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It’s become something of a ritual now—an unspoken thing whenever they find themselves at this particular store. Henry will, without fail, gravitate toward the same section toward the back, tucked between the clothing at the front of the store and the home goods in the back. It’s the one with the swivel accent chairs and quirky little furniture accessories. None of it is anything they need. The chairs are too small, too whimsical, not built with practicality or the adult proportions of two men in mind. Still, Henry tries them out every time—sitting and swiveling gently in the hopes that one of them, maybe just one, might feel right.
Alex watches this play out with a quiet fondness every time. He’s offered—more than once—to take Henry to a proper furniture store, one where they can find a chair that actually fits and maybe doesn’t cut off circulation. But Henry always declines with a soft smile, like the kind that says he understands the practicality, but that’s not the point. “It wouldn’t be the same,” he says, and Alex has come to understand that it really wouldn’t.
So it’s the same routine. Alex loses sight of Henry somewhere around the children’s lamps shaped like stars or the rainbow-painted end tables. He gets what they came for, checks off their list, and comes back to collect him. A small, harmless dance. Familiar and warm.
Today is no different—at least not at first.
When Alex returns, fully expecting to find Henry testing out another chair he has no business trying to sit in, he pauses. Henry isn’t alone.
A small boy, maybe five or six—it’s hard to tell at that age—is standing beside him, while he sits on an ottoman. He is animated and chattering away like he’s known Henry his whole life. His tiny hands grip a book tightly against his chest, his whole body radiating the earnestness of a child who wants to share something deeply important.
As Alex draws closer, he catches a glimpse of the book’s cover and feels a slow warmth bloom in his chest. Of course. He knows that cover. He knows every page, every word. It’s the children’s book Henry wrote a couple of years ago, the one about the lonely prince trapped by an evil dragon, and the knight who stumbles across him one day and decides to help him fight his way out. It’s about friendship on the surface, but Alex has always known it was more than that. Always known who the prince and the knight were meant to be.
The story is simple—deceptively so. The prince and the knight become inseparable, the best of friends, doing everything together. They even raise the prince’s dog. That detail always makes Alex smile. It’s a fairytale, the kind that invites laughter and knowing looks from friends and family who read between the lines. “Best friends,” they say with a smirk and a wink.
Alex has read that book more times than he can count—before it had a publisher, before the advance copies arrived, before the glossy display at the bookstore on launch day. He bought a copy anyway, the very first day it came out. Brought it home and read it all over again, even though he knew it by heart. It meant something to see some version of their story, however softly veiled, reflected in pages meant for children. A version of them that could give hope, teach kindness, or simply tell kids that even in the darkest places, someone might find you and help you fight your dragon.
Alex has read the reviews. All of them. Some say it’s a metaphor for friendship, for bravery, for empathy. But his favorites are the ones on queer blogs and small indie sites, written by people who saw through the veil and said, “I want that kind of love.” People who recognized the love beneath the fairytale scaffolding.
Alex is watching this boy show Henry each page, pointing out his favorite parts with the reverence of someone handling a sacred text. Alex feels his throat tighten. The child doesn’t seem to know Henry is the author. He’s just a man sitting on a probably-too-small ottoman, listening with soft eyes and a tilted head, the way he always listens when someone is telling him something important.
The boy clutches the book like it’s his most precious possession. It has the slightly battered look of something well-loved, well-read. The kind of book you sleep with under your pillow.
Alex approaches slowly, trying not to break the spell. Henry glances up, and that smile—the one that always feels like it’s meant only for him—pulls Alex forward like a tether. Henry pats the empty space beside him on the wide ottoman, and Alex sits down without a word. The air around them feels different now, like they’ve been invited into something secret, something gentle.
The boy pauses just long enough to say hi to Alex before launching back into his explanation. He’s explaining why the knight is the perfect friend for the prince. “Because he helped him fight the dragon,” the boy says, serious and insistent. “And a friend should help you fight dragons, but only if they’re mean dragons.”
Alex swallows. That one lands right in the center of his chest.
Then the boy veers off into a story about his own stuffed dragon—apparently it doesn’t look like the one in the book, but that’s okay, because his mom says there are lots of kinds of dragons. His voice trembles just slightly when he mentions her. The wobble of his chin is almost imperceptible, but Alex sees it. Henry does too.
Henry leans forward, gently flagging down a passing employee. “Have we found …” he begins, then gestures subtly toward the boy. The employee shakes her head with a tight, apologetic expression before moving on.
Alex watches, a frown knitting between his brows. Something doesn’t sit right. Surely there’s more urgency when a child is clearly separated from his parent. How long has he been here? And how long has Henry been keeping him company, keeping him calm, letting him tell stories and hold onto something familiar?
Alex’s gaze returns to the child, who’s now happily flipping to his favorite illustration. He wonders how a person could not notice that a child like this had gone missing. Wonders how anyone could fail to see what a light he is, even in a store full of clutter and noise. Then again, maybe that's what Henry saw first. Maybe that’s why he stayed.
Alex barely finishes the thought when he hears the telltale commotion. It rushes toward them like a current, the kind born of frayed nerves and too many things going wrong at once. A woman walking toward them, clearly in distress and balancing a squirming, red-faced baby on one hip. The infant is crying inconsolably, but the mother’s relief can practically be felt the moment her eyes land on the boy—her son—standing calmly beside Henry.
