The road stretched ahead in long, sunlit lines--two lanes of cracked blacktop carving through fields of green and gold. Barns dotted the horizon like still lives left out to weather. Every few miles, a cow lifted its head, unimpressed by their passing.
Alexander kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting idly on his thigh, fingers twitching now and then like they needed something to do. Oliver sat beside him, legs curled up in the seat, forehead tilted against the window. The wind lifted tufts of his blond shag, sending strands across his face that he didn't bother brushing away.
They hadn't spoken much in the last hour.
The silence wasn't uncomfortable. Just... cautious. Like neither of them wanted to lean too hard in either direction--for fear the balance might break again.
Alexander glanced over, then back at the road.
He'd planned this weekend carefully. Not extravagantly. Not with big promises or forced sentiment. Just quiet things. Gentle things. The kind of details that used to matter before everything got complicated.
A room at a boutique hotel on the edge of town--stone walls, soft lighting, a bed big enough to forget everything in. A massage booked for Saturday evening, the kind where no one speaks and the world falls away beneath your skin. A slow walk through the arts district with coffee in hand and maybe a new print to hang in their hallway, where that blank space had waited for too long.
He wanted to give Oliver a reason to want this again.
He wanted to feel wanted.
The road dipped into a narrow valley, trees leaning in over them. Alexander's foot eased on the gas.
He thought about the night he'd made the reservation, his finger hovering over the "Book Now" button. He hadn't told Oliver about the massage yet. That was a surprise. He imagined Oliver stretched out on the table, eyes closed, body soft and calm beneath skilled hands. He imagined being the one watching him unwind. Being the reason he could.
But beneath that vision was a knot--something that hadn't loosened since that morning with Trevor.
Even now, weeks later, Alexander wasn't sure what they were rebuilding. If they were rebuilding at all. Oliver had said he wanted to try, that it meant something. But feelings didn't unspool cleanly. They came back crooked, tangled with guilt and desire, with questions too fragile to ask out loud.
Still, he was here. Oliver was here.
And maybe that was enough.
For now.
The sign for Halberd Falls appeared just past a weathered fruit stand, hanging crooked on a leaning post: Welcome to Halberd Falls -- Est. 1862. Below it, someone had scribbled in white paint: ART LOVES YOU.
Alexander smiled faintly.
"We're almost there," he said, his voice softer than it had been all morning.
Oliver stirred beside him, pulling his legs down from the seat and stretching slightly. "I forgot how far out this place was. I haven't seen a gas station since, like, three towns ago."
"That's kind of the point." Alexander glanced at him. "No traffic. No noise. Just pottery shops, antique maps, and overpriced linen shirts you'll want and never wear."
Oliver laughed, really laughed--and it struck Alexander in the chest with quiet relief.
"Oh my god, the little store that only sells herbs and embroidery kits?" Oliver said. "I remember that place. And the bookstore with the grumpy cat in the window."
"Still there, apparently." Alexander's mouth curled. "So is the wine bar with the garden seating. I thought we'd start there tomorrow. Maybe find you some obscure ceramic creature to bring home."
Oliver turned toward him in his seat, one knee tucked up, smiling with the kind of ease that used to be second nature. "That actually sounds perfect."
For a moment, silence again. But this time, it was warmer.
Oliver looked down at his hands, thumbs idly running over each other. "Hey," he said, voice low. "I know things have been... weird. And I don't expect this weekend to fix everything."
Alexander kept his eyes on the road, but his chest tightened.
"I just... I want you to know I'm glad we're doing this," Oliver continued. "We've had good times. Really good ones. And the sex..." He gave a soft laugh, a touch of color rising in his cheeks. "Let's be honest, it's always been stupid hot."
Alexander gave a quiet hum of agreement, the corner of his mouth tugging.
"I still love you," Oliver said. "Even after everything. I hope this weekend is good. I want it to be."
Alexander exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath for longer than he realized. He reached across the console, letting his fingers brush Oliver's.
Oliver took his hand.
The town crested into view ahead, cobbled streets and bursts of color--murals, flower boxes, wandering couples with tote bags and sunglasses. It was quaint in that curated way, but somehow, in that moment, it felt exactly right.
Alexander squeezed Oliver's hand once.
"Then let's make it good."
The town crept up slowly, like something out of a painting--faded reds, soft browns, ivy crawling up old brick, and hand-painted signs that wobbled gently in the wind. Everything about Halberd Falls looked like it had been curated to soothe.
Alexander eased off the gas, letting the car coast through the first bend of the main street. Flower boxes spilled over balconies. A couple strolled hand in hand, laughing. A man on a bicycle waved like he'd known them forever.
In the passenger seat, Oliver stirred. "It's... cute," he said with a small smile. "Kind of storybook."
