“They’re heirlooms,” Nora fired back, catching the bottle one-handed. “You bruise them and Mrs. McIntyre is going to tell every other stall you don’t respect the sanctity of her precious Cherokee Purples. Then where will you be? Shunned. Outcast. Banished from the market.”

Alex smirked, leaning across the counter with the kind of easy swagger that came naturally to him, half show and half habit. “If Mrs. McIntyre can’t handle my stacking technique, she can take her business to Whole Foods.”

Nora opened her mouth to reply but paused, gaze shifting past Alex’s shoulder. Her eyebrow arched. “Incoming. Tall, tragic, looks like he’s lost a duel with his own cheekbones. Very much your type.”

Alex turned.

He had expected a customer in sandals and a floppy hat, the usual Saturday-morning crowd of yoga moms and barbecue dads. Instead, his eyes landed on a man whose presence seemed to cleave a line straight through the market’s ordinary bustle. He was dressed too sharply for Texas heat—tailored shirt rolled just enough at the forearms, trousers that suggested he’d stepped out of another life entirely. Blond hair, brushed but not stiff, caught the sunlight like pale metal. His expression was neutral in the way that spoke of effort, as though emotions were things he stored elsewhere, out of reach.

He walked slowly, deliberately, surveying stalls not with curiosity but with a kind of detached cataloging. When his eyes finally met Alex’s, there was a jolt, electric and disorienting, like a socket Alex had stuck his finger into as a kid.

“Hi there,” Alex said before he could stop himself, voice pitched easy, playful. “You look like a man who’s never eaten a tomato that wasn’t sliced by a butler.”

The stranger’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not yet, but something that threatened to become one. His accent, when it came, was warm velvet over steel. “Is that what you sell here? Class warfare disguised as produce?”

Nora muttered behind Alex, “Oh, I like him.”

Alex leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “We sell honesty. Which is to say, we sell vegetables grown in dirt, not in laboratories. You pick one up, you eat it, you’ll survive. Revolutionary, I know.”

The man considered a cluster of cherry tomatoes in a basket between them, then reached out and plucked one with precise fingers. He rolled it across his palm as though testing the weight of it. “Do you always open with insults, or am I receiving special treatment?”

“You’re getting the deluxe package,” Alex shot back, grin tugging at his mouth. “Texas hospitality.”

“Texas,” the man repeated, almost to himself. He glanced at Alex again, eyes narrowing as if trying to slot him into some mental box and failing. “And you’re the proprietor here?”

“My parents are the proprietors,” Alex said easily. “I’m just the grunt labor. Though I do all the heavy lifting. And by heavy lifting, I mean the charm offensive that keeps people buying zucchini.”

That earned him the faintest huff of air, almost a laugh, and Alex felt absurdly victorious.

Nora leaned an elbow on the counter, cutting in. “He’s single, by the way.”

Alex whipped around. “Nora—”

“What?” She widened her eyes behind the sunglasses. “It’s true. Community service announcement.”

The stranger’s lips finally curved, just a fraction, the barest ghost of a smile. “How efficient of you.”

Alex ignored the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He reached under the counter, pulled out a paper sack, and tossed in a handful of tomatoes with careless flair. “First bag’s on the house,” he said, pushing it toward him. “Consider it a down payment on coming back next week. Same stall, same questionable jokes.”

The man studied him for a moment longer, gaze steady, unnerving in its intensity, then reached into his pocket and placed a folded bill on the counter. “I prefer not to be indebted,” he said simply.

Before Alex could argue, before he could even process the strange combination of aloofness and gravity, the man turned and walked away, his figure vanishing into the crowd like smoke dissolving into air.

Nora let out a low whistle. “So. Who the hell was that?”

“I,” Alex said, watching the retreating back until it disappeared around a corner, “have absolutely no idea.”

What he did know was that he had never in his life seen someone who looked so untouchable, and never in his life felt so determined to touch anyway.

Henry Fox had never much liked Austin’s heat. It clung to him like damp cloth, oppressive in ways that no training regimen at Sandhurst or MI6 had prepared him for. He had swapped the tailored jacket for shirtsleeves the moment he escaped the marketplace, but even so, the sun seemed intent on peeling layers of composure away from him.

He ducked into the cool of a shaded café several blocks off the main street, one of those places with chipped tabletops and chalkboard menus, ordered nothing, and slipped into the farthest corner. His phone was already buzzing in his pocket.

“Henry Fox,” came the voice on the other end, laced with a rhythm Henry had always found both comforting and exasperating. Pez Okonjo, flamboyant where Henry was reserved, a man whose laughter could fill a war room and whose instinct for danger was matched only by his instinct for mischief.

“Checking in already?” Henry said, lowering his voice though the café was empty. “You can’t possibly have missed me in the twenty-four hours I’ve been stateside.”

“Oh, darling, I miss you the instant you hang up,” Pez replied. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve just had the most startling notification. Our dear Taxman has filed a vacation leave.”

Henry closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was under the impression one is permitted to take leave without submitting to an inquisition.”

“Not when one is you. A machine does not suddenly decide it fancies a nap. Headquarters is vibrating with speculation. Have you gone rogue? Have you been compromised? Have you been—oh, what’s the phrase?—ghosted?”

Henry exhaled through his nose, the faintest flare of irritation beneath the calm surface. “I’m in Texas, Pez. Hardly a hotbed of international intrigue. Unless you count brisket as a weapon of mass destruction.”

“I count brisket as a religious experience,” Pez said solemnly, before his tone shifted, sly. “But tell me, Henry. Did I hear whispers of you lingering at a farmer’s stall? A handsome boy with dimples and far too much confidence for his own good?”

Henry’s silence stretched.

“Oh, I have struck gold,” Pez crowed. “Describe him. Quickly. I need to picture the poor soul who’s bewitched you enough to make you actually file paperwork for a holiday.”

“He is… insufferably earnest,” Henry said at last, words clipped, as though he might dislodge the image from his mind by speaking it aloud. “He argues with his friend about tomatoes as though the fate of nations rested upon their arrangement. He smiles as if he hasn’t learned to ration it. And he—” Henry cut himself short, jaw tightening.

“And he what?” Pez pressed, voice like silk tugging at a knot.

Henry’s hand flexed against the phone. He recalled the way Alex had leaned across the counter, daring, entirely unbothered by Henry’s own deliberate reserve. The way his gaze had been direct, bright, unflinching. “He… looks at me,” Henry admitted, almost to himself, “as if I’m not a collection of lies.”

There was a long pause on the line. Then Pez laughed, low and delighted. “Oh, Henry. My sweet, damaged friend. You’re positively doomed.”

“I am on leave,” Henry corrected sharply, as if precision might salvage dignity. “This is temporary. A brief… interlude. I needed air.”

“Air,” Pez echoed, still chuckling. “Air that just happens to be flavored like sun-warmed tomatoes and Texas drawl. If you wanted a fling, Henry, you could have had one in Monaco. No, no, I see the signs. You’ve stepped in something sticky. And you, of all people, cannot abide mess.”

Henry pressed a fingertip against the table’s rough grain, grounding himself. “It is irrelevant. I’ll be gone in a week.”

“Mm,” Pez hummed, unconvinced. “I’ll believe that when I see you boarding the flight back without looking over your shoulder. Until then, I’ll be here, preparing the world’s tiniest violin for the tragic aria of Henry Fox, undone by a farmer.”

Henry’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile he refused to acknowledge. “Goodbye, Pez.”

“Goodbye, lover boy.”

Henry ended the call, slid the phone face-down on the table, and sat in the hush of the café for a long moment. He told himself it was the sun’s fault that his pulse still beat fast, that the memory of dark eyes and reckless grin lingered, insistent, impossible to shake.

Mrs. McIntyre had commandeered her usual folding chair in front of the stall, wide-brimmed hat perched at a perilous angle, her purse bursting with loose bills and receipts. She had been a fixture of the farmer’s market since Alex was twelve, and she never bought anything without giving him hell for it.

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” She squinted down at the stack of crumpled ones in her hand, lips pursing in concentration. Her reading glasses hung useless at the end of her nose, lenses smeared with fingerprints. “Oh, hell, Alex, you’ve done it again. Distracted me so I can’t count properly.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Alex protested, though his grin betrayed him. He leaned against the stall post, arms folded. “That’s the gummies talking, Ms. McIntyre.”

Her head shot up, scandalized and amused all at once. “Gummies? What do you take me for?”

“I take you for a woman who buys three packs of peach rings every Saturday and calls them vitamins,” Alex said, voice carrying enough that Nora cackled from behind the cashbox. “You think I don’t see the evidence when you sit right there and inhale them like popcorn?”

“That’s slander.” She jabbed a crooked finger in his direction. “I am a respectable old lady.”

“You’re a respectable old lady who can’t get past twenty without losing her place,” Alex shot back, stepping forward and gently plucking the bills from her fumbling hands. He straightened the edges, counted them quickly—“Twenty-five exactly, see? No gummies required.”

She harrumphed, folding her arms but smiling despite herself. “You’re lucky you’re charming, boy. Otherwise I’d take my business elsewhere.”

“Ma’am, you’d never survive the zucchini section without me,” Alex said grandly, sliding her change across the counter. “Think of me as your produce guardian angel.”

That was when he caught sight of the blond man again.

Henry Fox moved through the market slower this time, his gaze not on exits or angles but on the neat rows of stalls, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wore the same crisp shirt as earlier, but the sleeves had been pushed higher, revealing wrists pale against the sun. He stopped at a flower vendor first, brows knitting faintly at the riot of colors, then veered toward Alex’s stall as if drawn despite himself.

“Back again,” Alex called, casual, though his chest thumped harder than he liked. “Either my tomatoes were that good or you’re stalking me. Careful, I’m flattered easily.”

Henry’s eyes flicked up to him, the faintest glint of amusement before his expression settled into something even. “I was… considering a plant,” he said, tone careful, as though unused to asking for ordinary things. “Something alive. Something I might not immediately kill.”

Alex blinked, then broke into a grin. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got peppers, basil, even succulents if you want something basically immortal. Perfect starter kit for the botanically challenged.”

“Succulents,” Henry repeated, gaze dropping to the tiny pots lined along the table. He crouched slightly, studying them as though they were rare artifacts. “Do they require little?”

“They thrive on neglect,” Alex said. “If you forget to water them, they’ll forgive you. You forget to talk to them, they’ll still show up for work the next day. Honestly, they’re like the most dependable coworkers you’ve ever had.”

Henry’s mouth curved, faint but real. “That sounds… manageable.”

