Harrison
It doesn’t take long before seeing Scott becomes part of my routine in a way I don’t plan for.
At first, it’s small things. Coffee in the mornings when his schedule allows it, the two of us falling into the same corner table like we’ve been sitting there for years instead of days, our conversations picking up wherever we leave off without effort or explanation.
Then it turns into more.
Walks through town that stretch longer and longer, quick stops that turn into full afternoons, dinners that start as something easy and somehow end with us still talking hours later, neither of us willing to call it a night.
It’s easy with him.
Too easy.
And that should be enough to make me pull back. But it isn’t. Because underneath all of that ease, something else is building, something quieter but stronger, something that makes every moment feel like it matters more than it should this early on.
I notice it in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, like he’s trying to memorize something, and in the way he hesitates sometimes, like there are things he wants to say but doesn’t quite know how.
And I definitely notice it in the way he never reaches for me when we’re in town.
Not really.
Not the way he does when we’re alone.
We’re at the lake behind his cottage, the first time it becomes impossible to ignore.
The sun is setting, painting the water in soft gold and muted orange, and Scott is sitting on the edge of the dock with his feet dangling over the side. I stand a few feet behind him for a moment, watching him before I move closer.
He doesn’t hear me right away. Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t turn. Either way, I step up beside him and sit down.
He glances over, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We sit like that for a while, not saying much, just watching the water shift beneath the fading light, and if you had asked me a week ago if I could sit in silence with someone and not feel the need to fill it, I would’ve said no.
But with him, it doesn’t feel like silence.
“You ever think about leaving?” he asks after a while, his voice thoughtful in a way that makes me look at him a little more closely.
“Leaving Hampstead?”
“Yeah.”
I shrug slightly, leaning back on my hands. “Sometimes.”
“Why don’t you?”
I let out a quiet breath. “Because everything I need is here.”
It’s the simplest answer I can give him.
Not the full one.
But enough.
He nods slowly, like he understands there’s more to it but isn’t going to push.
“That’s what I was looking for when I came here,” he says. “Something that felt like it could be enough.”
“And is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks out over the water, his expression shifting just slightly, something thoughtful and uncertain slipping through.
“I think it could be,” he says eventually.
Without really thinking about it, I reach over and let my hand rest against his.
It isn’t a big move.
Nothing dramatic.
It’s simple.
Intentional.
And for a second, he doesn’t move.
His fingers stay where they are, warm beneath mine, and I feel him exhale slowly, like he’s letting himself settle into it.
But then he pulls back.
Not in a way that would draw attention if someone else were watching.
But enough for me to notice.
I don’t say anything right away. I just watch him.
Waiting.
Because moments like that usually come with something, an explanation, an acknowledgment, anything.
But he doesn’t offer one.
Instead, he shifts slightly, bracing his hands on the dock behind him, his gaze fixed on the water like nothing just happened.
“Scott,” I say, my voice calm but steady.
He glances at me. “Yeah?”
I hold his gaze. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
His shoulders tense just slightly. “Like what?”
I don’t let him deflect. “Like why you won’t touch me when we’re around other people?”
The words sit between us, heavier than anything we’ve said before.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even try. He just looks at me like he’s deciding how much of the truth he’s willing to give me.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.
“I notice everything when it comes to you.” That isn’t something I planned to say. But it comes out anyway. And I don’t take it back.
He swallows, looking away again. “I just…” he starts, then stops.
The hesitation tells me more than the words would have.
“Scott.”
This time, there’s more weight behind it.
More insistence.
He lets out a slow breath, his hands tightening slightly against the wood of the dock.
“I’m not out,” he says finally.
The words land softly. But they hit hard.
I lean back slightly, letting that settle. Not because I don’t understand. I do. But because I need a second to figure out what that means.
For this.
For us.
“Okay,” I say after a moment.
He looks at me then, something uncertain flickering across his face.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Okay.”
He studies me like he’s waiting for something else.
For a reaction.
For disappointment.
For anything that confirms whatever he’s been afraid of.
“You’re not upset?” he asks.
There’s something fragile in the question that makes me choose my next words carefully.
“I’m not upset that you’re not out,” I say. “That’s your decision. Your timeline.”
Relief washes over his expression. But I’m not done.
“But I do need to know what that means for me.”
That makes him go completely still.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I mean,” I say slowly, “am I something you keep separate from the rest of your life?”
The question sits between us, sharp and unavoidable. His expression shifts again, the relief fading, replaced by something heavier.
“No,” he says quickly. “That’s not—”
“Because I’m not interested in being a secret, Scott.”
I don’t raise my voice.
I don’t need to.
The weight of the words is enough that he flinches.
Slightly.
But I see it.
“I’m not asking you to come out tomorrow,” I add, softer now. “I’m not asking you to do anything before you’re ready.”
His shoulders drop a fraction.
“But I need to know that I’m not something you’re going to hide forever.”
Silence stretches between us again. Longer this time.
He looks down at his hands, like the answer might be there if he stares long enough. “I don’t want to hide you,” he says finally.
His voice is quiet, but there’s something real in it. “I just don’t know how to do this yet.”
I nod slowly, letting out a breath I don’t realize I’ve been holding.
“Then we figure it out,” I say.
He looks up at me, surprised.
“Together,” I add.
Something in his expression softens then, the tension easing just slightly.
“Together,” he repeats.
We don’t fix everything in that moment. We don’t solve the problem or erase the tension that’s surfaced between us.
But we don’t walk away from it either.
And that matters more than anything else.
He shifts closer again after that, not touching me this time, but close enough that the distance doesn’t feel like a wall anymore.
Close enough that I know he’s trying.
And for now, that’s enough.