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His sister should’ve warned him that Jack Abbot was that hot.
Sure, she’d shown him pictures, but they were all group shots with her husband and the rest of the unit. In those frames, Jack was just another face in a swarm of men in uniform, grinning under some relentless foreign sun. Pretty much indistinguishable from the lineup of tanned forearms, squared shoulders, and mirrored sunglasses. Easy to overlook when you’re staring at a dozen copies of the same man.
And of course, there was the soldier thing. Robby didn’t want to go there. Military guys carry a certain energy, an almost audible hum of confidence and entitlement that makes his skin itch. Even without the occasional bigotry, there’s the posture, the tone, the unspoken hierarchies, all reminding him too much of the brand of masculinity he’s spent his whole life avoiding. Treating veterans in his practice has only confirmed the impression. They tend to form closed systems, circling each other in orbits of recognition. Shared values, shared injuries, shared frames of reference. Not a bad thing, necessarily, but it keeps their world sealed off. And Robby knows he’ll never find his way inside.
So no, he hadn’t exactly jumped at his sister’s matchmaking pitch. It worked for her, sure, but he doubted it would work for him. Still, a few months back she’d insisted Jack Abbot was perfect, stressing the word the way people do when they’ve already decided for you. Perfect, apparently, because he was a widowed ER physician who would understand Robby’s busy beyond comprehension schedule. What she didn’t realize was that the schedule was less a problem than an alibi. A tidy excuse to stay out of the mess of dating altogether
“He’s a sweet guy,” she said one late afternoon while he sat in her living room. The place smelled of the flowers he’d brought and whatever Steve was cooking for dinner. Spending time there had become part of his routine on days off. Even when he was drained, when all he wanted was to collapse in bed and shut the world out, he still came. She was the only family he had left since their grandmother died a few years ago. When it happened, it felt as though the scaffolding of their family life had collapsed overnight, leaving the two of them leaning on each other by default.
It wasn’t hard to be around her. They had always been close, despite the fifteen years between them. But that closeness didn’t blind him to how much farther along she was in life. Younger, yet already with a big house, a successful career, and a loving fiancé in the kitchen. She was building a family of her own. Robby, by comparison, was stalled: overworked, worn down, alone. He suspected that was the real source of her matchmaking: the guilt of moving forward while he stayed behind. She wanted to fix the imbalance, to pull him into the life she was making. And it was kind, in its way. But he kept having to reassure her there was no urgency, no vacancy waiting to be filled.
“Around your age,” she added. “Very handsome. And also very bisexual.”
Robby huffed, leaning back into the cushions. It wasn’t the first time she’d told him about Jack, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. “What does very bisexual even mean?”
“That he’s slept with a lot of men. What else do you think?” she shot back, not bothering to disguise her impatience.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Those army guys…” His voice trailed off when he noticed his brother-in-law standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, listening. “Not you.”
“Thanks, Mikey,” Steve said softly.
Steve was a strange sort of miracle. A laid-back vet who’d met his sister after a minor car accident that ended with a broken rearview and a drink at a bar as compensation. Five years later, he’d proposed. Asking Robby’s permission, of all things. At the time, Robby had found it hilarious. He had no real say in how Dasha lived her life. But between that and the other peculiar ways Steve showed him respect, Robby had come to like him more than he expected.
“Baby, you tell him about Jack,” his sister said, exasperated. “I’m clearly failing as a saleswoman here.”
Steve joined them on the couch, lowering himself with the heavy sigh of a man still half in work mode. “He really is sweet,” he said. “Almost surprisingly so, considering what he’s been through.”
Robby glanced at him. “What do you mean?”
“He’s widowed, like Daria said. But he also lost half his leg in combat. I didn’t know him then, but from what I’ve heard, it was bad.”
“That’s tough,” Robby murmured, and he meant it. He’d seen enough patients carry injuries like that to know the story behind them was never simple. The fact that it happened in combat made it all the more impressive.