“Pick one,” Alex urged, leaning closer. “You’ll take it home, put it by your window, and boom—congratulations, you’re a plant dad. Instant street cred.”

Henry’s fingers hovered, elegant and deliberate, before settling on a small aloe in a clay pot. He lifted it with surprising care, as though afraid it might shatter. For a heartbeat, something softened in his face—a shedding of armor, the heavy cloak of secrecy replaced by something startlingly human.

“I can manage this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Alex caught the moment, tucked it away like a secret gift. He had no idea why this stranger radiated such distance, why every word seemed chosen with surgical precision, but seeing him cradle a stubborn little aloe like it mattered—it stirred something deep and reckless in Alex’s chest.

“Good choice,” he said, quieter this time, letting the usual bravado ease off. “That one’s tougher than it looks.”

Henry glanced up, eyes meeting his, and for the first time since they’d crossed paths, Alex thought he saw something close to unguarded curiosity. Not suspicion, not calculation—just a man, trying, maybe for once, to feel normal.

Nora had the uncanny ability to look like she wasn’t paying attention when in fact she was filing every detail away for later use. She leaned lazily against the cooler, twirling a pen between her fingers as Henry handed Alex a folded bill and walked off with the little clay pot tucked under his arm.

Her sunglasses slid down just enough for Alex to catch the glint of her eyes. “Mm-hmm.”

Alex blinked, defensive before she even said anything. “What?”

“That,” Nora said, dragging the word out, “was not just a guy buying a plant. That was… courtship. Very Jane Austen. Very yearning glances over succulents.”

“Courtship,” Alex scoffed, though heat crept across his ears. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Am I?” She tilted her head, tracking Henry’s figure as he reached a sleek car parked a few stalls down. The blond man opened the passenger door, bent with that precise, almost ceremonial grace, and carefully placed the aloe on the seat as though buckling in a child. Nora’s smile widened like a cat stretching in the sun. “Oh my God. He’s tucking it in. That’s commitment. Alex, if you don’t ask him out, I swear to God, I will.”

Alex shoved his hands through his hair, heart jackhammering against his ribs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re smitten,” Nora countered. “And I’m telling you—shoot. Your. Shot.”

He exhaled, shaky, but the truth was there, pulsing through him. The stranger had him hooked. Something about the way Henry carried himself, all poise and silence, only to betray himself with that tender glance at a cactus—it was magnetic, impossible to ignore. Alex had spent enough of his life tiptoeing around the gravitational pull of attraction; he wasn’t interested in pretending anymore.

“Fine,” he muttered, shoulders squaring. “I’m doing it.”

“Godspeed, cowboy,” Nora said, grinning wolfishly.

Alex left the stall at a jog, weaving past two women haggling over a melon and cutting across the lane until he reached the car. Henry was bent over the trunk now, unloading a folded jacket and tucking it into a leather satchel. He moved with an efficiency that made even something as ordinary as reorganizing luggage look deliberate, elegant.

“Hey!” Alex called, a little breathless.

Henry straightened slowly, turning to face him. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his eyes flicked down to Alex’s flushed face, then back up again, as though registering the rush. “Yes?”

Alex shoved his hands into his back pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “So, here’s the thing. You can’t just come waltzing into my stall, drop cryptic one-liners, adopt a cactus, and disappear. It’s against market bylaws. Punishable by—” He paused, bit back the urge to grin too wide. “Punishable by me insisting you come out with me sometime.”

The silence stretched, the hot air buzzing with cicadas. Henry’s brows drew together, not unkindly, but as if he were parsing a puzzle.

“You’re… asking me to dinner,” he said at last, voice even, careful, like he was testing the sound of the words.

“Dinner, coffee, drinks, tacos at two in the morning, whatever you’ll actually say yes to,” Alex said, words tumbling out faster than he meant. “I’m not picky. I just—look, I think you’re interesting. And I’d kick myself if I didn’t at least try.”

Henry’s gaze lingered, steady and unblinking. There was no dramatic swoon, no instant acceptance—only that impenetrable calm, and beneath it, something flickering, something that looked dangerously close to curiosity.

“You are… remarkably persistent,” he murmured.

Alex flashed a crooked grin. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

Henry’s eyes softened—barely, but enough. He closed the trunk with a decisive thud, adjusted the strap of his satchel, and said, “I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t yes. But it wasn't a no.

And for Alex, it was enough to keep his pulse thrumming all the way back to the stall, where Nora was already smirking like she’d won a bet.

Sunday dawned hotter than Saturday, the kind of heat that crawled over bare skin and baked the blacktop until it shimmered. Alex arrived at the market early, hauling crates from the back of his dad’s pickup, Nora at his side with her sunglasses already in place and her iced coffee sweating in her hand.

He set up the stall, tried to ignore the restless energy that kept him glancing up every time a blond head bobbed through the crowd. He joked with Mrs. McIntyre again, haggled with a college kid over peppers, and even flirted with a customer out of sheer stubbornness, but every minute that passed without Henry Fox drifting back into his orbit was another stone in his gut. By noon, the weight of it had settled deep.

“Don’t sulk,” Nora said, munching on a cucumber spear. “He’s probably… I don’t know. Brooding on a clifftop somewhere, writing sad poetry. He’ll show.”

“Or he won’t,” Alex muttered, swiping sweat from his temple. “Which is fine. Totally fine. It’s not like I’m sitting here like some tragic extra in a rom-com.”

“You’re exactly like a tragic extra in a rom-com,” Nora said, handing him another cucumber spear as consolation.

He took it, bit down harder than necessary.

And then, just as the market began to thin, a flash of silver caught his eye. A sleek car rolled slowly down the street, the driver’s window sliding open with a low hum.

Henry.

He leaned slightly across the wheel, sunglasses perched neatly on his nose, voice carrying just enough over the market din. “Get in.”

Alex froze, cucumber halfway to his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Nora whispered. “That’s your cue. Go. Don’t trip.”

Alex tossed the cucumber back into the cooler, muttered something incoherent, and jogged toward the curb. The passenger door clicked open, and he slid into the leather seat before his brain could catch up to the rest of him. The aloe from yesterday sat primly in the cupholder, looking smug.

“Hi,” Alex said, too loud, too awkward.

Henry’s lips twitched. “Hello. I believe you asked me on a date.”

“Yeah,” Alex said, pushing his cap back. “Didn’t think you’d take me up on it with a kidnapper vibe, though.”

“Would you have preferred a formal invitation?” Henry asked, steering smoothly into traffic. “Flowers, perhaps? A card embossed in gold leaf?”

“I’d have settled for a text,” Alex shot back. “But I guess a drive-by abduction works, too.”

Henry’s chuckle was low, warm, startling. “I don’t text.”

“Of course you don’t,” Alex muttered. “Probably still carry around a fountain pen.”

“As it happens, yes.” Henry merged onto a wide stretch of road, city giving way to open skies. “Where shall we go, then?”

Alex blinked. “You don’t already have a plan? You look like a guy who always has a plan.”

“I had a plan,” Henry admitted. “It involved brooding alone. You’ve disrupted it.”

“Glad I could help.” Alex leaned back, the AC blasting his sweat away, his grin settling in. “Okay, first rule of dates with me. No brooding. If I catch you staring pensively out of a window for longer than twenty seconds, I will physically poke you until you stop.”

Henry side-eyed him, one brow arched. “Threats already?”

“Not threats. Promises.”

The day unfolded like a ribbon unspooling.

They stopped first at a taco truck painted in peeling blues and reds, where Alex insisted on ordering for Henry, slapping cash onto the counter before Henry could protest.

“You’re going to want barbacoa,” Alex said, handing him a paper plate. “Trust me. Life-changing.”

Henry regarded the dripping tortilla with skepticism, then took a bite. His eyes widened just slightly before he schooled his face back into calm. “Acceptable,” he murmured.

“Acceptable?” Alex gaped. “That’s not acceptable, that’s divine intervention wrapped in a tortilla.”

“I said acceptable,” Henry repeated, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that Alex caught, triumphant.

From there, Alex dragged him to Zilker Park, sprawling beneath the shade of a pecan tree with iced teas sweating in their hands. They talked—about Austin’s skyline, about the stubbornness of mesquite roots, about whether Henry believed in aliens.

“Statistically, there must be life elsewhere,” Henry said, stretched elegantly against the grass. “Whether it resembles little green men, however, I can’t say.”

“Statistically, you’re no fun,” Alex shot back, tossing a pecan shell at his arm.

Henry caught it midair, dropped it neatly beside him. “You’re remarkably rude for someone attempting to charm me.”

“And yet,” Alex said, rolling onto his elbow, “you’re still here.”

Henry’s lips curved faintly. “So I am.”

By evening, they were strolling through South Congress, neon signs buzzing overhead, music spilling from open doors. Alex narrated every mural they passed, every odd shopfront, every piece of trivia he could dredge up. Henry listened quietly, occasionally asking sharp, precise questions that made Alex feel both seen and dissected.

“Why do you care so much about this city?” Henry asked as they paused before a wall splashed with color.

“Because it’s messy,” Alex said simply. “And alive. And because it’s mine. You grow up here, you learn how to love things even when they’re loud and imperfect and in your face all the time. Maybe especially then.”

Henry looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

As night drew down, they ended up back in the car, parked beneath strings of fairy lights strung across an outdoor bar. The windows were down, the summer air heavy with the smell of grilled meat and honeysuckle.

Alex rested his chin on his arm against the window, turning to Henry. “So. Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how much did I annoy you today?”

Henry’s gaze lingered on him, steady and unhurried. “Seven.”

“Seven?” Alex yelped. “That’s brutal.”

“It would have been nine,” Henry said evenly, “but you bought me tacos.”

Alex broke into laughter, loud and unrestrained, the kind that shook his shoulders. Henry’s mouth twitched, then softened into something dangerously close to a smile.

And in that moment, Alex thought. This wasn’t just a yes. This was the beginning of something Henry had never let himself have before—and something Alex had no intention of letting slip away.

The carnival had mostly emptied by the time midnight gave way to two in the morning, its once-raucous noise reduced to the sleepy hum of generators and the occasional bark of laughter from stragglers weaving toward the parking lot. A few rides still blinked with tired neon—the Ferris wheel turning lazily against the sky, its carriages creaking in rhythm.

Alex and Henry had staked their claim hours ago on a peeling red bench near the ring toss, sodas long drained and forgotten at their feet. They had talked their way through everything. Favorite books, cursed ex-roommates, the politics of barbecue sauce. At some point Alex had convinced Henry to try funnel cake, which ended with powdered sugar on Henry’s immaculate shirt and Alex doubled over with laughter.

