6
Aaron stood in the doorway, taking it in. King-size bed with actual pillows—plural, full-sized. A sitting area. A bathroom with a glass-walled shower big enough for two. And beyond the sliding doors, a private balcony where the Caribbean stretched in every direction, sunset turning the water to copper and rose.
“You’ve been sleeping here this whole time,“
Aaron said.
Nash had the decency to look sheepish. “It’s not that—“
“There’s a bathrobe on the door.”
“Aaron—“
“Nash. There is a bathrobe. On the door.“ He turned. “I’ve been drying off with a towel the size of a washcloth.”
Nash leaned against the desk—a real desk, with a lamp—arms crossed, grinning. “Are you going to yell at me, or are you going to come inside?”
“Both,“
Aaron said, entering. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? We could have—“
“Move in.”
Aaron stopped. “What?”
“For the rest of the cruise. Move your stuff up here.“
Nash’s grin softened into something earnest. “There’s no reason to go back to that coffin. Stay here. With me.”
Aaron looked at the bed. The balcony. Nash, standing there in a charcoal henley, offering his space as if it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Okay,“
Aaron said.
“Yeah?”
“One condition.”
“Name it.”
“I get the left side of the bed.”
Nash laughed—deep and rolling—and closed the distance between them.
The room smelled like Nash. Cedar and grain and something warm underneath. A bottle of wine sat open on the coffee table. Two glasses. A room service menu tucked under a small vase of flowers.
“You ordered flowers,“
Aaron said.
“The steward offered. I said yes.“
Nash was close now, hands in his pockets, less sure of himself. “Too much?”
Aaron kissed him.
It started soft—grateful and tender. But Nash soon pulled Aaron closer, one hand on the small of his back, the other cupping the back of his neck, and the softness burned off like fog.
Aaron fisted Nash’s shirt. “Off.”
Nash stripped it over his head. Aaron ran his hands over that broad chest, fingers through the coarse hair, palms skimming over nipples. Nash’s breath hitched. Aaron bent his head and took one nipple between his teeth, nipping gently, and Nash’s hand tightened in his hair.
“You’re not wasting any time tonight,“
Nash said.
“We wasted last night. I went through an entire distillery tour thinking about this and retained nothing about barrel aging.”
Nash laughed, but the laugh turned into a groan as Aaron’s hand slid down his stomach and cupped him through his pants. Hard, straining against the fabric. Aaron squeezed.
“Bed,“
Nash managed. “We have an actual bed.”
“I noticed.”
They stripped each other on the way—shirts tossed, belts hitting the floor, a graceless tangle of fabric. By the time they reached the bed, they were skin on skin, and Aaron pushed Nash back onto the mattress.
Nash went sprawling across white sheets. Aaron stood over him—Nash naked and hard and laid out on clean cotton. Broad shoulders, thick arms, chest hair trailing down over his soft stomach. His cock flushed and heavy, precum glistening.
“You’re staring,“
Nash said.
“I’m appreciating.“
Aaron climbed onto the bed, straddling Nash’s thighs. “There’s a difference.”
Nash’s hands settled on Aaron’s hips. “Come here.”
Aaron leaned down, and Nash kissed him—deep, unhurried. His hands roamed Aaron’s back, down to grip his ass. Aaron groaned and rocked forward, his cock sliding against Nash’s stomach, thick hair against sensitive skin.
“I want you inside me tonight,“
Aaron said against Nash’s mouth.
Nash’s hands stilled. He pulled back to look at Aaron. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it since dinner yesterday.”
Nash’s expression shifted—desire layered over something that looked like reverence. “Okay.”
He reached for the nightstand. Lube. Condoms. Aaron raised an eyebrow.
Nash shrugged. “I’m a planner.”
“I’m glad.”
They rolled over—one smooth motion, Aaron on his back, Nash settling between his thighs. The bed didn’t creak. Nothing dug into his spine. There was room, and Nash’s body covered his completely.
“God, this bed,“
Aaron breathed.
Nash kissed his neck, his collarbone, and worked down his chest. Paused at a nipple, licked, sucked. Aaron arched into it. Nash’s beard scraped across his skin—soft mouth and rough hair sending sparks down Aaron’s spine.
Nash kept going—down Aaron’s stomach, the crease of his hip. He nuzzled into the hair at the base of Aaron’s cock, breathing him in. Aaron’s hands fisted the sheets.
Nash licked up the underside of Aaron’s cock, and Aaron’s hips came off the bed. Nash pressed them down and took Aaron into his mouth—hot, wet, tongue working slow, maddening strokes.
Aaron’s hand found Nash’s hair. Nash hummed around him, took him deeper, and Aaron felt the head of his cock nudge the back of Nash’s throat.