Steve nodded. “He came through.”
“That’s great for him,” Robby said. “And he does sound like a good catch. But I’m not ready to jump into anything right now. Especially not with someone already lugging that kind of baggage. So… thanks, guys. But I’ll pass.”
He could call those his famous last words.
Because now, standing at his sister’s wedding reception, shaking hands with the other groomsmen, Robby realizes no amount of description or blurry Facebook photos could have prepared him for just how obscenely hot Jack Abbot really is.
There’s a movie-star quality to him. A touch of Paul Newman. That effortless old-Hollywood charm that seems to glow as he moves through the crowd, flashing a crooked smile while introducing himself to the other guests. His eyes catch the light, glimmering, and his side profile only heightens the cinematic effect. The sharp jawline, the serious nose, the mouth caught between a frown and amusement; it’s as if the universe compiled a highlight reel of every man Robby has ever accidentally stared at too long and handed it to him in a single body.
But what really undoes him are the silver curls. They hadn’t shown up in the pictures his sister sent, probably because those were taken a decade ago, back when Jack’s hair was still dark and neatly trimmed. They didn’t prepare him for the way the late-afternoon light turns them into a shifting pattern of silver and warm brown. It’s a shame, he thinks, that the curls have been slicked into submission with gel. For a brief, treacherous moment, Robby wonders how they’d spring under his fingers, how they’d look ruined in the aftermath of being pulled.
He stares. He shouldn’t, but he does. And because of that, he notices the exact moment Abbot catches him. Mid-greeting with what Robby assumes is an old army friend, Jack leans in to murmur something. Whatever it is earns a smirk, but his gaze doesn’t waver, still locked on Robby, like the rest of the room has blurred out.
Robby holds his ground, close enough to feel the attention but determined to look occupied. He nods at whatever the groomsman beside him just said. All of them are dressed in the wedding’s emerald-green suits, a color so violently festive it makes most of them look like novelty leprechauns. Jack, infuriatingly, looks like he’s stepped out of a GQ cover.
That’s what he’s thinking when Jack starts moving toward him. Every other thought evaporates when he finally stops and says, “Hi. You must be Michael. Daria’s brother.”
“Yes. Hi. Nice to meet you. Jack Abbot, right?” Robby extends his hand, silently hoping his palms aren’t sweating.
“That’s me.” His grip is firm, but his eyes stay soft and curious, like he’s already decided Robby is worth his attention.
“Dasha and Steve talk a lot about you,” Robby blurts, immediately hating how nervous he sounds.
“Should I be worried?” Jack asks with a sly smile.
“No. Of course not. Only good things.”
His grin widens, a sparkle in his eye. “Well, you’re welcome to form your own opinion tonight.”
Oh, shit. They’re actually doing this. Dasha’s been feeding him stories, the same way she’s been feeding Robby stories about Jack for months. God knows what she told him. What could possibly stack up against handsome widowed veteran who’s also a doctor and impossibly sweet? It’s unfair that Abbot comes with such a cinematic résumé while Robby is… what? Single, tired, and perpetually two coffees away from a meltdown.
Yet, Jack is looking at him like he hasn’t been warned off, like maybe there’s something to see past the bags under his eyes and his bad posture. And maybe that’s just how he looks at everyone — bright, charming, endlessly approachable — but Robby is already half-convinced otherwise.
He can’t not give this a shot.
“I think I just might.”
They lock eyes for a beat too long. Up close, Jack’s even more devastating, freckles scattered across his cheekbones like constellations. Robby wonders, wildly, if they extend to the rest of him. The thought alone makes him blush. He prays Abbot doesn’t notice, though the way his gaze lingers says otherwise. There’s a sharp, assessing quality there, softened by something almost playful, like he’s halfway through figuring Robby out.
“Shall we?” Jack says, tilting his head toward the aisle. “I think the groomsmen are on-call now.”