Now the conversation had slowed into the sort of half-coherent nonsense only possible when exhaustion blurred the edges of time.

“So technically,” Alex was saying, gesturing animatedly with his hands, “if cowboys had had cell phones, the entire Wild West would’ve been like one giant group chat. Think about it. One guy says, ‘Bandits spotted,’ and then five minutes later someone’s like, ‘lol already shot them.’ No train robberies, no drama.”

Henry’s eyes glinted in the soft carnival glow. “Yes, the tragic demise of the American frontier,  undone by emojis.”

“Exactly,” Alex said, snapping his fingers, leaning in closer. “Imagine Wyatt Earp sending a winky face after a duel. Legendary.”

Henry shook his head slowly, a smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth. His posture had loosened, his long frame slouched against the bench back, knees spread just enough that Alex’s thigh brushed his. It was subtle, accidental at first, but neither of them moved away.

Alex, jittery with sugar and nerves, leaned back too, head tilted to watch the wheel of lights turn above them. “Man, it’s late.”

“Early,” Henry corrected, voice quiet, almost thoughtful. “Nearly morning.”

“See, that’s the difference between you and me,” Alex said, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “You’ve got this… composed, precise way of looking at the world. I just call it late and complain about being tired.”

“Yet you don’t seem eager to leave.”

Alex opened one eye, smirked sideways at him. “Neither do you.”

Henry’s lips parted, as if he might deny it, but no words came. Instead he looked at Alex—really looked, with a depth that made the air between them feel charged. His gaze dropped, lingered for the briefest second on Alex’s mouth, and Alex’s pulse stuttered, traitorous.

The Ferris wheel clanked in the distance, laughter rippled faint from some last straggler’s joke. Time seemed to fold, pressing the world small and sharp around them.

Then Henry leaned in, almost imperceptibly at first, as if giving Alex the chance to pull away. His breath was warm against Alex’s cheek, carrying the faint scent of sugar and spice from the taco stand earlier.

And then, with the precision of a man who had weighed a thousand risks and chosen only this one, Henry kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried, wasn’t tentative—it was steady, deliberate, the press of his lips cool and soft against Alex’s heat. Alex startled, heart ricocheting against his ribs, but then he leaned in too, his hand curling against the bench as if anchoring himself to the earth.

For a moment, everything—the neon, the creak of rides, the distant hum of generators—faded into silence.

When Henry finally drew back, just enough to look at him, his voice was barely a whisper. “You are… infuriating.”

Alex grinned, dizzy, breathless. “And you like it.”

Henry’s answering silence wasn’t denial. It was a truth too dangerous to name, hanging in the air between them like the taste of sugar on their lips.

Alex’s bones felt like they’d been rewired. Every tendon and nerve sang with the kind of ache that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the hours he had just lived. The carnival lights still clung to his vision like afterimages, Henry’s kiss replaying again and again in the back of his head until it drowned out reason.

By the time Henry steered them back to his townhouse on the quiet edge of Austin, the city was asleep. The streets stretched hushed and empty, porch lights casting cones of gold across clipped lawns. The air had cooled at last, carrying the faint scent of honeysuckle.

They walked the last block together in silence, shoulders brushing now and then, Alex deliberately slowing his step just to draw the moment out. His body was begging for sleep, his spine protesting, but he didn’t want to surrender to it. Not tonight.

The townhouse rose out of the dark, neat and unassuming, its porch light burning steady. Henry’s keys jingled softly in his hand as he stepped up to the door. He moved with the same careful precision he always carried, unlocking the bolt as if it were another mission detail.

Alex lingered a few steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying not to stare like a stray dog waiting for scraps. He told himself he should leave—say goodnight, walk home, crash face-first into his bed. That was what a reasonable person would do.

But he wasn’t reasonable. Not after tonight. Not after the kiss that still scorched the edges of his mouth.

Henry pushed the door open, turned back, and smiled—a small, polite thing, but warmer than any smile Alex had seen from him before. “Goodnight, Alex.”

And then he closed the door.

The soft click of the latch was like a pinprick, deflating something fragile and glowing inside Alex’s chest. He stared at the wood grain, heart stumbling, his throat working as he turned away, forcing one foot to move, then the other.

He had made it only two steps down the walk when the door opened again.

“Alex.”

The voice stopped him cold. He pivoted, and there was Henry—framed in the doorway, hair mussed, shirt collar loosened, something undone in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

Before Alex could reply, Henry crossed the threshold, reached out, and caught him by the wrist. The grip was firm but not harsh, fingers burning against Alex’s skin.

And with a tug that brooked no hesitation, Henry pulled him inside.

The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the quiet neighborhood, sealing them in the hush of Henry’s space. The air was different here—cooler, shadowed, faintly scented with cedar and the crisp linen of freshly laundered sheets.

For a heartbeat, Alex just stood there, chest heaving, pulse in his throat, the world narrowed to the pressure of Henry’s hand still circling his wrist.

Henry let go, but he didn’t step back. His gaze lingered, sharp and searching, as if weighing the risk again and again but finding no reason to stop. His voice was low, steady, stripped bare of all the cool distance he’d carried.

“I wasn’t ready for you to leave.”

Alex swallowed hard, every thought scattering. “Then don’t make me.”

Henry’s breath hitched—so quiet, so quick, Alex might have missed it if he weren’t standing so close. Then Henry closed the remaining space, his hand sliding up Alex’s arm, his mouth finding Alex’s with a certainty that burned away every shred of restraint.

This time there was nothing tentative in it, no polite hesitation. Just heat, urgency, and the crackle of something dangerous and new igniting between them as Alex pressed forward, kissing back like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact pull.

The townhouse was quiet but alive with their breath, the sharp scrape of shoes being kicked off in the dark, the clumsy urgency of hands tugging at shirts. Henry’s back pressed against the wall just inside the entryway, the faint glow from a streetlamp outside catching the sharp lines of his face, softening them until he looked almost unguarded.

Alex broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against his lips, “Tell me what you want.”

Henry’s eyes fluttered shut, his voice steady but low, fragile as glass. “I want… to stop pretending. I want you.”

Alex’s throat tightened. He pressed his forehead to Henry’s, his hand cradling the side of his jaw. “You’re sure? With me?”

Henry nodded once, breath shuddering. “Yes. With you.”

It was clumsy and tender all at once as they stumbled toward the bedroom, Alex trailing kisses along Henry’s throat, Henry’s fingers gripping at his shoulders like he might fall if he let go. Clothes hit the floor in uneven intervals—Henry’s shirt half-buttoned one moment, tossed aside the next; Alex’s belt undone with impatient hands.

On the bed, Alex paused, hovering over him, searching his face. “I’ve got you,” he said, voice raw with promise. “But I need to know—how do you want this?”

Henry’s cheeks flushed, his gaze steady even as it flickered with nerves. “You lead. I want… you above me.”

Alex’s grin flickered, fond and fierce all at once. “Good. Because that’s how I want it too.”

The words broke something open between them. Henry lay back against the sheets, pale skin luminous in the dim light, his chest rising fast as Alex kissed a slow trail down his torso, hands splayed across him like reverence. Every sound Henry made—a sharp gasp, a bitten-off moan—seemed to echo too loudly in the silence, so he buried his face in the crook of his arm, muffling himself.

“Don’t hide from me,” Alex murmured, catching his wrist, threading their fingers together. “I want to hear you.”

Henry let out a strangled laugh that broke into a groan as Alex slid into him—careful, steady, murmuring soft encouragement. “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe with me.”

It wasn’t just sex. It was unspooling, surrender, Henry’s polished composure unraveling with every thrust, every whispered word. Alex moved slow at first, gentle, kissing him through every shiver, then deeper, surer, until Henry was clutching him like he’d drown without the anchor.

“God, Alex,” Henry gasped, voice cracking on the syllable. “You make me feel—” His words dissolved into a helpless moan, eyes wide and wet and open in a way Alex had never seen from him.

Alex bent to kiss him, swallowing the sound, whispering against his mouth, “You don’t have to explain. I know. I feel it too.”

The rhythm built, sweat-slick skin sliding, Henry trembling beneath him but not from fear—from release, from the heady shock of being utterly himself, no masks, no lies. When he came, it was with Alex’s name on his lips, desperate and raw.

After, Alex stayed pressed against him, their breaths tangled, his hand still cradling Henry’s cheek. “You’re so goddamn beautiful when you let go,” he whispered, kissing the damp curl of hair at his temple.

Henry let out a weak laugh, burying his face in Alex’s neck, voice muffled and tender. “You’re insufferable.”

“I like you, too, sweetheart.”

For the first time in years, Henry didn’t correct him. He only closed his eyes, clung to him, and let himself believe.

The pale light of dawn crept through the blinds, painting Henry’s bedroom in faint stripes of gold and gray. The air smelled faintly of cedar and sleep, the sheets tangled around Alex’s legs as he blinked awake in a bed that felt far too big, far too quiet for only two people.

Henry was still asleep beside him, sprawled on his side, face softened in rest. His lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly with each slow breath. The careful, deliberate man Alex had met yesterday was gone, replaced by something fragile and real.

Alex’s chest ached.

Careful not to wake him, he reached toward the nightstand, where Henry’s phone lay neatly aligned with his wallet and watch. The screen unlocked easily beneath Henry’s thumbprint when Alex guided his hand, Henry stirring but not waking. Alex smiled guiltily, thumbing quickly through the menus.

He saved his number in Henry’s contacts as simply Alex 🌵, shot himself a quick “Good morning” text so he’d have Henry’s number, and—after a moment of hesitation—installed a small location-sharing app. Nothing obvious, nothing that would buzz or ping. He told himself it wasn’t stalking; it was insurance. Henry was a mystery wrapped in silk and shadows, and something in Alex’s gut told him he’d need a way to find him again when he inevitably vanished.

By the time he set the phone back on the nightstand, Henry stirred, eyes fluttering open. They were bleary at first, but when they focused on Alex, something softened.

“You stayed,” Henry murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah,” Alex whispered, smiling faintly. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

Henry’s hand found his waist, tugging him closer until Alex was folded against his chest. They lay like that for a long time, snuggled into the hush of morning, Alex tracing idle patterns on Henry’s forearm while Henry pressed the slow rhythm of his breath into Alex’s hair.

Eventually, though, Henry pulled back, lips curving wryly. “Breakfast?”

“Only if you let me cook,” Alex said, sitting up with a grin.

