3
The next morning, Aaron woke alone in his cabin and had to remind himself that kissing Nash Coleman on a beach in the Bahamas had actually happened.
His phone said 7:4 AM. They were docked in San Juan.
Nash had texted at 6:0.
Nash
Morning. Still want to play hooky today? There’s a restaurant I want to try. And you mentioned wanting to see something.
Aaron had mentioned it last night, sitting under the stars on the deck after they’d returned from the beach. He’d told Nash about the case—the families from San Juan he’d helped after Hurricane Maria, how he’d always wanted to see their homeland but never had.
Nash had just nodded, understanding without Aaron having to explain why.
Aaron
Yes. Meet you at the gangway at 9?
The response came immediately:
Nash
Perfect. Wear your walking shoes.
San Juan hit Aaron like a wall of heat and sound—salt air and frying plantains, salsa music from competing speakers, car horns, laughter, and vendors selling bottled water to cruise passengers.
Nash was waiting at the bottom of the gangway in cargo shorts and a sleeveless shirt that showed off his arms, sunglasses on against the glare.
“Ready?“
Nash asked.
“Where are we going first?”
“Let’s do your thing. Then food.”
Aaron had pulled up the address last night—a neighborhood in Santurce, an area hit hard by Maria. The taxi driver nodded when Aaron showed him and pulled into traffic that made DC look orderly.
Nash reached over and took Aaron’s hand.
It should have felt strange—holding hands with a man he’d known for two days, in the back of a taxi in Puerto Rico—but it didn’t. It felt… easy.
“You nervous?“
Nash asked.
“A little. I worked with some of these families for months. Helped them find housing in Florida, made sure they had protections as US citizens even though half the country forgets Puerto Ricans are citizens.“ Aaron watched the city blur past. “But I never came here. Never saw where they were from. Just helped them leave it.”
Nash’s thumb traced circles on the back of Aaron’s hand. He didn’t offer platitudes, just contact.
The taxi turned down a narrow street lined with buildings in shades of yellow, pink, and turquoise. Laundry hung from balconies. Music drifted from an open window—someone practicing scales on a trumpet, the notes bright and sharp.
“Aquí,“
the driver said.
They stepped out into heat that pressed down like a large, invisible hand.
The neighborhood was alive in the way real places were—not performing for tourists, just existing. A woman swept her front steps. Two men argued over dominoes at a folding table. The smell of sofrito and garlic was in the air.
There was a small plaque on the corner, community-installed.
Santurce se levanta. Santurce rises.
Below it, names. Families who’d stayed. Families who’d returned. Families who’d rebuilt.
Aaron stood there reading them, and his chest tightened.
He recognized some surnames. People he’d helped relocate to Tampa and Orlando. People he’d secured housing for, jobs, legal protections.
They’d come back anyway.
“They left,“
Aaron said, his voice hoarse. “Some of them. I helped them find apartments in Florida and get their kids into schools. I thought that was the answer.”
Nash waited.
“But they came back.“
Aaron gestured at the plaque, at the rebuilt homes, at the life happening all around them. “They chose this.”
The trumpet player hit a high note and held it. A cat slipped between two buildings, orange and lean.
“I’ve spent twenty years fighting for people’s right to have a home. But I never asked where they wanted it to be.”
“It’s more than just where,“ Nash said.
“Yeah.“
Aaron couldn’t look away from the names of people who’d chosen to come back to a place that had nearly broken them. “I left Louisiana the day after I graduated high school. Couldn’t get out fast enough. Small town, small minds, all of it. Went to college in Boston, law school in New York, and ended up in DC. I told myself I was building something better. And maybe I was. But I also left because I didn’t know how to be myself there. Didn’t know how to be gay and Southern and still belong.”
Nash’s hand found the small of his back.
“I’ve been defending the idea of home for two decades,“
Aaron said. “But I’ve never actually had one.”
“Does it have to be that way?”
“I don’t know how to do anything else. Work is what I know. DC is where I—“
Nash cupped Aaron’s face in both hands, right there on the street corner. “Maybe you get to choose, too. Like those families. Maybe you get to decide where home is.”
Aaron’s heart was pounding. “Are you talking about Spoon?”
“I’m talking about wherever you want. I’m just saying I might like to be part of the conversation.”
“We’ve known each other for two days.”
Nash smiled, soft and a little sad. “Doesn’t change what I feel.”
Aaron thought about his apartment in DC. One bedroom, barely decorated, a place to sleep between cases. His corner table at David’s, eating alone while life happened around him. Twenty years of fighting for other people’s right to belong while never claiming it for himself.
He thought about the way Nash looked at him. The way Nash was always touching him. The way something in his chest had cracked open on the beach and hadn’t closed back up.
“I’d consider that,“
Aaron said carefully. “Being part of the conversation. I can’t promise anything, but I’d like to think about it.”
Nash leaned down, kissed him soft and quick. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Behind them, the plaque remained—a testament to the people who’d chosen their home.
Aaron squeezed Nash’s hand. “Now tell me about this restaurant.”
“It’s in Old San Juan. Guy Fieri said they have the best mofongo in Puerto Rico.”
“You watch Guy Fieri?”
“Don’t judge me.”
Aaron laughed, and it felt like breathing again after holding his breath for twenty years.
The restaurant was tucked into a narrow building—plastic chairs, a handwritten menu, a line of locals out the door. Nash joined the line without hesitation.
“How did you even find this place?“
Aaron asked.
“Watched a lot of Food Network after the breakup. Turns out planning imaginary food trips is cheaper than therapy.”
They ordered mofongo with stewed chicken, tostones, and two bottles of Medalla. Found a tiny table by the window.
The food arrived, and Aaron understood within a few bites.
“Oh my God.”
“Right?“
Nash was already halfway through his plate.
They ate without talking much, a comfortable silence that only happened when food was that good.
“Can I ask you something?“
Nash said, eventually.
“Yeah.”
“Yesterday at the beach, I saw you wince when you sat down. Old injury?”
Aaron glanced up, surprised Nash had noticed. “Linebacker in high school. Blew out my knee senior year.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose. “You played football?”
“I was short but fast. Hit like a truck.“
Aaron took a drink. “My daddy wanted me to play in college. When I told him I was going to Boston for pre-law, he didn’t speak to me for a while.”
“Because of school?”
“Because I was leaving. Because I was choosing something he didn’t understand.“
Aaron set the bottle down. “He died three years ago. We’d started talking again, but it was never... I don’t think he ever knew why I really left.”
Nash’s hand found his across the table.
“What about you?“
Aaron asked. “Your ex. What happened?”
Nash was quiet for a moment. “Eight years together. He wanted me to keep brewing as a hobby and get a real job. When I told him I wanted to open a brewery, he said I was chasing a fantasy.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Took me a while to see it. When we split, he told everyone in Lumberton I’d thrown away a good thing for a pipe dream.”
“So you left.”
“Found Spoon. Found people who believed in my dream.“
Nash smiled. “And now I’ve got a brewery, a legal problem I don’t understand, and a very smart lawyer who might be able to help.”
“Just might?”
“Well, he’s also very cute and distracting, so we’ll see how much actual legal work gets done.”
Heat crept up Aaron’s neck. “I’m a good multitasker.”
“We’ll test that theory.“
Nash leaned back, eyes dark with promise. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,“
Aaron agreed, unable to suppress a grin.
They finished their beer in charged silence. When Nash paid—waving off Aaron’s protest—his hand lingered on Aaron’s lower back as they left.