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Bob wasn’t sure if the name was Daniel. Maybe Dylan. Or Dimitri. Definitely something with a D.
He didn’t care. He was soaked to the bone, the collar of his navy jacket limp against his neck, curls stuck to his forehead, shoes squeaking across the bar’s slick wooden floor. He was too drunk to be embarrassed. Too tired to chase clarity.
The guy—D-whatever—had lasted maybe thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of Bob nervously fiddling with the label of his beer, talking way too fast, laughing too hard, and spinning every conversation topic back to one man.
“John hates cilantro,” he remembered saying, like it mattered. “I used to sneak it into salsa just to see the face he’d make.”
The guy blinked. Smiled politely. Fifteen minutes later, he made up an excuse about his cousin texting him and walked out before the rain had let up.
Bob hadn’t moved since.
Now he was nursing his third—maybe fourth—whiskey sour, sitting at the far end of the bar. The bartender, Samuel, had started polishing glasses nearby. Quiet type. Kind eyes.
“You don’t have to hover, you know,” Bob slurred lightly, gaze unfocused. “I’m not gonna puke on your counter. Yet.”
Samuel smiled without looking up. “Not hovering. Just making sure you don’t order anything with more sugar than sense.”
Bob smirked, then exhaled hard through his nose. “Fair.”
Outside, thunder cracked sharp across the sky. He didn’t flinch. He liked storms.
“You wanna know something stupid?” Bob asked suddenly, glancing at Samuel.
The bartender raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”
“I’m still in love with Jonathan Francis Walker.” He paused, then added, with a small chuckle, “He hates the Francis part. Don’t worry.”
Samuel blinked, paused his glass-polishing. “Ex-boyfriend?”
Bob nodded. “Yeah. Haven’t seen him in eight months. Not since we… you know. Imploded.”
Bob rolled the condensation off his glass with a thumb, staring into the melting ice like it held answers.
“Bucky, Ava, and Yelena keep me updated—whether I ask them to or not. It's like I’ve got this little intel network feeding me bits and pieces about him. Where he’s been. What he’s doing. Who he’s with.” He huffed a breath. “They mean well. Think they’re helping.”
He paused, fingers tapping lightly against the bar.
“I don’t go to the parties. Or the gallery openings. Or the birthdays. Not if I know he’ll be there. Which, let’s be real, is most of the time. It’s too weird, showing up in the same room as your ex like nothing ever happened. Like we didn’t share a life.”
A bitter smile crept onto his lips.
“So I just... don’t. I make excuses. Say I’m working late, or that I’ve got a class to prep for, or I’m feeling under the weather. Yelena sees right through it. Ava too. But they don’t push.”
He glanced over at Samuel, eyes bleary.
“It’s easier to miss someone from a distance than pretend you’re fine when they’re two feet away.”
Samuel’s voice was quiet. “You wanna tell me about him?”
Bob tilted his head. “You always this nice to drunk guys at the bar?”
“Only the ones who look like they’re gonna walk into traffic if I let them leave.”
Bob barked a laugh, wiped under his eyes. “Touché.”
There was a silence, then Bob looked down at his glass, thumb tracing the rim.
“We were together for five years. Met at some stupid community fundraiser—he was there with his firm, I was doing portraits of people’s dogs for twenty bucks a pop.” He smiled faintly. “He asked me if I could make his golden retriever look less… ‘goofy.’”
Another thunderclap echoed. Bob took a slow sip.
“He’s an architect. Brilliant. Disciplined. The kind of guy who folds his laundry right out of the dryer, never leaves dishes in the sink, always carries gum in his jacket pocket. Lemon-flavored. Disgusting.” He snorted. “And I loved him. Still do.”
Samuel gave a small nod. “So what happened?”