Henry gave him a flat look. “I don’t believe you’re capable of boiling water.”

“Wow. No faith at all. Watch and learn, your majesty.”

The kitchen smelled of eggs and coffee within minutes, Alex moving with practiced ease as Henry leaned against the counter, watching him with arms folded, expression caught between amusement and disbelief.

“Do you do this often?” Henry asked.

“Cook? Yeah. Grew up in a house where if you wanted breakfast, you had to fight for skillet time. June makes pancakes like a god. Dad always tried to sneak extra bacon before Mom caught him. Chaos, but, you know… good chaos.”

Henry smiled faintly, though his gaze slipped distant. “Sounds… nice.”

“It is,” Alex said softly, setting a plate in front of him.

They ate together at the small kitchen table, the morning stretching slowly around them. Alex wanted to freeze it, to pretend that Henry wasn’t still a question mark in human form, that this was just another ordinary Sunday.

But Henry set down his fork with the quiet finality of someone cutting through his own fantasy.

“I can’t stay here long.” His voice was calm, measured, as though he had rehearsed the line.

Alex froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “…What do you mean?”

“My leave is limited,” Henry said, eyes steady on his plate. “A week at most. Perhaps less. Then I will return to London.”

The words hit like a fist in Alex’s chest. He swallowed, trying to mask the crack in his voice. “So that’s it? You show up, steal my heart, and then just… disappear across the ocean?”

Henry looked up at him then, and there was something in his eyes—regret, longing, fear—that made Alex’s heart twist harder.

“I don’t want to disappear,” Henry said quietly. “But my life is not one I can transplant here. It isn’t… simple.”

Alex forced a laugh, brittle around the edges. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t like simple.”

Henry’s lips curved, but it was sad, fleeting. He reached across the table, fingers brushing Alex’s. “Alex…”

Alex gripped his hand tightly, because letting go felt impossible. “I’m not asking for forever. I’m just asking for now. Don’t close the door on this before we even see where it goes.”

Henry didn’t answer right away, only held his gaze, the silence heavy with everything unsaid.

And though Alex’s heart already felt bruised, he clung to the touch of Henry’s hand, to the memory of last night’s laughter, to the stubborn spark that refused to let him believe this was all they’d get.

Henry’s departure was as quiet as his arrival had been. No grand gestures, no promises etched in stone—just a pressed kiss against Alex’s mouth at the threshold, a long look that said more than either dared voice, and then the sleek car pulling away down a sleepy Austin street. The little aloe still sat in his cupholder, straight-backed and stubborn, the only witness to Henry Fox slipping out of Alex’s orbit.

By the time Alex and Nora set up their stall again, the market hummed with its usual rhythm—vendors shouting about peaches, kids tugging at balloon strings, the smell of smoked sausage wafting from the food trucks. But to Alex, the air felt thinner, the colors sharper and harsher all at once, as though the entire place had shifted just slightly off its axis.

Mrs. McIntyre plunked herself into her folding chair across from their stall, purse bulging with change as always. She peered at Alex, her sharp old eyes catching everything.

“You look different, boy,” she said, narrowing her gaze. “Like someone knocked the sass right out of you.”

Alex arched an eyebrow, hauling up a crate of cucumbers. “Please. No one can knock the sass out of me. I was born sassy.”

“Mhm,” she said, lips twitching. “More like you’ve been kissed silly. Who was it? Some poor girl finally took pity on you?”

Nora snorted so loudly her iced coffee nearly came out her nose.

Alex froze, the crate balanced against his hip, before forcing a grin. “Ms. McIntyre, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Well,” she huffed, settling deeper in her chair, “whoever it was, you’ve got that look. Like the world tastes sweeter, but you’re afraid someone’s going to take it away.”

Alex muttered, “You should be running a psychic tent,” and dropped the crate with a thud.

When Ms. McIntyre wandered off to scold another vendor for mislabeling their tomatoes, Nora elbowed him. “She’s not wrong, you know. You’ve been floating since yesterday.”

“I’m not floating,” Alex said, fiddling with the cashbox. “I’m… maybe hovering a little. Off the ground. Like an inch.”

“Uh-huh. Hovering. Sure.” Nora tipped her sunglasses down, smirked. “You’re in trouble, Diaz.”

Alex ignored her, but his smile betrayed him.

By midday the sun was brutal, and Alex shoved his cap backward, sighing. “We’ve gotta close up early today.”

“What, afraid the heat will melt your newfound glow?” Nora teased.

“No, smartass,” Alex said, wiping his brow. “The fence on the north side of the ranch is busted again. Dad told me to fix it before the cattle figured out how to escape to the neighbor’s field. Last time, it took us four hours to chase them back.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Nora said, gathering receipts.

Before Alex could retort, the familiar honk of a car horn cut through the market din. June’s battered sedan rolled up to the curb, the window already down. She leaned out, curls bouncing, a grin plastered across her face.

“Get in, loser,” she called. “We’re mending fences.”

Alex groaned but started hauling crates into the back. Nora hopped up, brushing off her shorts. “Shotgun.”

“Absolutely not,” Alex said, tossing her a cucumber as bribery. “That’s mine.”

“Bite me,” Nora shot back, shoving him playfully before darting ahead.

By the time Alex climbed into the backseat, June was already rolling her eyes. “You two are exhausting. Mom says hi, by the way. Also, if you die of heatstroke fixing that fence, she’s not paying for the funeral because she warned you to hydrate.”

“Classic Mom,” Alex muttered, leaning forward between the seats. “Is she still making Dad eat salads?”

“Last night she made him kale lasagna,” June said with a dramatic shudder. “I thought he was going to pass away right there at the table.”

Nora cackled. “Your family’s a sitcom.”

“Don’t encourage them,” June said. “They already think they’re America’s sweethearts.”

“Correction,” Alex said, grinning as the car rattled down the road toward the ranch. “I’m America’s sweetheart. The rest of you are supporting characters.”

“Supporting characters don’t drive your ass to fix fences,” June shot back.

“And they definitely don’t keep your stall from collapsing when you’re too busy daydreaming about blond men with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass,” Nora added.

Alex swatted the back of her seat, cheeks heating. “Shut up.”

But the smile tugging at his mouth wouldn’t fade, no matter how hard he tried. Everything was louder now—the banter, the sunshine, even the groan of the car’s old engine—and he couldn’t help but think that Henry had changed something permanent, even if Alex had no idea when—or if—he’d see him again.

The ranch house smelled of mesquite and roasted chicken, the screen door banging shut behind Alex as he trudged in from the fields, sweat-streaked and dusty from mending the fence. The long wooden table in the kitchen was already set, pitchers of sweet tea sweating in the center, cornbread steaming in a basket, and his mom’s roasted chicken sitting proudly on a platter.

“Wash your hands before you sit, Alexander Gabriel,” Ellen Claremont said without looking up, her voice sharp and warm at once. She was standing at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, already wielding the carving knife like it was a prop for one of her stump speeches.

“Yes, Madam President,” Alex muttered, trudging toward the sink.

“You better listen,” Oscar Díaz chimed in from where he was pouring iced tea. “That woman once filibustered a bill for sixteen hours. You think she won’t filibuster dinner until you show up clean?”

June snorted, sliding into a chair with Nora at her side. “Dad, filibusters aren’t how dinner works.”

“Maybe not in your house,” Oscar said, dropping into his seat with a grin.

Alex returned with damp hands, raking them through his curls before sitting down. “Can we just eat without turning it into political theater?”

“Oh, sweetheart, everything is political theater,” Ellen said, passing him the bowl of green beans. “Especially when your face looks like you’ve been caught kissing somebody behind the bleachers.”

Alex nearly choked on air. “What?!”

Nora leaned in, smirking wickedly. “Told you.”

June’s grin widened. “Yeah, Mom, you should’ve seen him last week at the market. This blond guy shows up—”

Alex groaned. “Don’t—”

“Tall, cheekbones like they could file paperwork for him,” Nora cut in. “Buys a cactus, drives a car so sleek it probably has its own butler. And Alex? Alex goes all moony-eyed like a cow staring at a new gate.”

Oscar slapped the table, cackling. “Oh my God, we’ve got a lovesick cowboy on our hands.”

“Dad!”

Ellen raised an eyebrow, her knife poised dramatically mid-carve. “A blond, you say?”

“Yes,” June said sweetly, already tearing off a piece of cornbread. “And brooding, like some kind of tragic prince.”

“Or spy,” Nora added, shrugging. “The man gives off serious James Bond vibes. Except prettier.”

“Prettier than Bond?” Oscar gasped. “Alexander, you’ve finally raised the family standards.”

Alex dropped his face into his hands. “I hate all of you.”

Ellen leaned on the counter, her tone mock-serious. “Is this blond cactus-buyer the reason you’ve been floating around like a balloon someone forgot to tie down?”

“Floating?” Oscar repeated, eyes twinkling. “Boy’s been grinning so wide I thought his face would crack in half.”

Alex groaned louder, muffled by his palms. “Can I just eat in peace?”

“No,” June, Nora, Ellen, and Oscar chorused together, perfectly timed, the kitchen erupting in laughter.

Ellen finally relented enough to set the knife down and sink into her chair, though her gaze softened when she looked at him. “You know we only tease because we’re glad. You deserve to look that happy, Alex. You deserve someone who makes you forget how to brood.”

Oscar reached over, clapping a hand to his son’s shoulder. “And when this guy breaks your heart, we’ll go full Texas and egg his car.”

“Damn right,” Ellen said, raising her glass of iced tea. “Family solidarity.”

June lifted her cornbread. “To the blond cactus guy!”

Nora followed suit. “May his cheekbones never dull.”

The table rang with laughter as Alex groaned into his mashed potatoes, but the truth was, beneath all his protests, warmth spread through his chest like sunlight. Teasing or not, they were his family—and they had always made space for all of him, even the parts he was only just learning to share.

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Dinner had reached that glorious lull where plates were half-cleared, everyone leaning back in their chairs, sweet tea glasses sweating rings onto the wood. Alex sat slumped, fork twirling absent-mindedly through the last of his mashed potatoes, and finally let the words slip out that had been pressing against his ribs all afternoon.

“He’s gone,” he muttered, staring down at his plate.

The table fell quiet for a beat, the usual racket paused like someone had hit a remote. Ellen set down her napkin slowly, her sharp eyes narrowing in on her son. “Gone where?”

“London,” Alex said, picking at his food. “Said his leave was up. He’s… back there now.”

Oscar let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. “So that’s it, huh? Just rides off into the sunset like some Bond villain with better hair?”

