Thursday, November 27th 2014:

Jack hadn't seen Millie or Ciarán properly all week. He'd been avoiding them as much as possible since the fight—leaving the house early, coming home late, eating his meals alone in his room. The few times they had crossed paths, the air was thick with something heavy and suffocating. Millie barely looked at him, and Ciarán, who always had something smart to say, had gone completely silent. It was worse than arguing. The cold indifference, it made Jack feel like a ghost in his own home - something that felt oddly familiar.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone.

Grindr.

The yellow drama mask icon glowed back at him. His thumb hovered over it, then dropped back into his lap. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

This was stupid.

And yet...

He had had sex with a woman. And felt nothing. Not disgust, not excitement. Just a vague sense of going through the motions. An emptiness. A technical act that was supposed to mean something, supposed to be good. He had assumed it was nerves, or inexperience, or maybe that he just hadn't found the right girl.

But what if it wasn't?

What if Millie was right?

What if it was him?

What if the reason it felt wrong with Róisín had nothing to do with her at all?

Jack swallowed, his fingers tightening around his phone. He had spent weeks circling this. Testing himself. His kiss with Ciarán. And Paul. Downloading this stupid app and telling himself it was just curiosity. And then finding Paul on it and spending hours agonising over whether or not he should message him.

And it was agony. All of it was. He was confused. He was stressed. And he was tired.

It was time he fought for answers.

His gaze flicked to the top of his screen. Rob, 42. 500m away.

Within walking distance.

It's not like I'm getting into a car with some randomer. That was the excuse he landed on. A short walk. A short meeting. He could leave whenever he wanted.

His chest felt tight. His pulse too fast.

He stood abruptly, crossing the room to his wardrobe, rummaging through the pile of clothes at the bottom. His hand closed around a bottle of tequila. Leftover from before Halloween. He had barely touched it since.

Jack unscrewed the cap, hesitated for only a second, then tipped the bottle back, letting the liquid burn down his throat. His stomach twisted. He coughed, blinking away the sting, then took another shot.

It wasn't about getting drunk. He didn't want to be out of control. He just needed to take the edge off. Just enough to get him out the door. He pulled on his hoodie, stuffed his phone in his pocket, and left before he could talk himself out of it.

Twenty minutes later, Jack stood outside an apartment building just off Camden Street, his breath fogging in the cold night air. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his hoodie pulled tight over his head. His phone buzzed. 'Apt 12, third floor.'

Jack exhaled, glancing back down the street. He could still turn around, go home, pretend this never happened. But his feet were already moving.

Inside, the hallway smelled of a citrusy air freshener and some cleaning product, bleach maybe. The guy—Rob, his profile said—stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching Jack with an unreadable expression. He was older, early forties, but in great shape. His t-shirt clung to his broad chest, his arms were thick with muscle, veins visible under his skin. His jaw was sharp, lined with neatly trimmed stubble.

Jack felt himself tense.

'Hey,' Rob said, a slow, knowing smile playing on his lips.

'Hi.'

'You nervous?'

Jack huffed out a breath, forcing a smirk. 'Why would I be nervous?'

'Because you're standing in my hallway looking like you might leg it any second.'

Jack forced himself to chuckle. 'I'm fine.'

Rob nodded, stepping back. 'Come in, then.' Jack hesitated. His pulse was too fast. His body felt too warm. But he stepped inside anyway into the entrance of the old Georgian house.

The hallway was massive, with ceilings taller than Jack had ever seen. A huge chandelier hung in the entrance hallway, and just inside the doorway was a coat rack with lots of wax hunting coats in different shades of green and brown. Underneath them, was a basket full of walking sticks and Jack was pretty sure he spotted a sword. This man was minted.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Eoghan,' Jack lied.

'Rob, nice to meet you.'

The man was handsome, and he looked younger than forty two. He was broad, but muscly, with a thick head of browny-grey hair which receded a little into a widow's peak and his skin was relatively wrinkle free. He had well groomed stubble that highlighted his massive jaw. His biceps were choked by the sleeves of his t-shirt; they were massive. He wore a pair of Levi jeans that made his ass look quite peachy. He was in great shape for someone his age. He kind of looked like a porn star.

'Do you want a glass of water?'

Jack nodded.

He led Jack into a ginormous kitchen, with an island bigger than Jack's bedroom in the centre of it. The fridge was twice as big as anything he had ever seen and the Agga beside it was massive too. Everything was so grand. The room engulfed the pair of them. A sitting room adjoined the kitchen, and there was a grand piano in one corner and another chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Everywhere he looked, there was something else to marvel at and so his eyes didn't know where to fall. This man was rich, rich.

'Here.' Jack took the glass from him and downed it in one. The water tasted like gold. He didn't realise until now how dehydrated he was. He turned, poured himself a second glass and downed that one too.

Rob studied him for a moment. Then, he stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that Jack felt it. 'You can relax, you know. There's no pressure to do anything.'

Jack swallowed. His heart was hammering. Then, suddenly, Rob reached out and touched his jaw. It was barely anything—just the rough brush of a thumb along Jack's cheek.

Jack froze.

His entire body went rigid, like a deer caught in headlights. And just like that, it was too real. The weight of it, the intimacy, the reality of what he was about to do slammed into him all at once.

'Wait—' Jack jerked back, stepping away so fast he nearly stumbled.

Rob's brows lifted. 'Too fast?'

Jack shook his head, raking a hand through his hair, his breath uneven. 'I—I don't think I can do this.'

A pause.

Rob nodded slowly, stepping back, giving him space. 'Okay.'

Jack blinked. 'Okay?'

'Yeah.' Rob shrugged. 'No big deal. You can change your mind.'

Jack let out a shaky breath. His hands were still trembling.

He wanted to say something. To explain. To make sense of whatever the fuck was happening in his head.

But he couldn't.

So he just muttered, 'Sorry,' and bolted for the door.

The cold hit him like a slap as he stepped outside, his breath coming too fast. He leaned against the wall, pressing his palms to his knees, trying to steady himself. He felt like he was going to be sick. Not because of Rob. Because of himself. Because the second Rob had touched him, part of him had wanted to stay. And that was the part he wasn't ready to deal with.