“Yes. Sure. Let’s go.” Robby follows, trying to act like his heart isn’t pounding.
-
The sun hangs low in the sky, a soft golden glow brushing the wooden chairs and flower arrangements. The kind of light that makes everything feel wrapped in honey. The air smells faintly of cut grass and late-blooming flowers, but none of it registers. Robby’s attention is caught, hopelessly, by Abbot’s presence. He’s wound tight, shoulders stiff, hands pressed together as if holding himself upright might keep him from collapsing into a puddle of nerves. Abbot smells impossibly good beside him, clean linen with something warmer underneath, and when the ceremony begins, Robby is grateful for the distraction. At least now there’s something else to occupy him besides the magnetic pull at his side.
And it is, undeniably, a beautiful ceremony. Robby knew it would be the moment he saw his sister glowing in her dress, poised to begin a life she has never seemed more ready for. Pride rises in him. He has always been just old enough to blur the line between brother and parent, guiding her in ways that made him half-guardian, half-confidant. And now here she is, stepping into something larger than either of them.
He feels old, seeing her like this. Not bitterly, just with sudden clarity. A reminder of the distance between himself and this stage of life. Love isn’t a universal guarantee. Some people get it, others don’t. He’s glad she’s one of the lucky ones. He just can’t picture it for himself. Since the day he came out, decades ago, when being gay meant following a bunch of unspoken rules, he’s assumed he’d grow into the role of the solitary man. A few boyfriends here and there, the occasional fling, but never someone to grow old with. He’s always imagined himself like an Alan Hollinghurst character, all faded glamour and loneliness. It was easier to believe his story had already been written than to risk imagining a different ending.
He’s still drifting in that thought when the officiant slips in a clever joke, and Abbot lets out a quiet laugh. It’s a bright sound, and Robby turns before he can stop himself. After that, it’s hopeless. For the rest of the ceremony, his eyes keep sneaking back, as if magnetized. The wedding photos are already a problem in his mind. Every frame will catch it: his drawn, helpless expression whenever Abbot moves, the quick glances he thinks he’s hiding. Proof, forever, that he can’t even stand two feet away from a beautiful man without turning into a complete fool.
And apparently it’s going to be a problem all night, because his sister just had to seat them at the same table. It’s maddening. He wants nothing more than to be near this man and, at the same time, as far away as possible. He knows Dasha has been plotting this for months. Jack clearly has been briefed on her intentions, but Robby is having a hard time imagining this guy actually wanting him. Not tonight, not with so many shinier, looser, more available people around.
“You work at the Pitt, right?” Jack asks just as the room settles and the first dance is about to be announced. They’re alone at the table; their supposed companions long gone for the bar. Robby wishes he’d done the same.
“Yeah. ER Attending.”
Jack whistles softly. “Heard some wild stories about that place.”
Robby exhales a half-laugh that comes out closer to a sigh. “And they probably don’t cover half of it.”
“Sounds like fun.” Jack grins, and it’s impossible not to mirror it, even if Robby isn’t sure he agrees.
“What about you?” he asks. “Daria said you’re a physician too.”
“UPMC. For now. Leaving in November.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Abbot shrugs, casual and unbothered. “Don’t be. I’ve wanted to leave for some time now.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping, like confessing something half-embarrassing. “I actually had the Pitt on my radar for a while.”
The thought lands in Robby’s chest like a physical weight. Jack in scrubs, moving through the ER with that commanding voice. It’s a fantasy that should come with a warning label.
“We’d be glad to have you,” he says, trying for casual. “We’re always short on hands.”
“Yeah, I think that’s everybody’s problem.” He pauses, tilts his head, smile curling. “So you’d be my boss, huh?”
Robby arches a brow. “Would that be a problem?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to make the question feel deliberate. Then his mouth curves again. “Only if you make it one tonight.”