June winced sympathetically, her chin in her hand. “That sucks, little brother.”

“Yeah,” Nora added, softer now, setting her fork down. “You looked so alive with him. Like you’d just… lit up.”

Alex shrugged, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Yeah, well. That’s my luck. Meet a guy, turns out he’s got one foot out the door. Or in this case, on a different continent.”

Ellen reached over, squeezing his hand. “Honey, that’s not bad luck. That’s life. Sometimes the timing’s wrong. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”

Alex exhaled, shoulders heavy. “I know where he is exactly, though.”

The room stilled again. June’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know where he is exactly?”

Alex hesitated, then blurted, “I… may have installed a tracker app on his phone.”

The silence shattered instantly into chaos.

“You WHAT?!” June screeched, already grabbing for the nearest tomato from the bowl in the center of the table. She lobbed it across the table with deadly aim. It splattered square against Alex’s forehead, red juice dripping down his temple as everyone erupted.

“Jesus Christ!” Alex yelped, swiping at the mess with his napkin.

Nora was doubled over in her chair, wheezing with laughter. “Oh my God, you psycho! You hacked his phone?!”

Ellen pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath. “I raise him with values, compassion, and respect, and he grows up to commit cyber-stalking.”

Oscar, meanwhile, was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. “Boy, you don’t plant a tracker on someone you’re dating! That’s not romance, that’s espionage!”

Alex threw his arms out defensively. “It’s not stalking! I wasn’t gonna use it unless—unless something happened, okay? He’s… he’s different. He’s got this whole secretive vibe, like there’s more going on than he says. I just… wanted to make sure I could find him if I needed to.”

“Alex,” June said flatly, wiping tomato juice off her hand. “That’s what people on true crime podcasts say right before they’re arrested.”

Ellen gave him a look that could freeze rivers. “Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Díaz, you delete that app right now.”

Nora, still laughing, leaned over to June. “Bet you ten bucks he doesn’t delete it.”

“I’ll raise you twenty,” June muttered.

Oscar pointed a fork at his son, trying to look stern but failing through his grin. “If you’re gonna stalk a man across international borders, at least admit you’re smitten. That way it’s romantic comedy material instead of felony material.”

“I’m not stalking!” Alex shouted again, though his cheeks flamed red.

“Sure, honey,” Ellen said dryly, pouring herself more tea. “Tell it to Interpol.”

The kitchen roared with laughter again, Alex groaning into his hands, tomato pulp still clinging to his hairline. The Claremont-Díaz home had always been loud, loving, impossible—but now, with Henry’s absence humming through the air, it felt exactly like a sitcom. Messy, ridiculous, and just enough to keep Alex’s heart from splintering.

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The night settled deep around the ranch, cicadas buzzing outside the screen door while the family lingered in the kitchen, the laughter from dinner finally tapering into a hum of clinking dishes and half-drunk glasses of tea. Alex sat hunched over his phone at the table, thumb hovering over the app he had no business opening. The little red dot pulsed in the middle of London, steady and undeniable, like a heartbeat on a screen.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine,” he muttered to himself, pressing the delete option. The app vanished with a blink, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest. Henry had said London, and the dot had proven him right. Henry was thousands of miles away now, an ocean between them, the memory of his kiss already stretching thin like thread.

Oscar wandered back into the kitchen just in time to see Alex drop the phone onto the table. “So, what’s the verdict? Our blond Bond wannabe is really back in Jolly Old England?”

Alex dragged a hand through his hair. “Yeah. London. That’s where he is.”

Oscar leaned against the counter, crossing his arms with a grin that spelled trouble. “So why don’t you go after him?”

Alex snapped his head up, incredulous. “What?”

“You heard me,” Oscar said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Get on a plane, show up at his door, sweep him off his feet. Isn’t that what they do in the movies?”

June perked up instantly, eyes gleaming. “Oh my God. Dad’s right. You should totally follow him.”

Nora nearly choked on her iced tea. “Yes! Yes, exactly. Imagine the drama of it all—jetting off across the Atlantic, finding him in some fog-drenched alley. It’s cinematic.”

Alex’s mouth dropped open. “You’re all insane. That’s not—people don’t just fly across the ocean for some guy they’ve known for, like, two days.”

“You would,” June said smugly, resting her chin in her palm.

“You want to,” Nora added, pointing a finger at him.

And then Ellen, who had been quiet, set her fork down with the calm finality of a judge’s gavel. “Honestly, Alex, I don’t hate the idea.”

Alex gaped at her. “Mom!”

She shrugged, pouring herself a little more tea. “What? He made you happy. Happier than I’ve seen you in a long time. If you feel that strongly about him, maybe it’s worth the risk. Maybe it’s worth one ridiculous plane ticket.”

Oscar clapped his hands together like the idea had already won. “See? Consensus! Pack a bag, son. The Claremont-Díaz family is officially sanctioning a cross-continental romantic chase.”

June and Nora exchanged a high-five, already buzzing with schemes.

Alex slumped back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. “This is literally deranged. You’re all enabling me.”

But his heart betrayed him. It was pounding, wild and eager, so loud it drowned out reason. Every nerve in his body screamed that maybe, just maybe, this was the moment—the one chance he’d ever get to prove to Henry, to himself, that what they’d started wasn’t a fluke.

He lifted his head slowly, meeting the expectant eyes of his family. “You really think I should go?”

Ellen smiled faintly, the sharp edges of her politician’s armor softening. “I think once-in-a-lifetime opportunities don’t knock twice. And I think you already know what you want.”

Alex swallowed hard, pulse racing. His family was insane. Entirely, gloriously insane. And maybe so was he. But the thought of Henry’s guarded smile, his careful voice, his lips soft and sure in the dark—it made Alex feel like for once, insanity might be the only sane choice.

The plane touched down under a low gray sky, London spread beneath Alex like a damp wool blanket stitched with lights. The flight had been sleepless—his nerves kept him bouncing between overthinking and half-formed fantasies of Henry’s face when he saw him again. By the time he stumbled off the Heathrow express and into the city proper, the clock was edging toward 7 p.m., the streets awash in the glow of streetlamps just beginning to blink awake.

The last time he’d checked the tracker—before he’d deleted it, before June had beaned him with a tomato—Henry’s dot had hovered over a place called The Grafton Meridian Hotel. Grand and discreet, the kind of place that looked like it had been hosting diplomats and spies for decades. Alex found himself standing across the street from its broad stone façade now, neon TAXI signs reflecting in its polished brass doors.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hesitating over Henry’s contact: Henry 🌵.

Hey, he typed, deleting it instantly. Too casual.

I’m in London, he tried next. At your hotel. He deleted that too, horrified.

He scrubbed a hand through his curls, muttering under his breath. “Jesus Christ, Alex, you’re about to look like a stalker. Again.”

Finally, he typed: I know this is crazy. But I couldn’t just let you disappear. I’m outside The Grafton Meridian if you want to see me. If not… I’ll go.

He hovered over send, heart rattling like a tin roof in a storm.

That was when he felt it—the prickling on the back of his neck.

From the corner of his eye, three men peeled away from the shadows at the mouth of the alley across the street. Big, heavy coats, the kind that hid a lot. Their strides were deliberate, converging.

Alex’s pulse spiked. He turned, phone still in his hand, and saw another three behind him, stepping out from the dim alcove he’d ducked into to text. Six men in total, boxing him in.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered under his breath.

His first wild thought was. Are these hotel security guys about to throw me out for loitering?

But the way they moved—silent, coordinated, their eyes glinting cold in the lamplight—told him this wasn’t some hospitality welcome party.

Alex’s fingers tightened around his phone. He swallowed, forcing a shaky grin. “Uh… good evening, gentlemen. You all lost, or is there some kind of group discount on trench coats I didn’t hear about?”

The tallest of them, a bald man with a jagged scar cutting across his cheek, stepped forward. His accent was Eastern European, low and guttural. “You are American.”

Alex’s stomach dropped. “Yeah. Congratulations, Sherlock. What gave it away, the accent or the bad posture?”

The man didn’t laugh. None of them did.

The circle closed tighter, and Alex’s back hit the cold stone. His phone buzzed in his hand—Henry, maybe?—but he couldn’t look, not now.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Alex whispered, eyes darting. He’d come to London to find Henry, not to get himself mugged or worse in the shadow of some swanky hotel.His heart thundered, one thought screaming louder than the rest. Henry, if you’re out there, I really need you right now.

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The world tilted from absurd to terrifying with brutal speed.

The six men moved in sync, like they’d done this a hundred times before. Alex tried to twist away, but a hand like iron clamped on his arm, another slammed against his back, and suddenly he was being dragged down the side street, boots scraping over the uneven stones. His phone clattered to the ground, screen shattering, the message to Henry unsent.

“Hey—what the hell—” he gasped, but his words were drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears and the thick cloth bag yanked over his head.

Darkness, muffled sounds, the hot press of rough fabric against his mouth. He was shoved into the back of a van, wrists cinched painfully tight with zip ties. His chest heaved, panic clawing up his throat. Jesus Christ, what the fuck did I just get myself into?

The drive was short and silent, punctuated only by the low murmur of foreign voices. When the van finally screeched to a halt, he was hauled out, stumbling on unsteady legs, the sack yanked away from his head.

A dim warehouse swallowed him—steel beams overhead, concrete floor slick with oil stains, the air pungent with rust. He was shoved into a chair, zip ties cutting deeper into his skin as two of the men loomed nearby, their expressions hard and empty.

The scarred man who had spoken earlier leaned down, his breath hot and foul. “Didn’t expect The Taxman to be American.”

Alex’s heart lurched. “The what now?”

Another man barked a laugh. “The Taxman. The one who makes all the smugglers pay their dues. The ghost who cleans up messes for governments too cowardly to admit the blood.” His gaze swept Alex, slow and assessing. “Who would have thought? Loud. Clumsy. A cowboy in disguise.”

“This is insane,” Alex said, fighting against the ties, wrists burning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I sell vegetables for Christ’s sake!”

They didn’t believe him. He could see it in their eyes—they were convinced, their story already written.

A heavy metal door screeched open across the warehouse, and the men stiffened. Footsteps echoed, deliberate, expensive shoes against concrete.

The boss had arrived.

He was sharp in a tailored suit that didn’t belong in this place, his hair slicked back with ruthless precision, his gaze like a scalpel. He approached slowly, studying Alex as though he were a specimen under glass.

“So,” the boss said, voice smooth, accented faintly French. “The infamous Taxman. At last.”

