Scott
The decision doesn’t come all at once.
It isn’t some sudden moment of clarity where everything clicks into place, and I suddenly know exactly what I need to do, the way people always describe it when they talk about life-changing choices.
It’s something quieter than that. Something that grows slowly until it becomes impossible to ignore.
It starts with small things, like the way Harrison looks at me when we’re alone, like he isn’t holding pieces of himself back the way I am.
He never pushes me harder than I’m ready for. He trusts me to get there in my own time, but he also refuses to let me pretend it doesn’t matter.
And then there’s the way I feel after I leave him.
That’s the part I can’t shake.
I drive back to the cottage with the solitude of the lake settling around me again, and for the first time since I moved there, it doesn’t feel peaceful.
It feels empty.
Not because something is missing from the space itself, but because I’m starting to understand what it feels like when Harrison isn’t there.
When I don’t have to keep parts of myself locked away just to exist comfortably.
I find myself reaching for my phone more often, typing out messages without thinking, letting conversations stretch late into the night as the two of us slip into a routine that feels less like getting to know each other and more like we’re building something real without ever saying it out loud.
Every time I hesitate, every time I hold something back, I feel the tension sitting just below the surface, reminding me there’s still a line I haven’t crossed.
One night, a few days after the conversation at the lake, I’m sitting on the couch with my phone in my hand, staring at a message I’ve already typed out twice and deleted both times before I finally force myself to send it.
Scott: What are you doing?
The reply comes quickly.
Harrison: Trying to decide if I’m making dinner or ordering out.
A small smile pulls at my mouth.
Scott: Need help deciding?
Harrison: Only if you’re volunteering.
This time, I don’t let myself overthink it.
Scott: Give me fifteen minutes.
The drive into town feels different tonight. It’s not rushed or uncertain. It’s purposeful. Like I’ve already decided something, even if I haven’t fully put it into words yet.
Harrison opens the door before I can knock.
“Hey,” he says, stepping back to let me in.
“Hey.”
His apartment feels like him, masculine in an understated way. It’s simple and comfortable, the kind of space that’s lived-in without being cluttered. The furniture is older, dark wood, worn at the edges from age and use. The lighting comes from warm lamps that sit on end tables.
There’s no television mounted on the wall. No constant noise from notifications or some show playing in the background. In fact, there isn’t even any wifi.
Instead, a record player is sitting on a low cabinet near the window, the soft crackle of Rumours by Fleetwood Mac drifts through the space.
The music is warm and mellow with that slight crackle only vinyl records seem to have.
Beside the record player sits a shelf full of vinyls, dozens of them lined up neatly, their worn sleeves adding muted bits of color against the darker wood.
Everything about the apartment feels intentional. Like Harrison has built a life around only keeping the things that actually matter to him.
And somehow, standing there in the middle of it, I realize the apartment doesn’t just feel comfortable.
It feels safe.
“You decided to cook,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen.
“I started to,” he admits. “Then I got distracted.”
“By what?”
His gaze flicks to me, just for a second.
“You.”
Something in my chest tightens hearing his words.
We fall into the evening easily after that, moving around each other in the kitchen like we’ve done it for years instead of weeks, handing things back and forth and brushing past each other in small, almost accidental.
Every time he moves close, I become painfully aware of it, the heat of him at my back, the rough brush of his shirt sleeve against my arm, the clean scent of soap and cedar that seems to settle somewhere deep in my chest every time I breathe him in.
At one point, we both reach for the same thing at the same time. Harrison’s hand is warm against mine as our fingers press together. My entire body tightens in response.
I glance up to find him already looking at me. The way his gaze settles on mine makes something low twist in my stomach.
Neither of us says anything. But the air shifts with a different kind of tension now. An attraction that’s impossible to ignore.
We eat on the couch with our plates balanced on our laps, talking about nothing important and everything that matters. For a while, I forget about everything else.
The hesitation.
The fear.
The part of my life I still haven’t said out loud yet.
None of that comes back until later, when the dishes are done, and the music softens into something slower. We’re sitting close now, our thighs brushing against one another.
Harrison turns slightly toward me, his attention shifting from the conversation to me in a way that makes my breath catch.
“You’re thinking again,” he says quietly.
I let out a small breath, glancing down at my hands. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only when it’s something that matters.”
I nod slowly because there’s no point pretending otherwise.
“It’s my parents,” I say. “They don’t know,” I add, even though he already knows that part.
“About you,” he says, his voice steady.
“About me,” I confirm. “About this.”
I don’t have to say more. He understands.
“And you want to tell them.”
It isn’t a question.
I look away then, my jaw tightening slightly. “I don’t know how to start,” I admit. “But I know I can’t keep not telling them.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, so I continue.
“I keep thinking about what happens after. About how it changes things.”
“It will,” he says gently.
I swallow hard. “They’ve always had this idea of who I am,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “What my life is supposed to look like. And I’ve let them believe it for so long that I don’t even know how to start undoing it.”
Harrison turns fully toward me. “You start by telling the truth,” he says.
It sounds so simple when he says it.
“That’s the part I’m stuck on,” I say, letting out a quiet breath.
He studies me for a moment, something softer settling into his expression.
“Are you afraid of how they’ll react,” he asks quietly, “or are you afraid of what it means if they don’t react the way you want them to?”
The question hits deeper than I expect, and I don’t answer right away.
“Both,” I admit finally.
He nods slowly.
“I don’t want to lose them,” I say, the words quieter than anything else I’ve said that night, more honest and more real.
Harrison doesn’t hesitate. “You might not,” he says. Then, after a moment, “But even if you do, you won’t lose everything.”
I turn to look at him, and for the first time all night, the fear eases.
“Because of you,” I say.
“Because you won’t be alone.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and certain in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Yeah,” he says. “Because I love you enough not to let you go through this alone.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. Not because the words scare me. Because they don’t.
Because somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I’ve fallen in love with him too.
The truth of it settles heavily in my chest the second the thought forms.
I love him. I know I do. And for one reckless second, the words almost make it out.
But I stop myself. Because as much as I want to say it, as badly as I want him to know, something inside me refuses to let those words exist out loud while I’m still hiding him from the people who matter most.
It wouldn’t feel fair. Wouldn’t feel honest enough.
“I think I’m going to tell them,” I say.
His fingers tighten slightly around mine. “Okay.”
There’s no pressure or expectation. Only acceptance.
“I don’t know how it’s going to go,” I admit.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
I nod slowly because he’s right. I don’t have to know. I just have to do it.
And knowing Harrison is beside me, loving me, makes this not feel impossible anymore.