She looks like she’s been running on empty for hours, maybe days. Her hair’s slipped from its tie, her shirt is stained from whatever baby was last eating, and the look she gives her son is half panic, half overwhelming relief.
The little boy turns, completely unfazed by the whirlwind heading their way. “Mom, this is Henry!” he announces proudly. “He has the same name as the writer of my book, and he knows so much about princes and knights and dragons.”
Alex watches the mother’s expression shift, her wide eyes flickering from her son to Henry—and then to Alex. Recognition blooms, soft and quick, and her mouth opens in stunned realization. “I am so sorry for the—”
Henry cuts her off gently, with that warm, calm tone that instantly disarms. He lifts a hand and gives her that easy and kind smile. “No apology necessary. I had a wonderful time talking with your little one.” Then he shifts slightly, directing his gaze to the boy with a softness that always gets to Alex. “Though … it’d be good to let your mother know where you are next time, so she doesn’t worry. It’s important we don’t make the people who love us worry if we can help it.”
The boy nods and looks at Henry solemnly, like he’s just been entrusted with the secrets of the universe. He walks over to his mother, head hung in apology, and takes the hem of her shirt.
As they reconnect, Alex notices Henry pulling something from his bag—a copy of the book. The book. The same one the boy had clutched so lovingly. He uncaps the pen he always carries for signings, and with a practiced flourish, writes something on the title page. Then he slides one of his business cards between the pages, tucks the book under one arm, and hands his bag to Alex without needing to say a word.
Alex holds it close, heart already full.
Henry crosses the short distance to the woman, extending the book toward her gently, reverently. “I’m not sure he realizes who I am, but maybe one day he will. And if this is his favorite book … well, he ought to have an autographed copy.”
The mother blinks rapidly as she accepts the book, her hand trembling just slightly. She looks down at the cover, then back up at Henry. Her voice is soft and caught in her throat. “Thank you. So much.”
Henry smiles again, this time quieter. “I also put my card inside. I co-run several shelters and resource centers around the city. We offer a variety of services, and if there’s anything we can help with, please reach out.”
That’s when Alex sees it. The shimmer in her eyes, the tear she brushes away with the heel of her palm as she holds the book to her chest like it weighs a thousand pounds, and yet lifts something off her all the same. “Thank you,” she whispers again. “Not just for this. For watching Artie. He means so well. Usually he waits right by the door while I change his sister, but today’s been … a little extra, and he’s been a little extra with it.”
“Artie?” Henry echoes, eyes crinkling with curiosity.
She smiles faintly. “A nickname. For Arthur.”
There’s a beat of silence as the name settles in the space between them. The air goes still. Alex sees the moment it clicks for her—that tiny widening of her eyes, the breath she doesn’t take. She doesn’t say anything else, just gathers her children close and begins steering them back toward their cart. Before she disappears into the store, she turns one last time.
“Thank you again. I’m sure your father is looking down and smiling.”
And then she’s gone.
Henry walks back slowly, his steps looser now, like something inside him has been unspooled. He drops onto the ottoman next to Alex with a soft sigh, letting his shoulders relax. Alex reaches over and takes his hand without hesitation.
“You okay?” he asks, fingers lacing with Henry’s.
Henry nods, glancing at their hands. “Yeah. I actually am.”
Alex watches him for a moment. Watches how the overhead lights soften against the golden strands of Henry’s hair, how his eyes glint with something fragile but sure. “She’s right, you know.”
Henry looks over. “Huh?”
Alex lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Henry’s knuckles, lingering there. “Your dad. I’m certain he’s always looking down and smiling at you.” His voice softens further. “You were the absolute perfect person to find that kid.”
Henry doesn’t say anything right away. His smile is small, wobbly at the corners, and Alex reaches up with his free hand to gently brush away the tear that finally spills over. They stay like that a moment longer before rising and walking together to the front of the store, quiet and connected.
They don’t see the woman or her children again. But Alex knows that’s okay. Their paths crossed for a reason. That little boy left his mark on them, especially Henry—and Alex, even if he only caught the end of it.
That night, the house is still and quiet after their emotionally full day. Alex and Henry are curled up on the couch, their limbs tangled, and a blanket draped over them. While the TV hums softly in the background, just loud enough to provide a bit of background noise. Henry rests his head against Alex’s chest, breathing slow and steady.
Then, in a whisper, barely audible, Henry says, “I think I’m ready.”
Four words. But they land in Alex’s chest like a stone dropped in still water—rippling outward, deep and certain. He doesn’t need to ask what Henry means. He already knows. He’s been thinking of it since they left the store, since the moment he saw Henry sitting with a lost boy after seeing not trouble, but someone who needed him.
“I am, too,” Alex replies, pressing his cheek to the top of Henry’s head. “If you’re sure. There’s no rush. But I can’t wait to raise someone with you.”
Henry lets out a breath that catches on a quiet sob and curls tighter against him. Alex feels the wetness at his neck and holds him closer, heart full. Henry shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to Alex’s skin, then leans up to kiss him on the mouth—soft, slow, lingering.
They get lost in that kiss, and for now, the conversation drifts like smoke, not forgotten but paused. Held between them, understood. They’ll pick it up again soon.
But for tonight, wrapped in each other’s arms, it’s enough.