“I’m not—” Alex began, but a fist cracked against his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared, copper flooding his mouth.

“Save your lies,” the boss continued coolly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “You’ve meddled in too many of my transactions. The Algerian shipment. The raid in Marrakesh. The leak in Hamburg. Always one step ahead.”

Alex spat blood onto the floor, coughing. “You’ve got the wrong guy! I don’t even have a passport until yesterday!”

The boss crouched in front of him, face close enough that Alex could see the faint sheen of cologne on his skin. “If you are not The Taxman, then tell me—who do you work for? CIA? MI6? Mossad?”

“I work for my parents’ farm,” Alex snapped, desperation clawing at his throat. “I fix fences and sell tomatoes and sometimes flirt with strangers at farmers’ markets, okay? That’s it!”

The men around him exchanged looks, some scoffing, some frowning in uncertainty.

The boss’s eyes narrowed, a glimmer of doubt flickering. But then his smile sharpened. “Very well. If you will not speak truth, we will make you.”

He nodded to the guards. A bucket of water was dragged into view, its surface dark and rippling under the dim light.

Alex’s stomach dropped.

He had crossed an ocean for love, and now he was zip-tied to a chair in a London warehouse, about to be tortured for secrets he didn’t have.

So much for cross-Atlantic romantic gestures.His heart slammed against his ribs, one thought pounding louder than fear. Who the hell is The Taxman…

Alex lost track of time under the warehouse lights. Minutes, maybe hours—everything blurred into a haze of pain and fear. His jaw throbbed from the repeated slaps the boss delivered whenever he didn’t like Alex’s answer. His head ached, a dull, pounding drumbeat behind his eyes, every question ricocheting against his skull.

“Who do you work for?” “Nobody!”

“Where is the intel from Hamburg?” “I don’t know what the hell Hamburg is—besides, like, sandwich meat!“

The guards laughed darkly at his sarcasm, but the boss did not. Another backhand. The metallic tang of blood pooled in Alex’s mouth. His shoulders burned where the zip ties cut into him, plastic biting deeper every time he shifted in the chair.

And always, the same refrain. The Taxman, The Taxman, The Taxman. Whoever this phantom was, Alex had become his mistaken double, and that identity could very well get him killed.

Then the world cracked.

An explosion thundered through the far end of the warehouse, a bloom of fire painting the steel beams orange. The concussion rattled the chair, dust raining from the rafters. Guards shouted in confusion, weapons raised, scattering toward the source.

Alex jolted in his bindings, heart surging in his throat. What the hell—?

Gunfire erupted, sharp and deafening. The warehouse filled with smoke and chaos. Shouts in three different languages, the bark of orders, the heavy clank clank of boots against concrete. Shadows darted through the haze, too fast to track.

Then—out of nowhere—a figure dropped to one knee in front of him. Tactical black gear from head to toe, mask obscuring all but the eyes. Gloved hands worked quickly at the zip ties, a combat knife slicing through the plastic with practiced precision.

Alex blinked up at him through the smoke, dazed, his pulse hammering. And then he saw them. The eyes.

Pale, clear, sharp as ice cutting through the haze. Eyes he had memorized under carnival lights, eyes that had looked at him like he was the only real thing in a world of masks.

Alex froze, breath catching. “Henry…?”

The figure didn’t answer, but the flicker in his gaze was enough. Recognition.

The ties fell away, Alex’s wrists burning as blood surged back into his hands. He sagged forward, and the masked man caught him, steadying him with a hand against his shoulder.

“Stay close,” Henry’s voice rasped, low, barely audible through the distortion of the mask.

It was him.

The explosion, the raid, the precision—it all snapped into place with a dizzying clarity. The Taxman.

Alex’s stomach dropped. The man the guards feared, the ghost who haunted black markets, the operative whispered about in shadows—Henry wasn’t just a brooding stranger with a cactus and a killer smile. He was The Taxman.

And Alex, a lovesick idiot from Texas, had just stumbled into the middle of his secret war.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Smoke rolled out of the ragged hole blown into the warehouse wall, choking and acrid. Henry hauled Alex forward with a firm grip at his elbow, scanning every corner, every shadow, his rifle raised and ready. The tactical gear turned him into a different creature entirely—silent, precise, a weapon honed to terrifying sharpness.

Alex stumbled behind him, dazed, body aching, but when he glanced back and saw his duffel bag abandoned on the concrete floor, instinct kicked in. “Wait!”

Henry snapped his head around, voice sharp through the mask. “What are you doing?”

“My bag,” Alex said, darting sideways and dragging the scuffed luggage upright. “Do you know how much shit I stuffed in here? You think I’m leaving my only clean underwear in a terrorist warehouse?!”

“Alex—” Henry’s voice was tight with disbelief, but he swallowed it and turned, firing a burst into the shadows where a guard tried to regroup. The man dropped, and Henry gestured frantically. “Fine. Bring it. Just stay behind me.”

So Alex staggered forward, dragging his luggage wheels clattering over broken concrete, absurdly out of place in the chaos. He thought he saw Henry’s shoulders twitch—whether with irritation or a barely contained laugh, he couldn’t tell.

They burst out into the night air. Cool damp wind slapped Alex’s face, welcome after the choking dust. The London skyline shimmered faintly beyond the river, serene and uncaring, as though the city itself had no clue he’d just been interrogated under threat of death.

Henry pushed him against the shelter of a brick wall, sweeping the alley with his rifle one last time. When he was satisfied, he yanked off the mask, tossing it aside. His face, flushed with exertion, hair damp with sweat, was every bit the Henry Alex knew—except sharper, harder, his eyes still burning with adrenaline.

Alex gaped at him, chest heaving. The words tumbled out in a rush, ragged with disbelief and exhaustion.

“Okay. Okay, no. We’re not skipping past this. Who the hell are you, Henry Fox? Because last time I checked, you were the tragic pretty boy who bought a cactus at my stall. And now—” He flung a hand toward the smoldering warehouse. “Now you’re Jason Bourne’s scarier cousin?”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “It isn’t safe here. We need to move.”

“No!” Alex barked, planting his feet, luggage dragging at his side like a stubborn child. “I’ve been kidnapped, interrogated, slapped around, and almost drowned, and now you’re playing military cosplay like it’s no big deal. I deserve some answers.”

Henry exhaled slowly, the weight of years hanging on the sound. He slung the rifle across his back, finally meeting Alex’s eyes. “My name is Henry Fox. To most people, I’m no one. But to the people who matter—the people you just met in there—I’m The Taxman.”

Alex’s mouth fell open. “The Taxman,” he repeated, the word tasting surreal. “That’s what they kept calling me. They thought I was you.”

Henry nodded once. His gaze flicked over Alex, lingering on the bruises already blooming along his jaw. His voice dropped, thick with regret. “And for that, you almost died.”

Alex’s stomach turned, his pulse wild. “So you… you’re a spy. Like an actual, real-life, movie-level spy.”

Henry’s mouth twitched faintly, a humorless smile. “Something like that.”

Alex dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Oh my God. I crossed an ocean for a date, and it turns out my crush is basically a government boogeyman.”

Henry’s eyes softened, despite the chaos still humming around them. “Alex…”

“Nope,” Alex cut him off, shaking his head. “You’re explaining this. All of it. Because right now, my choices are either fainting in the street or demanding answers, and I don’t faint.”

For the first time all night, Henry almost smiled. “Then you’d better keep up,” he said, stepping back toward the shadows. “Because the people inside won’t stop hunting you until they realize you’re not me. And that means, whether you like it or not, you’re part of this now.”

Alex’s heart thundered. “Oh, fantastic. A one-way ticket to spy hell. Thanks, Henry.”

But even as he grumbled, his feet moved after him, luggage wheels clattering on the cobblestones—because whatever Henry Fox was, Alex couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Not now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The warehouse was still belching smoke when Henry shoved Alex into the waiting sedan, slammed the door, and vaulted behind the wheel. The car roared to life, tires screaming on wet pavement. Alex yelped, clutching his duffel to his chest like it was a shield, his pulse rattling his ribs.

“Do all your first dates end with a kidnapping and an explosion?” he shouted over the growl of the engine as Henry swerved around a black van bearing down on them.

Henry didn’t glance at him. His jaw was set, profile sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps. “I told you to stay in Texas.”

Alex’s laugh was half-hysterical. “Yeah, well, I don’t like simple.”

The car shot into a side street, narrowly missing a delivery truck. Alex’s head slammed back into the seat, and he groaned. “Jesus, Mary, and brisket—do you drive like this on errands too?”

Henry’s knuckles flexed on the wheel. “Hold on.”

They flew through London’s veins like a bullet, and Alex realized two things. One, his life had been hijacked by a man who was clearly not who he said he was; and two, he had never been more alive.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They ditched the sedan in an underground car park, Henry switching plates with the calm of a man folding laundry. Then, without ceremony, they walked straight into the bustle of St. Pancras station. Alex trailed, clutching his duffel, eyes darting everywhere—vendors hawking snacks, commuters pulling roller bags, the departures board glowing with destinations.

Henry strode ahead with brisk purpose, a forged passport in his hand. Alex jogged to catch up.

“Are we seriously just hopping on a train like we’re going on vacation?”

Henry’s reply was curt. “Paris. We’ll regroup there.”

Alex grumbled, but when the Eurostar rocketed into darkness beneath the Channel, he couldn’t help the nervous laugh that bubbled up. He turned to Henry, who was silently reviewing something on a secure tablet.

“So let me get this straight,” Alex whispered. “The bad guys think I’m you. Me. Farmer Alex from Texas. And apparently I’m this mythical spy everyone whispers about, scary enough to make smugglers soil their pants.”

Henry didn’t look up. “Correct.”

Alex dropped back in his seat, throwing his hands wide. “Fantastic. Barely got my passport stamped and now I'm an International Man of Mystery. Next thing you know, I’ll be starring in my own Netflix series.”

Henry’s mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the screen.

Alex smirked, leaning closer. “Admit it—you find me entertaining.”

“I find you loud,” Henry murmured. But there was warmth in the words.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morning broke over Paris with a blaze of sun on stone. The Marché d’Aligre was a chaos of colors and sounds—shouts of vendors, towers of oranges, crates of fish still glistening from the river. Henry walked with clinical awareness, Alex at his elbow trying not to gape like a tourist.

“You could at least let me get a croissant,” Alex muttered.

“We’re here for a contact,” Henry replied, scanning faces. “Not breakfast.”