Alexander nodded, eyes flicking between the road and Oliver's reflection in the window.
"I thought you'd like it," he said. "There's an art walk this weekend. Little boutiques, street music, all that stuff. There's even a wine bar with garden lights strung up like a movie set."
Oliver laughed softly. "God. You know me too well."
And in that moment--simple, quiet, surrounded by farm fields and small-town stillness--Alexander felt a spark of something he thought he'd lost.
Hope.
Maybe it was small. Maybe it was fragile. But it was there.
He didn't need fireworks. He didn't need grand apologies. All he needed was this: Oliver's hand in his, a shared look, and the truth tucked gently between them.
That love hadn't disappeared.
As they turned off the main road, the hotel came into view--stone and ivy, warm windows glowing in the late afternoon sun. A place that promised rest, quiet, and maybe something else.
Alexander smiled.
They passed through the heart of Halberd Falls like guests in someone else's dream--narrow streets flanked with art galleries and bookstores, planters bursting with marigolds and geraniums. Shoppers moved leisurely under striped awnings, cloth bags full of handmade things slung over their arms. A boy played violin on the corner, the notes bright and sweet in the late afternoon sun.
Oliver cracked the window and let the breeze drift in. It smelled like lavender, old wood, and fresh bread. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Alexander drove slowly, taking it all in. There was a lightness here--like the air itself was thinner, easier to breathe. For the first time in weeks, he felt the knot in his chest start to loosen.
They turned off the main road and into a gravel drive framed by flowering hedges. At the end of it stood their hotel--a pale white building with tall windows, delicate trim, and a small iron balcony draped in ivy. It looked like it had been lifted out of a different century and polished to perfection.
Alexander pulled the car to a stop beneath the overhang. The engine ticked as he shut it off.
They both sat for a beat, quiet.
Then Oliver opened his door, stepping out into the sun with a long, slow stretch. The light hit his hair like gold, and for a moment, Alexander just watched him--watched the way he tilted his head back, eyes closed, soaking it in like warmth itself could settle something deep in his bones.
"I'll go check us in," Alexander said, grabbing the folder with their reservation details from the console.
Oliver hummed, leaning back against the car, arms folded loosely across his chest. "Take your time. I'm just gonna stand here and pretend I'm not still vibrating from the drive."
Alexander chuckled, stepping out and closing the door behind him.
As he walked toward the front steps, he glanced back once.
Oliver looked almost peaceful there, framed by white trim and blooming hydrangeas, sun soft against his skin. The town had worked a subtle magic already, coaxing something looser, something calmer out of him.
Oliver breathed in the sweet air, eyes slipping closed for a moment. There was a faint scent of lilac and rosemary drifting from the flower beds by the front steps, warm stone radiating the heat of the day. The wind carried hints of distant grilling--someone nearby cooking on a charcoal flame--and beneath it all, the clean, dry smell of sunlit wood.
He tilted his head and opened his eyes again.
That's when he saw him.
The man emerged around the corner of the building. He had short, jet-black hair that was neatly faded on the sides, longer up top, and slicked back with just a touch of effortlessness. He wore a white tank top with the sides cut clean away, exposing the lean but solid lines of a hairy chest and deep tan that made him look kissed by summer itself.
He carried two large shopping bags in his hands.
The tank fell loosely around his torso, barely grazing the narrow dip of his waist. Below, a pair of frayed denim shorts clung tightly to thick, muscular legs--his thighs full and strong, each step rolling with quiet force.
And then there was that--the heavy, unmistakable bulge pressing against the fabric of his cut-offs, leaving little to the imagination. Not crude, but undeniably present. Confident.
Oliver's gaze lingered half a second too long.
The man turned his head, sunglasses pushed up in his dark hair, and caught him looking.
Heat bloomed across Oliver's cheeks--his stomach tightening with that strange, involuntary thrill of being seen, caught in the act. A reflexive smile tugged at his lips, polite at first, then a little shy.
The man didn't wave or nod--just gave the smallest twitch of his mouth. Not even a full smile. But his eyes didn't look away.
Then he turned the key, opened his door, and disappeared inside.
Oliver let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His body was warm in more ways than one now. He shifted his stance, folding his arms tighter across his chest, suddenly aware of how exposed the sun made everything feel.
He looked toward the hotel door.
Alexander still hadn't come out.
Oliver shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms still loosely folded, gaze flicking toward the hotel's glass door. Alexander was still inside--probably chatting with the clerk, asking about dinner reservations, or checking if the room had a deep tub like the photos promised. Always so thorough. So careful.
The flowers outside the hotel waved gently in the breeze, white blossoms bouncing with an innocence that almost felt like mockery.
