called Mum a bigot, however obliquely?

His mother’s voice came closer, approaching the breakfast table. “One can adhere to one’s values without being a bigot.”

Rationalization powers, activate! Ben pitied Evan for the pasting he was about to receive.

“I’m sure Ben’s told you of my opposition to gay marriage,” Mum said. “I don’t favor discrimination, but—”

“Of course you dinna.” Evan’s tone was as warm as ever. “You clearly love Ben, and he adores you, as I’m sure you ken.”

“Oh. Well.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, we’re very close.”

“And you want him to be happy.”

“Right, but—”

“Just like your parents wanted you to be happy. It’s why you came to the UK in the first place.”

Ben smirked. This guy was good. Really good. Or maybe it was that mesmerizing Orcadian accent—which, Ben noticed, Evan was leaning into at the moment, no doubt to make himself seem sweeter and less threatening.

After a moment there came a sizzling sound: onions and peppers, Ben assumed, and not Evan’s fingers, based on the lack of screaming. “My son is a natural with the wedding couples,” Mum said, “but he should focus his talents on his field of study. He could have a great future someday and make a difference in this world.”

Now that they were discussing him, Ben stopped listening out of shame. He replaced the framed painting above the headboard to cover the pencil mark. Then he hid the stethoscope back inside the hollowed-out interior of his 1939 Collier’s World Atlas and Gazetteer—one of his largest vintage volumes—which he then replaced on the bookshelf by the fireplace.

As he finished dressing, Ben thought of all the things he’d told Evan. Had he given up those secrets willingly, or had they been extracted? Evan hadn’t used any interrogation tricks Ben recognized from TV or books. He’d simply listened. He’d made it feel safe to be honest, even as he was lying about his own profession and skulking about other people’s houses in the middle of the night.

After a futile attempt to de-sex his unruly hair, Ben crept down the hall toward the kitchen.

His mother had her back to the door as she poured eggs onto the pan, her free hand holding the loose sleeve of her black cardigan safely away from the gas flame. The air was heavy with the sweet-clay smell of French roast coffee.

It was the usual Sunday-breakfast tableau, but for one tall blond addition.

“Good morning.” Evan offered a tranquil smile from where he stood at the table grating a wedge of cheddar cheese.

“I was about to wake you.” Still facing the cooker, Mum spoke in that forcibly carefree voice which meant she was furious. “Breakfast is nearly ready.”

“Smells delicious.” Ben rubbed his eyes as if he’d just woken. “Sorry for being a terrible host and not doing the introductions.”

“We’ve managed without you.” Evan shared a secretive smile with Ben’s mother.

Wondering what he’d missed, Ben headed for the coffee pot. “You’re home early, Mum.”

“I sent you a text when I left Inverness at eight this morning.”

He must have left his phone—and all common sense—on the couch last night after he and Evan had started groping each other.

Ben poured his coffee, trying not to slosh it onto the worktop. His face felt flaming hot, while the rest of him was near-shivering with unease.

His mother turned to Evan. “What sort of toast would you like?”

“I’m afraid I canna stay. Need to feed my cat before going oot again.” Evan carried his mug to the sink. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Reid.”

“Please, call me Giti,” she said with a warm smile that confused Ben all over again.

He walked Evan to the front door. “Did she freak out when she saw you?” he whispered.

“Not on the outside.” Evan took his jacket and poncho from the coat peg, then leaned in to murmur, “There are worse places she could’ve found me than at the kitchen sink.”

Ben’s cheeks flared even hotter at the thought of Mum barging into his bedroom while Evan was kneeling between his flailing legs.

“She seems lovely,” Evan said. “Which isn’t surprising, considering…well, considering you.”

A million questions wanted to burst out of Ben’s throat:

How did you get her to open up?

Why did you sneak upstairs last night?

Why do you sleep like someone’s chasing you?

Instead he asked, “You’re going out today? Anything fun?”