But the contact never arrived. Instead, a hail of bullets ripped through the market. Stalls toppled, fruit splattering underfoot as tourists screamed and scattered. Alex dove behind a cart of peppers, his duffel clutched like a life preserver.

“Are you kidding me?!” he shouted as Henry returned fire with terrifying calm.

“Stay down!” Henry barked.

“Not exactly an option!” Alex yelped, eyes wide as a mercenary lunged. His hands scrabbled for anything—and landed on a baguette. With a yell, he swung it like a baseball bat, smacking the man across the head. The merc collapsed, dazed.

Henry turned, eyes wide for a flicker of a moment. “Impressive improvisation.”

“Improvise this!” Alex yelled, hurling the baguette across the alley at another merc. It bounced harmlessly, but his grin was feral.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They drove through the night, snow-tipped peaks rising into the clouds. By dawn, they reached a lonely chalet clinging to a mountain slope. Inside, the fire snapped, casting warm light over rustic wood beams.

Alex sat on the sofa, a bruise blooming on his cheek, while Henry knelt with a first-aid kit. He dabbed antiseptic on Alex’s split lip with maddening precision.

“You could’ve told me,” Alex hissed. “Instead, you let me walk straight into this like a goddamn idiot.”

Henry’s eyes flicked up, cool. “If you’d known, you’d never have come near me.”

“Exactly!” Alex snapped, then faltered, voice cracking. “And maybe I wouldn’t have kissed you.”

The fire crackled. Henry froze, his hand hovering midair. For one dangerous second, the walls around him slipped—the hardened mask gave way, eyes raw with want and fear.

But then he turned back to the kit, shoulders rigid. “Get some sleep. We leave at dawn.”

Alex stared at him, heart pounding. He wanted to scream, to kiss him again, to demand everything. Instead, he bit his tongue and let the silence thicken like snow outside.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time they reached Barcelona, the chase had grown bloodier. Word spread fast. The Taxman is on the move, with a partner. Rival assassins descended like vultures.

In a neon-lit plaza, Henry shoved Alex behind a stone column as three killers advanced—one with a bouquet of knives strapped across his chest, another tossing grenades like candy, the last carrying a gleaming saber.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Alex groaned. “Did I just stumble into Mortal Kombat?”

The assassins, absurdly, began arguing mid-fight.

“I’ll take him!” Knife Guy snapped. “Please, you couldn’t cut butter,” Grenade Guy sneered. “You two are amateurs,” Saber Guy purred.

“Do assassins always argue like divas, or is this just Spain?” Alex yelled over the chaos.

Henry ducked a knife, cool as ever. “This is tame compared to Istanbul.”

Alex’s eyes bulged. “Excuse me?!”

But there was no time for answers—only running, dodging, surviving, Alex clutching Henry’s sleeve as explosions tore up the cobblestones.

The Marrakesh night was alive, stitched together from color and sound. The call to prayer echoing from minarets, the hum of scooters weaving through alleys, the kaleidoscope blaze of spices and silks hanging from the souks. Lantern light bathed everything in molten gold, and the air was thick with smoke from grilled lamb skewers, cinnamon, and diesel fumes.

Alex trailed Henry through the labyrinthine streets, duffel slung over his shoulder, eyes darting everywhere. He felt like he was walking inside a fever dream—a thousand voices, a thousand scents, and Henry cutting through it all like a blade, every step purposeful.

“Do you always drag your boyfriends to tourist death traps?” Alex muttered, sidestepping a cart loaded with saffron.

Henry shot him a look, dry as sand. “This isn’t sightseeing. It’s survival. And you’re not my—”

“Spare me,” Alex cut him off, smirking. “We’ve literally kissed under carnival lights and slept in the same bed. Labels are just paperwork.”

Henry’s lips pressed into a line, but his ears turned faintly pink. Alex caught it and grinned wider, despite the tension humming in his chest.

At the edge of the market square, Henry stopped at a shadowed café tucked behind a stall selling pomegranates. A man sat alone at a table beneath the awning, a pot of mint tea steaming between him and the empty chair across from him.

He was striking. Tall, broad-shouldered, his skin the warm bronze of desert sun, a pale scar cutting diagonally across one eye that only seemed to make his gaze sharper. His hair was black, cropped short, and his white linen shirt looked effortless, like it belonged more on a magazine cover than in a backstreet café.

“Idris,” Henry said as they approached, his voice steady, formal.

“Henry Fox,” the man replied, his deep baritone curling into amusement. He stood, clasping Henry’s hand with a firm grip, then leaned in, brushing their cheeks together in greeting. When he pulled back, his scar caught the lamplight like a silver stroke. “Always a pleasure.”

Alex, hovering behind, shifted awkwardly until Henry gestured to him. “This is Alex Claremont-Díaz. He’s… with me.”

“Ah,” Idris said, turning his gaze onto Alex. His smile broadened, warm and easy. “So this is the American causing whispers already.”

“Uh, hi,” Alex said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet someone who doesn’t want to waterboard me.”

Idris barked a laugh, taking his hand in a firm shake. “Refreshingly honest. I like him.” He motioned for them to sit. “Come. Drink. The tea is hot, the air is warm, and my friends are already complaining that I never introduce them to anyone interesting.”

They settled in, tea poured into delicate glasses, the taste sweet and sharp with mint. Idris spoke with the kind of charisma that filled the space around him. Witty, quick, his stories tumbling out like well-polished stones. He asked Alex questions about Texas, about farms, about the ridiculousness of farmers’ markets compared to Moroccan souks. Alex bantered back easily, relieved by the man’s openness, watching Henry sip quietly as though immune to the charm.

Then, casually, Idris leaned back, his gaze sliding to Henry. “Do you remember Istanbul?” he asked, lips quirking.

Henry’s expression didn’t flicker, but Alex caught the faint tightening of his grip on the glass.

“Oh, Istanbul,” Idris went on, his tone rich with innuendo. “The rooftop, the rain, the trouble we made. You still owe me new boots, Fox. You never paid for the damage.”

Alex blinked, then choked on his tea, coughing into his fist. “Oh my God,” he wheezed, laughing despite himself. “Are you seriously—? Is this you two having some weird sexy spy banter right in front of me?”

Idris’s grin widened, unbothered. “We shared a… memorable evening. That is all I’ll say.”

Henry’s jaw clenched, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Idris.”

But Alex was still laughing, leaning back in his chair. “You know what? Fine. Whatever. My boyfriend—”

Henry made a strangled noise. “Alex.”

“—my not-boyfriend-but-definitely-more-than-a-fling has an international past. Great. Fabulous. Istanbul, huh? Guess Texas really isn’t exotic enough for you.” He grinned crookedly, shaking his head. “I knew you were mysterious, but I didn’t think it came with a travel brochure.”

Idris chuckled, raising his glass in a toast. “I like him,” he said again, eyes glittering. “You should keep this one, Henry. He doesn’t frighten easily.”

Henry downed the rest of his tea in silence, his ears burning crimson under the café’s dim lanterns, while Alex laughed into his sleeve, the absurdity of it all washing over him.

He was in Marrakesh, drinking mint tea with a gorgeous scarred spy, his maybe-boyfriend bristling beside him—and somehow, it felt like the most normal thing in the world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night in Marrakesh burned with lantern light and the low hum of music spilling from doorways, but Henry had already pulled Alex into the back of a battered jeep, its engine coughing like an old smoker. Idris had clapped Henry on the shoulder one last time, wished him luck, and disappeared into the crowd with the kind of casual swagger only a man who feared nothing could manage.

The jeep jolted into motion, weaving through the tangle of souks, Alex gripping the rusted door handle for dear life. His laughter was still echoing in his chest—half from Idris’s shameless innuendo, half from the absurdity of still being alive.

“Jesus,” Alex said, bouncing on the cracked seat, “your friends are even scarier than you. And apparently better storytellers, too. Istanbul? Really? I’m never letting that go.”

Henry’s grip on the wheel tightened. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

“You mean Marrakesh or Istanbul?” Alex teased.

“Both,” Henry said flatly, though the faintest twitch at his mouth betrayed him.

The desert unspooled around them as they left the city, dunes glowing silver under moonlight. The wind lashed Alex’s hair into his face, the night air carrying scents of dust and smoke. He was exhilarated and exhausted in equal measure, adrenaline still sizzling through his veins.

Henry pulled a phone from his jacket, a secure satellite line blinking to life. He spoke rapidly in clipped tones. “Pez. I need you to throw smoke. Feed half the agencies false intel, scatter the others on decoys, and burn the Marrakesh files entirely. Make sure our friends from Hamburg see it.”

The voice on the other end was smooth, velveted with amusement. “Darling Henry, you sound positively stressed. Are you certain you don’t want me to send flowers instead?”

“Pez.” Henry’s tone sharpened.

“Oh, fine,” Pez sighed dramatically. “I’ll salt the earth behind you. But I expect stories when you return. And perhaps an introduction to this mysterious American who keeps tripping over your secrets?”

Henry ended the call with a flick of his thumb, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “That your partner in crime?”

Henry glanced at him, voice even. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Sounds like a riot,” Alex said, leaning back, watching Henry’s profile in the dim glow of the dashboard. “I like him already. He called you darling.”

Henry didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the ribbon of road.

They drove until dawn bled pink across the horizon, until the jeep’s engine wheezed and finally gave out on a strip of rocky coastline. The sea stretched wide and endless, waves slapping against dark volcanic rock. Henry coaxed the engine twice more, then stepped out with calm acceptance.

“Stranded,” Alex said, climbing out after him. “Perfect. Just what I dreamed of when I booked a ticket to London.”

“We’ll call for exfiltration once the dust settles,” Henry said. “For now, this is safer.”

The island was sparse, dotted with scrub and twisted trees, the air sharp with salt. They made a small camp along the cliffs, Henry’s practiced hands building a fire while Alex sat cross-legged, hugging his knees.

For the first time in days, there was silence. No gunfire, no sirens, no shouting assassins. Just waves and wind, the fire crackling low.

Alex finally said, “You know, I thought chasing you across the ocean was the stupidest thing I’d ever done. Turns out I was wrong. The stupidest thing is still sitting here, trying to make sense of you.”

Henry didn’t look up from the fire. “There’s nothing to make sense of.”

“Bullshit.” Alex’s voice cracked with the force of it. “You’re Henry Fox. You’re also The Taxman. You’re also the guy who bought a cactus from me because he wanted something alive he couldn’t kill. You’re all of those things, and I can’t figure out how you live with it.”

Henry’s eyes lifted, pale and raw in the firelight. “I don’t live with it. I survive it.”

