“Car trouble?”
"The damn thing won’t start. Dammit, and I don’t know the first thing about cars."
"Let me take a look," I offered, moving toward the hood. "Try it again."
He returned to the driver's seat, turning the key as I leaned over the engine compartment. The motor caught briefly, coughed, then fell silent. I straightened, shaking my head.
"Could be several things," I said thoughtfully. "Fuel pump, ignition system... Hard to diagnose properly in this light."
Micah glanced around the dimly lit parking lot, then at his watch. "It's after midnight. I doubt any mechanics are open."
"None that I'd trust," I agreed. "We could call a tow truck, but at this hour, the cost would be substantial. And you'd still need somewhere to stay until morning."
I allowed the problem to hang in the air between us, watching him work through the limited options.
"I could get an Uber back to my apartment," he suggested half-heartedly.
"From here? It would cost a small fortune," I pointed out. "And you'd still need to arrange transportation back tomorrow to deal with the car."
I paused, as if the thought were just occurring to me. "My place is only fifteen minutes from here. You're welcome to stay in my guest room tonight. We can come back in the morning when it's light and see if it's something simple enough to fix, or arrange a tow to a reputable mechanic."
The tension on his face eased slightly. "I don't want to impose..."
"It's no imposition," I assured him. "I'd feel terrible leaving you stranded, especially after I suggested this outing."
He hesitated, then nodded. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."
"None at all," I said, watching as he locked his vehicle. "I imagine you could use a proper coffee after those drinks, anyway. I make excellent espresso."
As I opened the passenger door for him, I caught the momentary hesitation in his eyes, the last feeble protest of hisconditioning against what his body clearly desired. Then he slipped past me into the seat, his shoulder brushing against my chest in a contact that wasn't entirely accidental.
His scent filled my senses briefly: the fading notes of his morning cologne, the scotch on his breath, and beneath it all, the chemistry of anticipation. I closed the door and circled to the driver’s side, allowing myself a small, private smile. He was pliant now, softened by alcohol, stripped of armor, his instincts beginning to seek my approval instead of fearing it.His defenses were crumbling more rapidly than I had dared hope.
As I slid behind the wheel and started the engine, I glanced at his profile illuminated in the soft dashboard lights. The alcohol had relaxed his features, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability mixed with excitement. He turned, catching me looking at him, and the silence vibrated with possibilities.
"Ready?" I asked, the word carrying weight beyond its simple meaning.
He nodded. "Ready."
Micah
Light filtered through unfamiliarcurtains. I blinked up at the pristine white ceiling, momentarily disoriented. This wasn't my apartment with its water stains and cracked plaster.
The Hollow. Confession. Car trouble. Ezra.
I sat up, taking in the guest room where I'd spent the night. Like everything in Ezra's home, it was immaculate, almost sterile. The bedding was crisp white, the furniture minimal and expensive. A single painting hung on the wall opposite the bed—an abstract study in gray and crimson that seemed to shift if looked at directly.
The clock read 8:17 AM. Next to it sat neatly folded clothes with a handwritten note: "For your comfort. Coffee is in the kitchen when you're ready. E."
The thoughtfulness struck me as both considerate and presumptuous, as if he'd anticipated my needs before I recognized them myself. I rubbed my face, trying to process the previous night's revelations. Ezra was gay. Like me. The confirmation had hit me with the force of absolution, as if his self-acceptance somehow legitimized my own forbidden desires.
I changed into the clothes Ezra had provided. Wearing them felt oddly intimate, as if I were being marked in some subtle way as his. The shadow inside me stirred at this thought, pressing hungrily against the bars of its cage.
I followed the scent of coffee. Soft classical music played. Chopin again, the same nocturne from that first night in his studio.
The living area was more imposing in daylight. Windows stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing the forest behind the property. The abstract paintings that had caught my attention in the dim evening light were more disturbing now. What I'd thought was textured paint was something else, something organic that created an unsettling glow.
"Good morning, Micah," Ezra's voice called from the kitchen. "Coffee?"