Bob shrugged. “I was a mess. Still kinda am. Dad’s in prison. Mom’s… in a psychiatric hospital. I’ve been clean for three years, but that doesn’t mean I’m fixed. There’s always something broken in there, you know?” He tapped his chest lightly. “And John… he has a kid. Isaac. Eleven. Smart as hell, loves dinosaurs and hates onions. And Olivia, his ex-wife, she’s still in the picture. They’re good co-parents.”
He swirled the drink. Watched the ice melt slowly.
“I didn’t want to drag him down anymore. Not with my past. Not with my chaos. So I ended it. Told him it was for the best.”
Samuel’s voice was gentle. “Was it?”
Bob’s laugh was bitter. “No. But I’m good at pretending things are noble when I’m really just scared.”
Rain lashed against the windows. People came and went in bursts.
“You ever think about calling him?” Samuel asked.
“Every goddamn day,” Bob whispered.
He sniffed, rubbed his sleeve against his nose, then offered a crooked smile. “But then I think—what would I even say? ‘Hey, remember me, your ex who left you because he couldn’t stop hating himself for things he didn’t choose?’” He shook his head. “Nah. No one needs that phone call.”
Samuel folded his arms. “You still love him. And it sounds like he loved you.”
Bob stared into his drink. “He used to rest his chin on my shoulder while I painted. Said he could see how the colors came out brighter when I knew he was watching.” A long pause.
“He never made me feel ashamed.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the glass. “I still have this private sketchbook—one I never show anyone. It’s just… his face. Over and over. Different angles, different moods. Smiling, sleeping, frowning. I don’t even think when I draw him. It just happens.”
The bartender didn’t reply. He just stayed, listening.
Bob let his head fall forward, arms cradling his glass. “God, I miss him. I miss his voice. His laugh. The way he used to say my name like it meant something good. I miss Isaac, too. We’d do watercolor Sundays. Kid’s got a mean brushstroke.”
“Maybe it’s not too late.”
Bob gave him a look. “You don’t know the half of it, Sam.”
“No,” Samuel agreed. “But I know that people rarely walk into bars during thunderstorms unless they’re running from something—or toward something.”
Bob sighed. “I’m just here because I didn’t wanna be alone.”
“That’s a good enough reason.” Samuel took the empty glass and gently set it aside. “But you should probably wait for the rain to let up before heading out.”
Bob straightened up, blinking slowly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re very clearly not.”
Bob snorted. “Touché again.”
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back. The thunder had quieted. The rain hadn’t stopped, but it softened at the edges, like a lullaby instead of a warning.
“Thanks, Samuel,” Bob murmured. “For not telling me I’m pathetic. Even if I am.”
“You’re not,” Samuel said simply.
Bob didn’t believe him. But he appreciated the lie.
The thunder rattled the windows again. It was past 11 p.m., and John hadn’t moved from the glow of his laptop screen in over an hour.
Isaac was with Olivia this week. Their co-parenting schedule was strict but smooth.
Tonight, John welcomed the noise of the storm. It helped drown out the pressure building behind his eyes—the kind that came from working on tight deadlines and even tighter budgets. His client in Chicago expected finalized design revisions by Friday, and he was already behind.
The storm surged outside. John leaned back in his chair, rubbing his neck, trying to ignore the flicker of Bob's name in the back of his mind. He still had a mug from Bob’s old studio on the shelf above the coffee maker. Still kept one of his brushes in the drawer of the console by the front door.
At some point around 12:30, John drifted to bed, exhaustion finally catching up. The storm never let up.
By 2:00 a.m., he was jarred awake by the banging.
Three hard knocks. Then four more. Then silence. Then again.
His heart rate spiked as he pulled himself out of bed, grabbing a shirt on the way to the front door. He checked the peephole, startled.
It was Bob.
Soaked from head to toe. Hair a mess of wet curls on his forehead, clothes clinging to his frame, shivering slightly despite the heavy raincoat. His eyes were red-rimmed, but not from the cold.
John opened the door. “Jesus, Bob.”