Alex’s chest ached. He shifted closer, their knees brushing. “Maybe you don’t have to, though. Not alone.”

For a long moment, Henry just stared, his breath shallow, the wind tugging his hair into his eyes. Then, with a slowness that felt like surrender, he said, “You terrify me.”

Alex huffed a laugh, shaky. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Henry leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Alex’s, voice barely a whisper. “You make me want things I’ve spent my whole life denying myself.”

Alex’s hand slid up to Henry’s jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble. “Then stop denying them.”

The kiss was different this time—not frantic, not born of danger. It was deliberate, tender, Henry’s lips soft against Alex’s, the fire snapping quietly beside them. For the first time, Henry wasn’t The Taxman. He wasn’t a ghost or a weapon. He was just Henry.

And Alex, reckless and earnest and impossibly alive, kissed him like he was finally home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The island held them for two days—two days of fragile quiet stitched together from driftwood fires, salt spray, and stolen touches. Alex teased Henry about being a terrible fisherman, Henry scolded Alex for trying to climb the cliffs barefoot, and in between, the tension that had stalked them since Texas softened into something almost domestic.

But peace, Henry knew, never lasted.

On the second night, as the fire sank into embers, the low crackle of the satellite phone broke the silence. Pez’s voice came through, sharp and urgent.

“They’re regrouping in London, Henry. The boss you flushed in Marrakesh wants to auction the bioweapon on neutral ground. They’re calling it The Party. Yacht on the Thames, forty-eight hours. If you want to end this, it has to be there.”

Henry’s jaw clenched. “Send coordinates.”

When the line clicked dead, Alex sat up, brushing sand from his palms. “A yacht party? Bioweapon auction? That’s not even subtle. Can we please acknowledge that your job sounds like a shitty James Bond fanfic?”

Henry’s eyes softened despite himself. “And yet here you are. Still in it.”

Alex’s grin faltered. “Yeah. Because I can’t leave you in it alone.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Grafton Meridian’s glittering lobby was a memory now. Tonight the Thames glittered with neon as a sleek white yacht bobbed under the city lights, music drifting across the water. Inside,  crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and men in tuxedos whose smiles hid blood money.

Alex tugged at his bow tie, scowling. “I look like a penguin at prom.”

Henry adjusted his cufflinks, immaculate in his own black tuxedo. “You look… appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” Alex rolled his eyes. “You could just say hot, Henry.”

Henry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait.

Inside, the air reeked of money and menace. Guests murmured in French, Russian, Arabic, their eyes cutting sharp as glass. At the center, a glass case gleamed beneath spotlights. The device, a slim canister with innocuous markings. The weapon every intelligence service in the hemisphere wanted.

Alex muttered, “So how do we do this? You grab the bioweapon, I throw champagne in someone’s face, we run?”

Henry’s eyes swept the room. “You’ll be bait.”

“Bait?!”

“They think you’re me. If they’re focused on you, I can dismantle the device.”

“Unbelievable.” Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. “I crossed an ocean for a date, and now I’m a decoy at a death auction. Nora’s gonna kill me when she hears this.”

Henry’s hand brushed his briefly, quick and almost hidden. “I won’t let them touch you.”

The words made Alex’s heart stutter.

It unraveled fast. The boss from Marrakesh emerged, his scarred smile cutting across the crowd. His men surged forward, guns drawn, the champagne towers crashing in a glittering explosion of glass. Guests screamed, scattering.

“The Taxman!” the boss crowed, pointing at Alex. “Caught at last!”

Alex raised his hands, eyes wide, muttering under his breath, “Oh my God, why do they all buy this?”

Before the boss could order the kill, Henry moved—smooth, deadly, his pistol silencing three guards in seconds. The room erupted into chaos, bullets, shouting, chandeliers shattering overhead.

Henry reached the canister, hands moving with precision, dismantling wires. But the boss lunged, knife flashing, and Alex—heart hammering—did the only thing he could. Swung his champagne bottle like a baseball bat. Glass shattered across the man’s temple.

Henry spun, eyes wide. “Alex—”

“Don’t yell at me!” Alex snapped, grabbing Henry’s arm. “I saved your ass!”

The deck was on fire, alarms shrieking. Helicopters roared overhead. Henry yanked Alex toward the railing, the canister clutched in one hand.

“They’ll tear this city apart if they think you’re me,” Henry shouted over the chaos. “You have to disappear.”

“Not without you!” Alex yelled back, his voice raw.

For once, Henry let the walls crack. His hand cupped Alex’s cheek, thumb smudging soot across his skin. “You make me want a life I can’t have.”

Alex’s throat closed. “Then have it. With me. Just—jump.”

Bullets ripped through the deck, splinters spraying. Henry’s eyes searched his, a storm of want and fear—and then, without another word, they leapt.

The Thames swallowed them whole, icy water searing lungs, suits dragging heavy. Alex surfaced gasping, Henry beside him, still gripping the ruined canister. They swam, kicked, clawed their way to the dark underbelly of the dock, clinging to each other, hearts pounding.

The Claremont-Díaz ranch house had never been a quiet place, but tonight it was a carnival in itself. The table stretched under the weight of food—Ellen’s roasted chicken, June’s skillet cornbread, Nora’s chaotic attempt at a salad, Oscar’s brisket that was more smoke than meat. Laughter ricocheted off the walls, the warm hum of cicadas rolling through the open windows.

And Henry Fox, the man the underworld whispered about as The Taxman, sat among it all with his sleeves rolled, a glass of sweet tea in his hand, and the faintest look of wonder trying to disguise itself as composure.

Pez Okonjo had taken to the family like he’d been born to it. He was perched on the arm of the couch with June, recounting some ridiculous story about Henry’s misadventures in a Venetian masquerade. “And then, mind you, my darling Henry here tried to vault a balcony. Elegant in theory, but in practice—” He threw his hands up, eyes gleaming. “Like a startled goat.”

June doubled over in laughter, smacking the table. “Oh my God, Henry!”

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile. “It was three stories. And it worked.”

Alex, seated beside him, grinned so wide his cheeks ached. “See? This is why I keep him around. Free entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” Pez gasped, scandalized. “He saved your reckless American ass!”

“Excuse me,” Alex shot back, “my reckless American ass saved him right back. You weren’t there for the champagne bottle moment in London.”

Oscar leaned back, waving his fork like a conductor’s baton. “Wait, wait—champagne bottle? What’s this?”

Henry’s lips twitched, the faintest glimmer of pride surfacing. “He knocked out a smuggler twice his size with vintage Dom Pérignon.”

“Hell yeah, I did,” Alex crowed, raising his iced tea like a victory flag. “Texan ingenuity, baby.”

The table erupted in laughter. Ellen clapped her hands together, shaking her head. “You know, I spent years worrying Alex would get himself in over his head. And now I find out he has, but with someone competent enough to drag him back out.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Henry said, his accent polished and steady. “Though he hardly makes it easy.”

“Oh, we know,” June chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He once tried to fix the barn roof with duct tape. In the rain.”

“Functional duct tape!” Alex protested.

“Until it collapsed,” Nora said sweetly.

Pez laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “My God, Henry, you’ve been adopted into a sitcom.”

Oscar leaned across the table, squinting at Henry. “So. Tell me. How does one go from… whatever you are—”

“International man of mystery,” Pez supplied helpfully.

“—to sitting here in Texas with my boy?” Oscar finished.

Henry glanced sideways at Alex, something soft blooming behind his eyes. “By accident. And then by choice.”

The table stilled just long enough for June to make an obnoxious “awww” sound, which Nora immediately echoed.

Alex kicked June under the table, face burning, but he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his mouth.

Ellen raised her glass, commanding the room. “To accidents that turn into choices. And to anyone brave enough to love my son.”

Glasses clinked, laughter rising again, Pez already launching into another story, this time about Henry being mistaken for a Swedish prince in Stockholm.

And for once, Henry didn’t feel the weight of shadows pressing at his back. He felt the warmth of a family he’d never had, the noise of people who loved without conditions, the solid hand of Alex brushing his under the table.

The Taxman was feared across continents. But here, on this noisy Texas night, he was Henry. Just Henry.

And with Alex by choice.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ranch had gone quiet at last. Dinner was cleared, the laughter of Alex’s family trailing upstairs and out to the porch swing where Nora and June were still conspiring with Pez. The cicadas droned like a steady hymn, and the stars spilled silver across the Texas sky.

Henry and Alex sat on the hood of the old pickup, the metal still warm from the day’s sun. Alex leaned back on his palms, boots dangling, shoulders loose in a way that came only when he was home. Henry sat straighter, suit jacket shed, sleeves rolled, hair mussed from the breeze. He looked less like The Taxman and more like someone who could actually belong here.

Alex broke the silence with a huff of laughter, shaking his head. “You know, sometimes I think about how stupid this all is.”

Henry tilted his head. “Define stupid.”

“Like…” Alex waved a hand toward the fields. “You’re you. The guy who dismantles bombs on yachts and talks to assassins like they’re annoying telemarketers. And I’m… me. The dorky farmer from Texas who sells tomatoes at the market, accuses Mrs. McIntyre of being high on gummies, and can make a pecan pie so good people propose marriage in the fall.”

Henry’s lips twitched, his gaze steady on Alex.

“Seriously,” Alex pressed on, mock-dramatic now. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? With me? Because there’s no training montage for dealing with me, Fox. I don’t come with a manual. I come with bad puns, aggressive flirting, and a very unhealthy addiction to queso.”

Henry let out the smallest laugh, quiet but genuine. He shifted closer, knees bumping against Alex’s. “You think that’s what I see?”

Alex raised a brow. “Enlighten me.”

Henry’s eyes softened, voice low. “I see the man who made me buy a cactus because he wanted me to keep something alive. I see the man who faced a warehouse full of mercenaries and still had the audacity to make jokes. I see the man who kissed me at a carnival at two in the morning and made me believe, for the first time, that I could have something… real.”

Alex swallowed, throat tight. “You’re really in love with all that ridiculous?”

Henry leaned in until his forehead touched Alex’s, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. “Hopelessly.”

Alex’s grin split wide, goofy and unstoppable. “God, you’re doomed.”

Henry’s mouth found his, the kiss warm and unhurried, the cicadas droning on, the stars indifferent. And when Alex pulled back, laughing against Henry’s lips, he whispered, “Hope you like pecan pie, Fox. Because you’re getting one every damn fall.”

Henry’s smile—real, unguarded, utterly his—was answer enough.

And under the Texas sky, The Taxman stopped being a myth, and Henry simply let himself be loved.