Epilogue
Seven Months Later
“I hope you know,” Jordan is saying via FaceTime, his voice low and earnest, “I’m risking my life getting you this info. This is treason.”
“It’s one ingredient,” Denz argues.
“That Auntie Leena hasn’t shared with anyone !”
“But she clearly shared it with your mom.”
Jordan and Auntie Cheryl might not be exactly alike—mainly because Jordan can keep a secret —but their ability to extract classified information from a reliable source is god-tier.
“Cuz,” Denz says, lifting his phone from where it was propped against a mug with a Union Jack design, making sure Jordan has a clear view of his face, “remember when you were fourteen? At the Sedwicks’ first wedding? When you—”
“Don’t you finish that story.” Jordan’s warm brown cheeks are glowing. “Extortion? Seriously, who are you?”
Denz grins arrogantly. “I’m a Carter.”
Jordan lets out a long, low breath. “Lemon extract.”
“Sorry, what?”
“The secret ingredient to your mom’s sweet potato pie is—” Jordan pauses. His eyes dance around his surroundings, as if there might be trained mercenaries hiding in the shadows, waiting to kidnap and subject him to sleep deprivation or waterboarding for uttering two words again. “—lemon extract.”
“You’re fucking kidding. That’s it ?”
Denz is offended. Years and years of failed pies. Cheap replicas of his mom’s greatest bake. A lifetime of secrets for… lemon extract ?
“If you narc on me,” Jordan warns, pulling at the collar of his Ralph Lauren wool sweater like he can already imagine Leena’s hands around his neck, “I’ll lie. I’ll disavow. I’ll—”
“Blah, blah, blah. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Denz returns his phone to its former position on the quartz kitchen countertop. Afternoon sunbeams flood through the apartment’s windows. It’s a sharp contrast to the green sofa in Jordan’s background.
He knows that sofa.
“Gotta go, cuz,” Jordan says. “I have—um. Things to, yeah.”
Denz squints, waiting for Jordan to elaborate.
Instead, Jordan shouts, “Bye, Braylon!”
Off camera, to Denz’s left, comes an enthusiastic “See you soon, Jordan!”
Denz rolls his eyes. He says, “Jordan? Tell Jamie he owes me a text.” The face on the other side of the screen freezes: wide-eyed, mouth hanging open. “And for the love of God, please don’t fuck in my old bed.”
Jordan ends the call.
Braylon says fondly, “He’s gonna retaliate when we go back to Atlanta next month.”
“I know.” Denz’s mouth quirks upward. “I can’t wait.”
Two weeks in Atlanta for the holidays. They’ve been planning the trip for months. Dinner with the Carters. All of them. Spending way too much time on his parents’ sofa as Mikah forces them to rewatch every Studio Ghibli movie they’ve missed. Visiting Braylon’s parents’ graves.
It’s a rare Saturday off for them. Braylon’s not working tirelessly on a new project or awareness campaign for the LA branch of Skye’s the Limit. Denz isn’t spending another weekend advising new clients to grow their online platforms.
It’s just them. They’re standing barefoot in the kitchen— their kitchen —wearing matching aprons. An early Christmas gift from Nic. Embroidered on Denz’s is MUFFIN . Braylon’s says SWEETEA .
Braylon peels the boiled sweet potatoes over the sink while Denz gathers all the dry ingredients.
The open patio door lets in a warm mix of city and ocean scents.
Of earth and salt. The apartment is another gift, this one from Denz’s parents.
It’s not a top-floor unit like he shared with Jamie.
Just a one-bedroom studio in Culver City.
Seven hundred square feet of space with their shoes by the door.
Braylon’s electric kettle on the kitchen counter.
A walk-in closet divided between monochromes and designer looks Auntie Eva insisted Denz pack.
“If you leave that Dolce sweater here, I’ll disown you,” she told him tearily.
Denz never thought he’d see the day Eva would cry happy tears for him.
He’s been in LA for four months now. Braylon arrived first, in April, apartment hunting and logging hours at the youth center while Denz set up his brand in Atlanta. Skye’s the Limit was his first client.
Those first few weeks apart were… a trial of errors. Missed calls. Time zone issues. Denz tried to surprise Braylon with a semi-naked FaceTime that was supposed to involve a toy or two, but instead ended with Braylon mortified on the other end. He was in the middle of a charity dinner.
But they survived.
They found ways to communicate and laugh and schedule sexy video calls.
In hindsight, Denz wonders why they never considered long-distance dating before. When Braylon left for London. Maybe they weren’t ready then? Maybe you have to lose something before you realize how strong you are? The lengths you’ll go to keep it?
He hasn’t mentioned any of that to Braylon, though.
One day, he will.
Now, it’s weekend mornings down at the farmers’ market.
Afternoons discovering new queer neighborhoods.
Holding hands on Santa Monica Pier. It’s Braylon insisting In-N-Out is inferior to The Varsity and Denz pretending to disagree.
It’s Sundays playing Scrabble while Braylon tells Denz old stories about growing up with his dad.
Now, it’s Braylon curling around him from behind, hooking his chin on Denz’s shoulder to ask, “What’s next?”
Denz walks him through dumping the peeled sweet potatoes and melted butter into the stand mixer’s bowl.
“Sugar, vanilla, nutmeg,” he instructs.
“Bossy,” Braylon teases.