Nash pulled off, lips red, eyes dark. “Turn over.”
Aaron turned. Hands and knees. Nash’s mouth—hot breath, tongue dragging down, then there, wet and insistent, licking into him.
“Jesus—Nash—“ Aaron dropped to his elbows, face in the pillow. Nash spread Aaron open and lapped at him thoroughly. Aaron was shaking, cock hanging heavy, leaking onto the white sheets.
The click of the lube cap. A slick finger replaced Nash’s tongue, pressing in.
“That’s it,“
Nash murmured. “Relax for me.”
The finger slid in, and Aaron groaned. Nash worked him open with patient precision, one finger becoming two, scissoring, curling forward until he found the spot that made Aaron’s vision white out.
“Right there—“
“I know.“
Nash pressed again, rubbing. Aaron’s arms gave out. Flat on the mattress, face buried, hips rocking back.
Three fingers. The burn dissolved into something desperate and electric. Nash’s other hand stroked down Aaron’s spine, soothing.
“I’m ready,“
Aaron gasped. “Please—“
The tear of a wrapper. More lube. Nash’s hands were on Aaron’s hips, pulling him up, and the blunt pressure of Nash’s cock against him.
“Slow,“
Nash murmured.
He pressed in, and Aaron’s whole body went still—suspended, every nerve focused on the stretch. Nash held steady, one hand rubbing circles on Aaron’s lower back. Waiting.
Aaron exhaled and pushed back.
“More.”
Nash sank deeper, inch by inch, until his hips were flush and Aaron could feel every inch of him—the heat, the fullness.
“Aaron.“
Nash’s voice was a whisper. “You feel incredible.”
“Move. Please move.”
Nash found a rhythm—deep, steady strokes that electrified Aaron’s prostate with every thrust. Aaron couldn’t be quiet. Moans, gasps, Nash’s name broken apart and put back together.
“Up,“
Nash said, pulling Aaron back against his chest. “I want to see you.”
Aaron rose onto his knees, back flush against Nash’s chest. The angle changed—deeper, sharper. Nash’s arm wrapped around his waist, hand splaying across his stomach. His other hand found Aaron’s cock and stroked in time with his thrusts.
Aaron reached back, gripping Nash’s thigh. Nash’s mouth was on his neck, teeth scraping, beard burning. They were flush from shoulders to thighs—Nash’s chest against Aaron’s back, his soft belly against the base of Aaron’s spine—and Aaron had never felt so completely… held.
“I’ve got you,“
Nash said against his ear. “Let go.”
Aaron came—spilling over Nash’s fist, clenching hard around him, body bowing forward as the orgasm tore through him. Nash held him through it, stroking, murmuring, still moving, and then Nash’s rhythm stuttered, his arm tightened, and he buried himself deep and came with Aaron’s name on his lips, like a prayer.
They collapsed together onto the ruined sheets. Nash was still inside him, softening, and neither moved to change it. Nash’s arm stayed around Aaron’s waist, face buried in Aaron’s hair.
The balcony doors were open. A warm breeze carried the sound of the ocean. The ship hummed its deep lullaby beneath them.
Nash pressed his lips to the back of Aaron’s neck. Not exactly a kiss. A seal.
“Stay,“
Nash whispered.
Aaron didn’t know if he meant tonight or something bigger, but the answer was the same.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Later, they lay facing each other, legs intertwined, the sheet pulled over their hips. Room service sat half-eaten on the coffee table—cheese and fruit and bread they’d ordered.
Nash told stories about Spoon. The brewery he’d built, learning from YouTube. Jasper, in his twenties, who’d started showing up to help and never stopped. Him begging Nash to brew a jalape?o ale—the worst thing either of them had ever tasted.
“Jasper still drinks it,“
Nash said. “Every batch. Swears it’s getting better.”
“Is it?”
“Absolutely not.”
Aaron laughed. Nash’s fingers traced patterns on his forearm.
“Tucker was my first account,“
Nash continued, quieter. “Put my beer on tap when nobody in Spoon had heard of Coleman Craft. His daddy—Mayor Titus—is the one who got me to Spoon through Project Haven.” Nash paused. “I owe those two a lot.”
Aaron could picture it—Nash arriving in a strange town with brewing equipment and a broken heart. These people had made room for him.
“I want to see it,“
Aaron said. “The brewery. The town. All of it.”
Nash’s hand stilled. “Yeah?”
“After the Morrison case. After Keisha Williams gets the ruling she deserves.“
Aaron paused. “And I want you to come to DC.”
Nash’s face opened up—raw, vulnerable. “I’d like that. Both.”
“We’ll play it by ear. No pressure, no timelines.”
“No five-year plans?”
