Epilogue
BENNET
The thing about living with someone is you stop noticing the sounds they make until they’re absent: Jason’s keys hitting the bowl by the door, the particular thud of his gym bag on the kitchen floor, always in the wrong spot, the shower running at six thirty in the morning while I was still trying to convince myself that coffee was worth getting out of bed for.
I noticed the silence first on the mornings he traveled for work. The apartment felt wrong without the noise, like a song I liked but played just slightly off-key.
We’d found the place three months after graduation.
Second floor, bay windows, enough room for my books and his trophies and Peanut’s increasing collection of destroyed toys after Beta Epsilon Lambda decided that Peanut was too attached to Jason to let them separate.
The lease was signed on a Thursday. Jason had carried most of the boxes himself, showing off in that way he never quite grew out of.
I’d organized the kitchen while he assembled furniture incorrectly, then correctly after I’d pointed out the upside-down shelf.
“You’re enjoying this,” he’d said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.
“Immensely,” I’d agreed, and meant it.
The apartment became ours in small increments.
His protein powder next to my tea collection.
His cleats by the door next to my loafers.
Our books mixed together on the shelf until I couldn’t remember which science fiction paperbacks had been his and which had been mine.
We’d argued about the thermostat exactly once before establishing that Jason ran hot and I ran cold, and the compromise was him sleeping shirtless while I burrowed under the blankets.
I didn’t mind.
The first year, I taught introductory physics to undergraduates who looked at me like I was either a savior or a sadist, depending on whether they’d done the homework.
Professor Colby had pulled strings to get me the position, adjunct and temporary but with the implication of permanence if I proved myself.
I proved myself by caring too much and sleeping too little, which seemed to be the academic standard.
Jason started at a sports marketing firm downtown, all glass walls and standing desks and people who said “synergy” without irony.
He hated it for three months, then figured out how to make it work for him.
By the end of the first year, he was managing client relationships for half the firm’s athlete roster, charming his way through negotiations the way he’d charmed his way through everything else.
“You’re good at this,” I’d said one night, reading over a contract he’d brought home.
He’d looked up from his laptop, surprised. “You think?”
“You make people feel seen,” I’d said, because it was true. “That’s half the job.”
His smile had been softer than usual.
We fell into rhythms. Morning runs for him, morning coffee for me.
I’d grade papers at the kitchen table while he reviewed game footage on the couch, Peanut sprawled between us like a furry bridge.
Dinner was a negotiation. He cooked with enthusiasm and no regard for recipes.
I cooked with precision and no regard for flavor.
We ordered takeout more than either of us admitted.
Fridays, we went to the Thinkers’ House for D&D.
Rowan had graduated but stayed local, and the campaign continued with new players folding in and old ones drifting out.
Jason’s Cave Troll had become legend. He’d died heroically in the third year, saving the party from a collapsing bridge, and Jason had rolled up a bard with maxed-out charisma who flirted with every NPC and drove Rowan to actual madness.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Rowan had said, exasperated, after Jason’s bard seduced a sentient sword.
“I’m doing this in character,” Jason had replied, grinning.
I’d watched him from across the table, dice in hand, fully committed to the bit, and thought about how much I loved him.
We didn’t talk about the future in grand terms. We talked about next month’s rent and whether Peanut needed a dental cleaning and if we should buy a second bookshelf or accept that the floor was now a viable storage option.
The future built itself around us in quiet moments.
His toothbrush next to mine. My name on his emergency contact forms. The way he said “we” without thinking about it.
The first time he called me his boyfriend in public, we were still students, living in separate fraternity houses. Someone had asked how we knew each other, and Jason had said, “This is Bennet, my boyfriend,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I’d frozen for half a second, then recovered. “He’s terrible at statistics,” I’d added.
Jason had laughed, warm and genuine, and his hand had found the small of my back. The touch had been brief and casual, but it had anchored me for the rest of the night.
In the second year, Professor Colby offered me a tenure-track position. I’d read the offer letter three times, convinced I’d misunderstood something. Jason had found me sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the paper like it might vanish.
“You got it,” he’d said, reading over my shoulder.
“I got it,” I’d repeated, numb.
He’d kissed the top of my head. “Of course you did.”
The certainty in his voice had undone me more than the offer itself. He’d believed it before I had.
I’d celebrated by working twice as hard, because that was who I was. Jason had celebrated by dragging me to a restaurant I couldn’t pronounce and ordering wine I definitely couldn’t afford. We’d toasted to the future, and I’d felt the weight of it settle into something manageable.
The third year, Jason’s firm promoted him to director. He’d come home with champagne and a grin that could’ve powered the eastern seaboard.
“Director of what?” I’d asked.
“Athlete relations and brand strategy,” he’d said, popping the cork with more enthusiasm than skill. Foam had spilled onto the floor. Peanut had licked it up immediately.
“That’s a lot of words,” I’d said.