Before Bob could speak, John stepped aside. “Let’s get you inside before one of the neighbors calls the cops.”
Bob mumbled something incoherent, stepping in, trailing rainwater onto the hardwood. His hands were trembling.
John closed the door behind him and went straight for the hallway linen closet. He came back with a large towel and handed it over.
“You’re soaked through.”
“I walked here,” Bob murmured.
“You what?”
Bob gave a weak shrug. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
John blinked, then shook his head. “Wait here.”
He disappeared into the bedroom and came back with an old pajama set—one of his. Flannel pants and a loose Henley. They’d hang off Bob like curtains, but it was dry, and warm, and the best he could do.
“Go change in the bathroom. I’ll toss your clothes in the dryer.”
Bob took the clothes wordlessly and disappeared down the hall. John grabbed the wet shirt, jeans, and jacket once Bob handed them off and dumped them in the laundry unit with a sigh.
When he returned, Bob was in the pajamas—sleeves past his hands, pant cuffs bunched around his ankles. His curls were damp but no longer dripping, and his eyes looked less glassy, though no steadier.
John leaned on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms folded. “You’re drunk.”
Bob nodded slowly. “I love you.”
The words hit with the softness of a whisper and the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.
John closed his eyes for a second and exhaled through his nose.
“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk.”
John closed his eyes briefly. Then he exhaled through his nose and turned toward the kitchen. “We’ll have this conversation when you’re sober.”
Bob followed, his bare feet making soft sounds against the tile. “You’re not kicking me out?”
“I should,” John muttered, filling the kettle. “But I’m not letting you walk back into a thunderstorm."
There was a silence. The clock on the microwave blinked 2:17. The storm outside hadn’t slowed.
Bob slumped into one of the kitchen stools. “It was stupid to come here.”
“Correct,” John said, pouring water into the French press.
“I’ll go home.”
“You won’t.”
“John—”
“I’m not letting you walk in the dark, drunk and half-soaked, with lightning lighting up the street like a war zone. So sit down. Drink something hot. You can have the guest room.”
Bob grumbled something under his breath, but stayed seated. His curls had started to dry in uneven waves, sticking up like they used to after long naps on John’s couch.
John slid a mug of coffee toward him.
Bob scrunched his nose. “I don’t want coffee.”
“Don’t care,” John said, taking a sip from his own. “Drink it anyway.”
Bob stared at the steam, then wrapped his hands around the mug. He didn’t lift it to his lips. Just held it, like the warmth alone might anchor him.
“I shouldn’t have pushed you away,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have told you I didn’t love you anymore.”
John said nothing.
The thunder cracked again. A sharp rumble that seemed to settle into the walls.
Bob looked up, eyes a little glassy. “I thought I was protecting you. But really, I was just scared. And tired. And I hated myself too much to believe anyone else could… not hate me.”
John leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his gaze steady but unreadable.
“I didn’t stop loving you,” Bob said. “I don’t think I ever will.”
The silence stretched.
Then finally, John spoke. “We’ll talk about this in the morning, alright?”
Bob opened his mouth, then shut it. He nodded.
“Guest room’s still made up,” John added, pushing away from the counter. “Clean towels are in the hall closet. Don’t touch the thermostat—I finally got it to stay at a decent setting.”
Bob smiled, faint but grateful. “Thanks.”
John didn’t reply. Just grabbed his mug and started down the hall.
The first thing Bob noticed was that he wasn’t in his own bed.
The second thing was the faint scent of coffee and detergent.
The third was the distinct ache in his head, heavy and pulsing behind his eyes.
He sat up too fast, the pajama top slipping off one shoulder. The blanket—a familiar gray fleece—pooled around his waist, and as he looked around the softly lit guest room, realization hit him like a punch to the chest.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “What the hell am I doing here?”
His feet hit the floor just as the clock on the nightstand read 10:20 a.m.
He blinked. He’d really slept.