Robby has to summon every ounce of self-control not to cough his drink back into the glass. Apparently, Jack has decided to skip the polite warm-up and cut straight to flirting. Straight-faced, unapologetic flirting. It takes him a beat to catch up. His brain immediately scrambles for something that won’t make him sound hopelessly outmatched. The problem is, he’s never been good at this. Not the back-and-forth, not the easy charm, especially not with someone so far out of his league.
And it isn’t false modesty. Robby’s not unattractive; he knows that much. On a good day, he can even be called handsome, in the slightly weathered, overworked-fifty-something way. It works for some people. But Jack is another category altogether. Sitting next to him, Robby keeps circling back to the resemblance he noticed earlier: late-50s Paul Newman. Brick Pollitt flashes through his mind: the first bisexual man to haunt his teenage dreams. Now the loop has closed, playing out in real time in a rented banquet hall, with Robby struggling to string words together. Turns out it is very hard to think, let alone sound clever, in Jack’s presence
So he plays it safe. “You make it sound like it’s a unilateral decision.”
Jack studies him, composed, lifting his glass with the ease of a man who has never once fumbled a line in his life. “It might be.”
“How come?”
That’s when he leans in, narrowing an already dangerous gap. Robby is suddenly hyper-aware of how they must look to anyone watching, but thank God their tablemates are off drinking. He’s not sure he could survive this with witnesses. The clean, sharp scent of Jack’s cologne makes his head go light.
When they’re mere inches apart, Jack’s voice drops, barely more than a whisper. “Because I know exactly what I want, Mike. The question is whether you want it too.”
Robby opens his mouth, but nothing coherent comes out. A noise, maybe, something between a laugh and a cough. He drags a hand across his jaw as if that might steady him, but it only makes Jack’s smile sharpen.
“I—uh—” he tries again, then stops.
Jack doesn’t rescue him, not immediately. He just watches, patient, amused, as though he has all the time in the world to let Robby flounder. Finally, he rests back in his chair, grin softening into something more dangerous. “You overthink things, don’t you?”
He can’t tell if it’s a jab, or if Jack is reconsidering the whole endeavor, but his gaze stays gentle. Teasing, yes, but never cruel. And Robby can’t deny it anyway. Trying to outmatch him feels pointless; the man has far more practice at this game.
“So I’ve been told,” he mutters, eyes slipping away from Abbot’s.
“I think it’s cute.”
The word lands strangely. Not a compliment Robby is used to. Certainly not one meant for him.
“Cute? Really? At my age?” His voice cracks dry, half-cynical.
Jack doesn’t falter. His reply is low, unhurried. “Why not? Or would you rather I told you it’s hot, the way you get all flustered for me?”
The words steal the ground beneath him. Robby should be past blushing, but his body warms and trembles, traitorously alive to the cadence of Abbot’s voice. It would be so easy to lean in, to dissolve the tension into a kiss, but it feels too soon. Propriety holds him back. The night hasn’t even begun; the first dance hasn’t happened; people are watching. He’s nowhere near drunk enough to be reckless.
So he laughs instead, thin, brittle, hiding his face with his hand. “I’m bad at this.”
Jack’s reply is calm, open. “It’s okay. You’re lucky I’m not.”
Something in him loosens. He dares to look again, only to find Jack studying him with an intensity that borders on reverence. The weight of that gaze steals his breath. Then, his expression steadies. “Do you want me to stop?”
The answer comes before thought, instinctive, desperate. “No.”
Jack exhales, smile returning like the flick of a match. “Good.”
Their gazes catch and linger, and for a moment, Robby lets himself revel in it. The chemistry between them. How, despite his stumbles through half their exchanges, Jack has never once made him feel small or embarrassed. Instead, he carries the conversation with ease, guiding without making it obvious.
It’s strange, he thinks, sitting beside someone who’s interested too. He hasn’t felt that in a long time. Not since he started ducking dates and dodging anything that could feel real. But this is different. This is good. This makes him want to stay near Jack Abbot for the rest of the evening, and he hopes Jack feels the same.
