EIGHTEEN
That evening, Kieran stood in Rory’s living room, the photograph wrapped in brown paper under his arm, suddenly second-guessing everything.
Was this too much?
They’d slept together, sure. They’d agreed to see where things went. But did that include buying things for someone’s house?
Before he could spiral further, Rory walked in from the kitchen, two glasses of water in hand, a towel thrown over his shoulder.
“You look like you’re about to confess to a crime.”
“I bought you something,” Kieran blurted.
Rory’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay...” He took the package, fingers brushing Kieran’s as he did. He unwrapped it slowly, careful with the paper, and when the photograph was revealed, he went still.
For a long moment, he looked at it.
“It’s not a big deal,” Kieran said quickly. “I saw it and…I don’t know. I liked how it showed the coastline before all the development. Figured you might appreciate it, with your work and everything. But if it’s weird—”
“Where did you find this?” Rory’s voice was quiet.
“Thrift store in Leucadia.”
Rory nodded slowly, his thumb tracing the edge of the frame. He didn’t look up.
“You okay?” Kieran asked.
“Yeah…” Rory cleared his throat. He stopped. Shook his head. His eyes met Kieran’s. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Kieran’s throat tightened. “You’re welcome.”
Rory set the photograph down carefully, then crossed the space between them in two steps. He cupped Kieran’s face with both hands and kissed him soft, deliberate, grateful.
When he pulled back, Rory was still studying him, like there was a question he hadn’t figured out how to ask.
“You’ve been paying attention,” Rory said.
“Maybe.”
Rory picked up the photograph again, studying it. “I know exactly where this should go.”
He walked to the kitchen window and held the photograph up against the wall.
“Here,” he said. “What do you think?”
Kieran stepped closer, tilting his head. The late light from the window caught the faded blues and golds.
“Perfect,” Kieran said.
Their shoulders touched as they admired the photograph that now had a home.
“I’m hanging it tomorrow,” Rory said finally.
“You don’t have to rush.”
“I want to.” Rory set it down gently on the counter, then turned back to Kieran. “You hungry? I promised you dinner.”
“You did.”
“Fair warning…it’s pasta. And I can’t promise it’ll be good.”
Kieran laughed. “I’m not worried.”
He followed Rory into the kitchen and stopped short.
A pan was already sizzling on the stove. The counter was lined with ingredients—fresh basil, garlic, a block of parmesan, garden tomatoes, not grocery store perfect. It smelled incredible.
“I’m sorry,” Kieran said, leaning against the wall. “Did I accidentally walk onto the Food Network?”
Rory glanced over his shoulder, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Shut up.”
“You said mediocre. You said ‘can’t promise it’ll be good.’”
“I was managing expectations.”
Kieran watched him move, efficient, practiced, comfortable in a way that suggested this wasn’t new. Rory tossed the pasta with one hand while adjusting the heat with the other, added a splash of pasta water without measuring, finished it with butter and fresh basil like it was nothing.
They sat down at the small table, the photograph propped against the wall where it would eventually hang. Kieran took his first bite and closed his eyes.
“Okay,” he said. “What the hell.”
Rory looked pleased, and not quite able to hide it. “It’s just pasta.”
“This is not just pasta. This is—” Kieran gestured with his fork, struggling for words. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Here and there,” Rory said, reaching for his napkin. “I like cooking. Relaxes me.”
Kieran took another bite, then another. He decided to stop asking questions and eat.
“I got this.” He pulled the yellow flyer from his pocket, slightly creased from being carried around for two days.
“I saw it at the thrift store where I found the picture. Some kind of art installation next Friday.”
Rory took the flyer, scanning it. “Elena Marchetti. Yeah, she’s good. I’ve seen her stuff before.”
“It’s at some converted warehouse? The Basswood?”
“It’s cool,” Rory said. “Weird, but cool. Very Leucadia.”
Kieran took the flyer back. “I was thinking about going. If you wanted to come.”
Rory looked at him, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“Maybe. Yes. Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay.” Rory’s smile widened. “I’d love to.”
“Good.” Kieran tucked the flyer away, trying not to look too pleased. “Very good.”
They finished eating, the conversation drifting easily between the art scene and Rory’s work, about a historic cottage near the beach that a developer wanted to tear down and build a metered parking lot.
Kieran didn’t fully understand the politics of it, but he liked hearing Rory talk about it anyway.
Liked the way he got animated, gesturing with his fork, passion leaking through his usually calm exterior.
When the dishes were cleared and the kitchen cleaned, they ended up on the couch, Kieran’s head resting on Rory’s shoulder, the weight of the day settling comfortably around them.
“Thanks for the photograph,” Rory said quietly. “Truly.”
“Thanks for dinner. That was not mediocre.”
“Told you I couldn’t promise.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
Rory laughed and pulled him in for a kiss, the kind that made Kieran’s chest ache.
“Hey,” Rory said, like the thought had just occurred to him. “You doing anything this weekend?”
Kieran blinked. “Uh. No? Why?”
“Waves are supposed to be good Sunday evening. Thought maybe you’d want to come out with me. Catch the sunset.”
Kieran’s stomach dropped. “Surfing?”
“Yeah,” Rory said, like he was suggesting they grab coffee. “I’ve got an extra board. Wetsuit too, probably fits you.”
“I don’t know,” Kieran said, his shoulders tensing. “I’ve only done that one lesson. I was pretty terrible.”
“You weren’t terrible.”
“I ate sand. Multiple times.”
Rory laughed. “Everyone eats sand. It’s basically a requirement.”
“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” Kieran said, then regretted how honest that sounded.
Rory’s expression softened. He reached up, thumb brushing along Kieran’s jaw. “You won’t. And even if you do, I’ve already seen you sprint naked across your backyard chasing a dog. The bar’s pretty low.”
Kieran groaned. “You said we weren’t going to talk about that.”
“I lied.” Rory grinned. “Come on. It’ll be fun. No pressure. If you hate it, we’ll paddle back in and get tacos instead.”
Kieran wanted to say no. Wanted to protect himself from the inevitable humiliation of falling off a board in front of someone who moved through water like he was born to it. But Rory was looking at him like failure wasn’t even a possibility worth considering.
“Okay,” Kieran heard himself say. “But if I drown, I’m haunting you.”
“Deal,” Rory said, kissing him once more, quick and pleased. “I’ll text you Sunday morning. We’ll head out around five, catch the good light.”
“I’ll be the one hyperventilating in the driveway.”
Rory smiled. “I’ll bring a paper bag.”
Kieran walked home under a sky starting to darken, the sound of the ocean a constant soundtrack in the background.
He changed into comfortable clothes, dropped onto the couch, and put on a show he had no intention of retaining.
A new message lit up his phone.
RORY NEIGHBOR: Photograph’s up. Looks even better than I thought. Thank you.
Attached was a photo—the vintage aerial shot now hanging on Rory’s wall, perfectly centered above the small table by the window.
Kieran stared at it longer than necessary.
He'd said tomorrow. So much for tomorrow.
KIERAN: Glad you like it. See you Sunday.