“God, no.“
Aaron pressed his forehead against Nash’s. “I just know I don’t want this to end when the ship docks.”
Nash cupped Aaron’s face. “It’s not going to.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.“
Nash kissed him—soft, slow. “I’m sure about you.”
Aaron closed his eyes. The words settled into him like something warm poured into a cold glass—slow, spreading, filling spaces he’d forgotten were empty.
Twenty years building a life designed for one. Efficient, contained, defended. And here was Nash, too big for Aaron’s meticulous architecture, rearranging everything just by being in the room.
“I’m sure about you too,“
Aaron whispered. “That’s new for me.”
Nash pulled him close, and Aaron settled against his chest. And as Nash held him there, Aaron felt the last of something old and tight loosen.
He didn’t know what Spoon would look like. He didn’t know if a DC lawyer and a Georgia brewer made any practical sense.
But Nash’s heartbeat was steady under his ear, and the ocean sang outside the balcony doors, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Aaron wasn’t trying to figure things out.
He was just here. Present. Held.
And it was enough.
Epilogue
Three months later, the heat hit Aaron like a wall when he stepped out of his rental car.
May in central Georgia. The air was thick enough to chew. He’d left DC that morning in a light jacket, now crumpled in the backseat.
The town square was familiar—the tidy rectangle of storefronts and mature oaks, the brick courthouse, the flower beds. Aaron had been here four times in three months, each visit longer than the last. The first was a nervous weekend in March, sleeping in Nash’s guest room because neither wanted to assume too much. By April, they had abandoned the guest room and stopped pretending.
This time, there was no return flight booked.
His lease was up. His boxes were in storage. His letter of resignation—polite, firm, and exhilarating in a way he hadn’t expected—sat on Goldstein’s desk. He’d said his goodbyes to Dennis and Karen, and now he was here.
In Spoon.
Aaron crossed the square toward Tucker’s Tavern. The chalkboard listed smash burgers, fried pickles, and underneath: Coleman Craft Brewing on tap.
He’d never tire of seeing that.
Inside was dim and cool and exactly as he remembered. The electronic dartboard chirped where the Barker brothers were locked in eternal competition. The jukebox glowed against the far wall, Cal feeding it quarters.
Nash was in their usual booth, two fresh beers poured, scrutinizing supply invoices scattered before him. He looked up when Aaron walked in, and his expression changed.
Not surprise. Something deeper. Relief. The look of a man waiting for the thing he’d hoped for finally happen.
“Hey,“
he said, standing.
“Hey.”
Nash pulled him into a hug—nothing dramatic, just quiet. His arms wrapped around Aaron, chin resting on top of his head, holding him close.
“You’re here,“
Nash said into Aaron’s hair.
“I’m here. For good this time.”
Nash’s arms tightened.
They sat. Nash slid the Scottish ale across the table. Aaron drank, and it tasted like every visit, every phone call, every mile between DC and Georgia distilled into a single glass. Familiar. His.
“So,“
Nash said. “Keisha called me yesterday.”
“She told me. Also told me you tried to recruit her again.”
“I was being friendly.”
“Said you mentioned boarding at the Hawthorne House.”
“Just until she finds a place.”
“She’s twenty-six and just won a landmark federal discrimination case. She’s not moving to rural Georgia.”
“Not yet.“
Nash grinned. “She said the new job’s going well. And Morrison’s settlement is going to make their shareholders deeply uncomfortable next quarter.”
“That part was satisfying.”
“She said your associate sent her flowers.”
“Karen. My second chair. She drafted the brief that won the case while I was on a cruise ship, refusing to come home.”
“Sounds like you trained her well.”
“She didn’t need training. She just needed someone to get out of her way.“
Aaron took another drink. “Goldstein still hasn’t forgiven me. Told me I was throwing away a partnership track.”
“What did you say?”
“That I was going to Georgia. He asked if I’d lost my mind, and I told him I’d actually just found it.”
Nash reached across and took his hand. As those thick, callused fingers touched him, Aaron felt something settle in his chest—the same thing he’d felt on the ship, in Nash’s suite, listening to the ocean. Except now it was here, in a tavern in Georgia, surrounded by locals and a jukebox, and the hum of a small town going about its evening.
Contentment.
Tucker emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands. “There he is. You eat yet? Smash burgers almost up. And yes, I changed the cheese again.”
“I wouldn’t dream of questioning your process.”
“Yes, you would.“
Tucker glanced toward the windows. “Here they come.”
The front door opened. Titus walked in with Pedro—Titus tall and wide, dark hair threaded with gray; Pedro, much smaller, moving beside him with quiet confidence, lean and kind-eyed. They were holding hands.
Tucker intercepted them with drinks. “Daddy. P. Look who showed up for good.”