He’s just about to say something, maybe even take a risk, when the first dance is announced. His sister steps out in a new dress, more casual, but no less lovely. She’s luminous as she takes Steve’s arm, smiling with that unshakable ease of hers, and the sight drags him backward.
Before her, he’d never really known what family was supposed to feel like. His childhood house had been too quiet, his parents gone more often than they were around. Even his grandparents’ place, where most of his time was spent, carried its own peculiar emptiness. Then Dasha arrived. Unplanned, right in the chaos of his adolescence. And when their parents vanished for good, leaving the two of them in their grandparents’ care, it was Robby, who knew nothing about raising a child but everything about the ache of growing up without someone steady, who swore she’d never feel that same loneliness.
Now Steve is her husband, another anchor in her life, another person she can count on. The tenderness of that thought overwhelms him. He only realizes he’s crying when a warm hand lands on his shoulder.
Jack is smiling at him. “Are you crying because you’re up next?” he murmurs.
Robby laughs under his breath, brushing his face dry. He’d promised his sister a dance, even rehearsed so they wouldn’t trip over each other.
“Yeah,” he says, grinning despite himself. “Should’ve run twenty minutes ago when I had the chance. You distracted me.”
“Please. Like she would’ve let you,” Jack says, and he’s not wrong. Dasha always gets her way with Robby. He pauses, then adds, lower: “You’re gonna save me one after?”
“I could, but you’ll see in a few minutes I’m hopeless on a dance floor.”
“That’s fine. I’ll lead."
Robby smiles, though part of him still wants to bolt. Soon the ceremonialist finds him, guides him into position, rattling off instructions that slide right past his ears. His heart beats too fast to catch them. All he can think is: don’t mess this up.
When Dasha and Steve part, he takes his cue and steps forward. She turns to him with a smile, pulling one out of him in return.
She once told him she never pictured their parents at her milestones. Not at graduations, not at birthdays, not even at her wedding. She always knew she’d walk down the aisle alone. When Robby offered to take that place, she only laughed, said she was happy doing it by herself, though he wouldn’t escape a brother-sister dance.
And that’s what this is.
They sway in time with the music, while Robby desperately tries not to stare at his shoes, which seem determined to betray him. She looks radiant, but beneath her serene expression is a focused intensity, an intent look that tells him she’s not just floating through this dance. She’s studying him
“So,” she says at last, pitched low, teasing. “How’s it been with Abbot?”
Robby can’t help thinking it’s funny that even on the happiest day of her life, she can’t resist slipping into her role as his personal matchmaker.
He leans in, voice lowered. “You really want to talk about that right now?”
Her smile widens, conspiratorial. “No one’s listening. We won’t have time later. Just keep smiling and they’ll think you’re telling me how good I look.”
Robby chuckles under his breath, though it sticks in his throat. He hesitates, then blurts, “it’s fine. He just might…” He stops there, as if the words are too heavy to finish. How do you admit that someone makes you nervous in ways you thought you’d aged out of?
“What?” Dasha arches her brows, the gesture neat and surgical.
Robby exhales. “Be out of my league.” It comes soft, like a secret he hopes will sound less pathetic if whispered.
Her smile falters for only a second before she snaps, exasperated. “Oh, come on, Michael.”
“Shhh. Keep smiling,” he warns, nodding slightly toward the guests circling them. The last thing he needs is someone mistaking this for drama.
She complies, grin restored, but her words land firm. “Tonight is not the night to get self-conscious. He wants this. And I know you do too, so just… go for it.”
Robby narrows his eyes. “How do you know what I want?”
Dasha answers with the kind of certainty only a sister can pull off. “Have you looked at him? Please. I’ve already had to run interference with a small army of women chasing him. I’m still working for you, you know. The least you can do is kiss the man.”
Her conviction makes him laugh. “Okay,” he says, nodding like he’s taking orders. “Got it.”