“Jamie and I are scouting the gay football league for players to recruit. We’ll be wearing disguises so the teams don’t recognize us for the poachers we are.” Evan shrugged on his jacket. “I need to hurry if I’m to meet Jamie at Queen Street Station by half past twelve.”

“I could drive you to the match,” Ben said.

“I thought you hated football.”

“Yes, but I love subterfuge.”

Evan laughed. “All right, then.”

“Great, let’s go.” Ben reached for his own jacket, but Evan stopped him, his smile vanishing.

“What, to my place?”

“I want to meet your cat. You said you need to feed him.”

“Her.”

“Right. Her.” You are very good, Mr. Hollister.

“Tell you what.” Evan pulled on his gray knit cap, which mercilessly brought out the blue in his eyes. “It’ll be faster if I go home and meet you at Jamie’s. Besides, if you leave now, your mum’ll think you’re avoiding her.”

She’d be right. Ben managed to hide his annoyance. “True. Also, I need a shower.” He reached out and straightened Evan’s jacket collar, though it didn’t need it. “Maybe next week we can shower together at yours,” he added, expecting resistance.

Evan merely smiled and gave Ben a soft but firm kiss. “Sounds perfect.”

More bewildered than ever, Ben watched from the doorway as Evan hurried down the street toward the Hillfoot train station.

“He seems nice,” Mum said behind him, her tone holding none of the kindness of her words.

Ben winced, then turned to face her. “I’m sorry for inviting Evan to stay, after you asked me not to bring home any, erm…” sex mates “…anyone. I never meant to disrespect you. It’s just that we wanted to watch a film and—”

“Was this the first time you brought a man into this house?”

“Yes.” He met her eyes so she’d know he was telling the truth. “The very first.”

“I see.” Mum looked down at the tea towel in her hands as she folded it in half, then in half again, then again. “So he must be important to you.”

“He is, actually.” Ben heard the marvel in his own voice.

“I wish I could…” She cleared her throat, sounding on the verge of tears. “You know I love you more than anything, and I accept you for who you are.”

“I know.” He could feel it, and besides, their faith forbade any sort of prejudice.

“I want you to find love,” she said hoarsely, “and I want to be happy for you when it happens.”

Ben held his breath, afraid to hear what would come after the but.

She met his gaze with overflowing eyes. “But if you enter a relationship with this man—or any man—it would be the end for you as a Bahá’í.”

“Mum, nothing’s changed.” He looked away. “I’ve not exactly been celibate at uni, and yet I’m still a Bahá’í.”

“I know that. By being discreet and staying single, you’ve let our community look the other way and pretend you were chaste. That way they don’t have to—” She stopped short.

Ben suddenly felt like he’d swallowed a boulder. “Don’t have to what?”

“To take action.”

He could barely get the words out. “But that’s…that’s discrimination.”

“Discrimination is forcing our rules onto non-Bahá’ís. Expecting our own people to follow those rules is not.” Her voice softened. “I would fight for you, nouré cheshm-am. I would fight until my dying breath, if that’s what you want.”

She could cushion it with terms of endearment—even “light of my eye”—yet Ben heard her unspoken words as if she’d shouted them: But please don’t ask me to.

He nodded, his neck creaking with tension. “Okay.” He desperately wanted to end this conversation so he could go home and think about it—or better yet, not think about it, a strategy that had always served him well.

“Ben, we know this isn’t your fault, and that you’re suffering from a spiritual affliction. We want to help—”

“Mum, please…” He shuddered at the term spiritual affliction, then rubbed his arms to cover his reaction. “I’m tired and hungry.” Half of this was a lie, as eating felt impossible. “Can we just have our breakfast and talk about this another time?”

“Of course.” She came to him and took his hands. “I know you’ll do what’s right for you. And whatever you decide, I’ll support you. No matter the cost.”

Ben wanted to pull away, then felt guilty for the impulse. How could such soft words feel so harsh? Because they were laced with warning?

“Thanks, Mum,” he said, since it was what she wanted. “That means a lot.”

As he followed her back to the kitchen, he thought about what she’d just said, that he would do what was right for him. But how could he, when he had no idea what that was?