The thunder had softened overnight but hadn’t stopped. The rain still fell steadily outside the window.
Somewhere in the apartment, a pan clinked. The kitchen.
He stood, the too-large pajama pants nearly falling off his hips, and padded quietly down the hall.
John was in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan. He wore sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, and his hair was still damp, like he’d already showered. He didn’t look surprised to see Bob. Just gave a small nod.
“Morning.”
Bob rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey. Um… I’ll go. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s still raining,” John interrupted, not unkindly. “You should wait a couple of hours before heading out.”
Bob hesitated, glancing toward the window. The storm hadn’t let up, only changed tempo. It felt gentler now, but no less persistent.
“Can I take a shower?” he asked, voice rough.
John nodded. “Wait here.”
He disappeared into his room and came back with a folded bundle in his arms. He set it on the counter and unrolled it. Jeans. A navy t-shirt. An old hoodie.
“These are yours,” John said simply. “You left them here. I didn’t want to return them because… they were a few of the things I still had of you.”
Bob looked down at the clothes. His throat tightened.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
“You should shower first,” John added, already turning back to the stove. “You stink.”
Bob cracked a smile despite himself. “Noted.”
Twenty minutes later, Bob emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, steam still clinging to his skin.
John was still in the kitchen, two plates on the counter now. Toast. Scrambled eggs. Sliced strawberries.
“I had a date last night,” Bob said, out of nowhere.
John raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t even remember his name,” Bob added, shifting awkwardly. “I think it was Dylan. Or Daniel. Maybe Dimitri.”
John poured coffee into a mug. “Sounds like it went well.”
Bob gave a sheepish laugh. “I spent the whole night talking about you. Got too drunk. Ended up walking through the rain to your place because, apparently, my brain still thinks of you as home.”
John’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers paused briefly around the mug.
“What you said last night… was it true?”
Bob looked up, surprised, but didn’t flinch. “Which part?”
“That you love me.”
There was silence.
Bob stepped closer. “It is. Every damn word.”
He ran a hand through his still-wet hair. “I love you, John. I never stopped. I tried to forget it, tried to tell myself I was doing the noble thing by walking away, by letting you go, but the truth is—I can’t live without you. I don’t want to.”
His voice cracked on that last part.
John looked at him for a long moment, unreadable. Then finally, softly: “We’ll have to sort some things out.”
Bob nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I mean it,” John said. “You can’t just show up during a thunderstorm and say everything you’ve wanted to say for eight months without expecting there to be things we need to talk about. Trust. Boundaries. Isaac. All of it.”
Bob’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
John set the coffee mug down. Crossed the room slowly. His voice was quiet, steady.
“I love you too.”
It landed like a balm. Bob’s chest caved slightly, like he’d been holding his breath for months.
Then John kissed him.
It was slow. Uncertain for half a second—and then, sure. Warm. Familiar. Bob leaned into it instinctively, hands on John’s chest, gripping the cotton of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
They didn’t rush it. There was no urgency, just the simple miracle of being here, again, against all odds.
When they broke apart, Bob didn’t let go. He pulled John into a hug, wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face in the crook of his neck. John held him just as tight, one hand resting on the back of Bob’s head.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” John murmured against his temple.
“I shouldn’t have said those things to you,” Bob whispered. “I shouldn’t have broken up with you. I was scared and angry and—I thought you’d be better off.”
John pulled back just enough to look at him. “You don’t get to rewrite history. You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“But,” John said, his voice low, “we’re here now.”
Bob nodded, eyes damp but not crying.
“We’re here now,” he echoed.
They stood there for a while, still holding each other, the storm outside a soft rhythm in the background.
Eventually, Bob whispered, “Can we start over?”
John hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. We can try.”
A pause.
“But next time you show up at my door at 2 a.m. soaking wet and drunk,” John added dryly, “I’m calling the cops.”
Bob laughed—really laughed—for the first time in a long while. “Fair.”