They’ve done this dance so many times before. But it’s never been Denz leading their waltz. He’s never been the one with the recipe and deft hand, helping to bring everything together. He warns, “Too much cinnamon.”
“Coming from you?” Braylon lifts an accusing eyebrow. “Is that a joke?”
Denz laughs, elbowing him aside.
This isn’t the life he dreamt about in college. It’s a lot less Hugh Grant happily-ever-after, more Netflix adaptation of a Jane Austen novel—clumsy and sometimes chaotic. Charmingly flawed.
He loves every second of it.
He loves the café two blocks from their place with the mint-green interior. Their dedicated corner table where Braylon steals bites of his muffin and Denz sips his way through the entire tea menu until he finds the right one.
For the record: it’s not Darjeeling.
He loves his new job. He finally gets what Kami was saying.
Being 24 Carter Gold’s CEO was a fantasy.
The kind of thing that’s so big and untouchable, it only exists in your head because you know it’ll never happen.
But this? Taking on queer clients who want their content to impact others in the community?
It’s his dream, the thing you think about over and over until you have no choice but to make it a reality.
He loves finding balance between work and his relationship. The fights with Braylon that end in the most enthusiastic make-up sex. The little reminders that they’re imperfect.
Turns out, he loves those quiet, achy five minutes after ending a FaceTime call with Mikah too.
When he’s hugging himself, trying not to cry.
When he’s missing his family so much, it aches down to his toes.
Because Braylon always finds him. Always folds his long arms and legs around Denz, face buried in the side of his neck, never speaking.
Just holding Denz. Letting him ride the wave until he’s okay again.
Even now, he loves Braylon watching him fill the crust. Slide the orangey pie into the oven. Set a timer. There’s a look in his deep brown eyes like he wants to say something. The same words Denz stumbled over in an Athens apartment he almost set on fire.
Denz tries to beat him to it.
“I love you,” he says just as Braylon says, “I want you on this counter right now so I can su—”
Braylon freezes, cheeks darkening.
Denz bursts into lung-aching laughter.
“I mean, I love you too,” Braylon stammers.
“Sure. Sounds great,” Denz says, already guiding Braylon backward until the edge of the counter digs into his spine. He unties Braylon’s apron. “But I think it’s my turn.”
“It’s hardly a competition.”
“Then why am I always winning?”
“I really do, you know,” Braylon says, overwhelmed by Denz gripping his hips, lifting him up, tearing off his own apron. “Love you, I mean.”
Denz stands on his toes to kiss him, quick and fierce.
“Love you too.”
He’s almost figured out the annoying drawstring on Braylon’s joggers when a pair of warm hands grab his face.
Braylon drags him back to eye level. He whispers, “I love you, Denzel. All of you. All the time.”
Something swells underneath Denz’s ribs. It’s lightning and thunder. This time, he kisses Braylon slow and deliberate. Soft, then suffocatingly deep. He buries his fingers in Braylon’s curls. Their clothes are half tugged off, hearts synchronized.
“I love you, Braylon Adams. Silly accent and all.”
Braylon laughs. Mumbles “We’re gonna burn the pie” against his lips.
Denz doesn’t fucking care. For the most part, anyway. He doesn’t want to explain losing the security deposit to his dad.
His hands map out Braylon’s skin. He discovers new places to press: “Can I kiss you here?” He ignores that the balcony door is open, and the neighbors can hear Braylon’s deep groans.
The thing that does distract Denz from mouthing his way down Braylon’s tense abdomen is his phone vibrating on the counter. He turns his head. Usually, he wouldn’t care. It’s probably just social media notifications. But he peeks at the string of texts lighting up his screen.
“Fuck,” Braylon grunts impatiently. “If you bloody stop what you’re about to do for a fucking email, I’ll—”
“It’s the group chat.”
Braylon’s head thunks against a cabinet. “Is it about our trip?”
Denz snorts. “Of course.”
Lately, his family’s messages have been less about which Carter made a headline and more about Denz’s plane arrival. What airline is he flying? Why are they staying at a hotel instead of at his parents’ or Kami’s new house—the one only he knows Suraj is living in too.
“God,” Braylon says, still somewhat breathless. “Tell Auntie Eva that a jumper from the mall is a perfectly acceptable dinner outfit and—”
“No, no.” Denz laughs again. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?” Braylon asks incredulously. “Is your dad on about my choice in restaurant? Is it because I don’t celebrate Christmas? Is that what’s finally going to get me permanently kicked out of this family’s good graces?”
Denz smirks. “No, but how long has that been on your mind?”
“Too long.”
If Denz is being honest, watching Braylon ranting about the Carters while shirtless, his joggers around his knees, is turning him on even more. But he can’t get to that part yet. Not without turning his phone screen around for Braylon to read.
Aunt Cheryl Carter
I can’t wait to see him!
He’s gonna teach me about tea! not the gossip kind!
Nic Carter
auntie stop trying to be besties with my bestie!
Aunt Eva Carter-Rivera
I hope he likes the mcqueen sweater I got him for the family xmas photo!
Leena Carter
If you’re reading this Braylon… I promise we’re not this embarrassing
The light in Braylon’s eyes is irresistible. So is the sweet, affectionate grin unrolling across his mouth.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Denz promises, brushing his lips to Braylon’s. “I think they love you.”