“Aaron.“
Titus’s handshake was firm and welcoming. “How was your trip?”
“Long. Hot.”
“You’ll acclimate.“
He said it like a fact.
Pedro eyed Aaron with the soulful solidarity of someone who remembered what it felt like to arrive in Spoon from somewhere else entirely. “It’s so good to see you again, Aaron,“
he said with a hug.
After their greetings, Aaron sat, this time on Nash’s side of the booth. Pedro settled in opposite with Titus.
Tucker returned with smash burgers and a fresh round. Dex Barker whooped from the dartboard—“Bullseye!”—and Sam told him to do it again if he was so damn good.
“So,“
Titus said, with calculated casualness, “I’ve been thinking about your office.”
Nash shook his head. “Here we go.”
“There’s a room on the second floor of the courthouse. Good light, plenty of space. Homer and I cleared it out last week.”
“You cleared out an office before I officially moved down?”
“I made space. It’s yours if you want it.“
Titus sipped his beer. “If you use it for legal work—helping Haven folks with licenses, grants, that kind of thing—we’d compensate you. We’ve got a budget line for legal counsel. It’s been sitting unused because we’ve never had anyone qualified.”
“Titus,“
Pedro cautioned.
Aaron caught something in Titus’s expression. Confidence. A man who had already decided how things would go and was simply waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“What? I’m presenting an opportunity. With a salary.”
“You’re steamrolling.“
Pedro turned to Aaron. “What he’s trying to say is we’re grateful you’re here.”
Nash watched with quiet amusement, thumb tracing circles on Aaron’s hand under the table. Aaron looked around the booth—these people who’d made room for him, visit after visit, until the room felt like it had always been there. Inevitable.
“I’d like to see the office,“
Aaron said.
Titus grinned. Pedro’s eyes twinkled. Nash squeezed his hand.
Tucker returned with a beer of his own. “Are we toasting? Because this feels like a moment.”
“To Aaron,“
Titus said, raising his glass. “Spoon’s newest resident.”
“To Aaron,“
the table echoed, and Aaron felt heat behind his eyes that had nothing to do with the Georgia evening.
They drank. The smash burgers were exceptional—smoked gouda this time. The Barkers moved to doubles. Cal fed the jukebox another quarter, and what came out wasn’t his usual nineties fare. Older—a piano ballad, warm and unhurried.
Titus looked up. “Billy Joel. You’re My Home. Haven’t heard that in ages.”
Aaron didn’t know the song, but something in the melody—steady repetition, comforting—settled into him like a hand against his chest.
“You look tired.“
Nash said to Aaron. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah. Let’s walk a little first, though. I’ve been sitting all day.”
They said their goodbyes—Tucker’s handshake, Pedro’s hug, Titus’s hand on his shoulder that said more than most embraces. Nash held the door, and the tavern hummed behind them—warm and alive, Billy Joel’s piano fading as they stepped into the night.
Nash took his hand, and they walked.
The square was quiet, storefronts dark, oaks casting long shadows under streetlights. Their footsteps fell into a relaxed rhythm.
They’d almost completed the loop when Aaron noticed it.
A bronze plaque, mounted on a low stone wall near the courthouse steps. It caught the light.
Aaron stopped.
PROJECT HAVEN
Founded by Truman and Titus Shepherd
In celebration of those who chose Spoon and those Spoon chose in return.
Below were names in a neat row:
Sebastian Collins
Gerald Purser
Brody Elkridge
Jake Marley
Nash Coleman
Aaron Mercer
Aaron stared at his name—newer, less weather-worn than the others.
“When did he—“ His voice caught.
“I honestly don’t know.“
Nash’s voice was soft with wonder.
Aaron reached out and touched the raised bronze letters, smooth and still warm from the day’s heat.
His name was on a monument in a town he’d never heard of six months ago.
Next to Nash’s.
He thought about the plaque in Santurce. Santurce se levanta. Families who’d chosen home even when home wasn’t easy. He thought about Keisha, who’d fought for the right to be herself and won. He thought about twenty years in DC, defending other people’s right to belong, and never once claiming the same for himself.
Until a man with hazel eyes and a Scottish ale sat down at his table on a cruise ship and asked him what he tasted.
Distant but familiar. Like coming home.
Nash wrapped his arms around Aaron from behind, chin resting on top of Aaron’s head. They stood there in the lamplight, reading their names, and Aaron felt something click into place—sure and permanent.
“You’re my home, Nash,“
Aaron said.
“And you’re mine.”
Above them, the oaks stirred in a warm breeze, and somewhere close, crickets took up their patient chorus. On the stone wall, two names glinted in bronze—proof that home was more than a place.
It was someone you chose.