“It means I’m in charge of making sure our clients don’t say stupid things on social media,” he’d clarified. “Which is harder than it sounds.”
I’d laughed, and he’d poured two glasses, and we’d sat on the couch drinking champagne and watching Peanut chase his tail.
“I’m proud of you,” I’d said. And I was.
Jason had looked at me, something vulnerable crossing his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He’d kissed me then, soft and unhurried, tasting like champagne and something sweeter. When he’d pulled back, his eyes had been bright.
“We’re doing okay,” he’d said.
“We are,” I’d agreed.
The small moments mattered more than the milestones.
Jason bringing me coffee in bed on Saturday mornings, made exactly the way I liked it, even though he thought my preference for oat milk was a crime against nature, me proofreading his emails before important meetings, catching the typos he always missed, and the way he’d pull me closer in his sleep, unconscious and certain. Oh, and the way I’d let him.
We fought sometimes. Usually about small things that stood in for larger ones. He’d forget to text when he was running late. I’d retreat into work and forget to surface for days. He’d push when I needed space. I’d overthink when he needed simplicity.
But we always came back.
One night in the fourth year, we’d fought about something I couldn’t even remember the next morning. I’d gone to bed angry, taking my pillow and blanket to the couch in a fit of stubborn pride. Jason had followed me an hour later, sitting on the floor next to the couch in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said.
“For what?” I’d asked, because I genuinely didn’t know which part he was apologizing for.
“For whatever I did,” he’d said. “I don’t want you on the couch.”
I’d sat up, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. “I don’t want to be on the couch either.”
“Then come back to bed.”
I had.
In the fifth year, Taylor got married. The wedding was small, outdoors, with string lights and terrible speeches and a cake that listed slightly to the left.
Jason had been the best man, delivering a toast that had made everyone laugh and cry in equal measure.
I’d watched him from my seat, tie loosened, grin wide, and thought about how easily he moved through the world.
How much space he made for other people’s joy.
During the reception, he’d found me by the drinks table, pulling me onto the dance floor despite my protests.
“I don’t dance,” I’d said.
“You do now,” he’d replied.
We’d swayed badly to a song I didn’t recognize, his hands on my waist, my hands on his shoulders. People had watched, but I’d stopped caring because I’d lost myself in his loving eyes.
“You’re good at this,” I’d said, because he was. Good at weddings, good at people, good at making everything feel lighter.
“I have a good partner,” he’d said and kissed me in front of everyone.
The thing about Jason was he’d never stopped making me feel like I was the center of his universe.
By the sixth year, the apartment had become a home.
Peanut was graying around the muzzle, slower on walks but no less enthusiastic about treats.
My bookshelves had multiplied. Jason’s trophies gathered dust in a way that felt affectionate rather than neglectful.
We’d painted the bedroom a soft gray-blue after a two-hour argument about whether gray-blue was even a real color.
I’d published my tenth paper in a major journal. Jason had framed it and hung it in the hallway, next to a photo of us from graduation, young and uncertain and trying very hard to look like we had everything figured out.
“We didn’t know anything,” I’d said, looking at the photo.
“Speak for yourself,” Jason had replied. “I’ve never been wrong in my life.”
I’d pinched his ass for being cocky.
One evening, unprompted, Jason had pulled me onto the couch and tucked me against his side. Peanut had climbed up, too, settling across both our laps like a warm, breathing blanket.
“Remember when you showed up at the Bel House to tutor me?” Jason had said.
“You were impossible,” I’d replied.
“You were terrifying.”
“I was not.”
“You were,” he’d insisted, laughing. “You looked at me like I was your sentence.”
“You were failing statistics,” I’d pointed out.
“Fair.” He’d been quiet for a moment, fingers tracing absent patterns on my arm. “I’m glad you didn’t give up on me.”
I’d turned to look at him. His face was softer in the lamplight.
“I’m glad you kept showing up,” I’d said.
His smile had been small, private. The kind reserved just for me.
The years had folded into each other, promotions and publications and a dog who refused to acknowledge his own age. We’d built something neither of us had planned for, something that felt inevitable only in hindsight.
I’d never been good at sentiment. At saying the big feelings out loud without couching them in sarcasm or deflection. But lying there with Jason, Peanut snoring between us, the apartment warm and lived-in around us, I’d let myself feel it. Always.
And it was gratitude. For the kid who’d kissed me badly on my doorstep and apologized his way out of it. For the man who’d stayed with me, who’d figured out that I needed patience more than anything. For every morning I’d woken up to the sound of his singing in the shower.
“I love you,” I’d said, because it was true and because he deserved to hear it plainly. He always deserved to hear it one more time.
Jason had kissed my temple, his lips warm against my skin. “I know,” he’d said. Then, softer: “I love you, too.”
Outside, the city hummed. Inside, we stayed in each other’s arms.
I hope you enjoyed Extra Credit. The story of our boys continues in Double Dared, a fake-dating story about queer awakening, spicy discoveries, and a HEA that will take your breath away.
The End.