For a beat they just move in silence, swaying as the song begins to fade. Around them, the room hums with low conversation and the soft clatter of glasses. Dasha leans close, her voice warm against his ear: “Be brave, Mike.”
She lets him go, but the words stay lodged in him, a pulse he didn’t know he needed until now.
When he turns, he finds Jack’s eyes across the room. That teasing, half-smile curves on his mouth, and Robby feels something shift inside him. Something equal parts courage and desire, so tangled it’s impossible to tell them apart. Whatever it is, he decides, it’s enough.
Time to be brave.
-
By the time Robby circles back to his table, it’s clear he’s already lost ground. Jack is surrounded, just as his sister warned him, by a swarm of admirers who wasted no time once the dance floor opened. The room has loosened: guests drifting between tables, nametags forgotten, clusters forming wherever the wine flows fastest. A beautiful brunette has claimed Robby’s chair, leaning toward Jack, one hand already resting on his arm. No way in hell Robby is squeezing into that picture. He mutters something about getting a drink and slips away before Abbot even looks up.
The bar is crowded, but he manages to flag down the bartender and order a whiskey. He takes the glass, thinking about strategy. If he’s serious, he needs a plan. A way in. He’s not going to outshine the gorgeous men and women circling Jack as the night wears on, but he has one advantage: the setup. He was invited into this game from the start. Maybe Jack will respect that, maybe he’ll keep their teasing alive. Either way, Robby just has to get him alone. And by alone, he means anywhere but here, anywhere the crowd isn’t watching.
But that’s the problem. What’s he supposed to do, book a private room? And if by some miracle he did, what would happen inside? Small talk? Him fumbling while Jack leans back, amused, perfectly at ease, the way he’s been all night? God. What a fucking nightmare. He downs a sip for courage and risks a look back at the table, only to find Jack gone. Already? Did he really just walk off with the brunette? That fast? That easy? His gut twists in the oldest, dumbest way, and he’s halfway to heartbreak when a voice slips in close, warm and unmistakable:
“You know, it isn’t very nice to leave a man stranded on the field.”
Relief floods him, stupid and immediate. Thank God.
Jack takes the glass from his hand without hesitation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He lifts it in a casual gesture, eyes glinting in the soft light of the room, then locks onto Robby. “Stray too far from the front lines, and someone might take me hostage.”
Robby swallows, trying not to let his pulse betray him. “Jack… sorry. I thought maybe you wanted some space.” His voice comes out lower than intended, a little pathetic, and he knows it.
“For what? To get hit on by some woman I don’t know?”
The thought that Jack isn’t interested in anyone else hits Robby like a sudden jolt. He’s unprepared for how satisfying it feels. He can’t help the grin tugging at his face, part relief, part excitement
“Well… technically, you don’t know me either.”
“True. But the difference is, I want to know you. You’re just making it unnecessarily difficult.”
Robby recognizes the instinct, the reflex to pull back. He keeps people at arm’s length. Always has. Even gorgeous men who make him want to drop that guard. “I’m sorry,” he mutters again, sincerely, for what feels like the tenth time tonight.
“It’s okay. I like a challenge.” Jack hands his drink back. “Plus, Dasha’s told me enough stories. I might know you better than you think.”
Robby freezes for a split second. Stories? What the hell has she told him? He scrambles for anything — fun facts, anecdotes, something clever or memorable — but his mind is blank. Absolutely nothing. Just the usual self-sabotage material, filed neatly under please don’t notice me.
Jack notices the flicker of tension and rests a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Relax. She didn’t give me your criminal record. Just that you’re an Eagles fan and ride a motorcycle. Pretty hot, by the way.”
Robby exhales, relief rolling over him. He’s still getting used to casual compliments that make his face betray him. “Are you always like this?” he blurts before he can stop himself.
Jack watches him with a curious tilt of his head. “Like what?”
“Shameless.”
The word seems to catch him off guard, and he lets out a restrained laugh, as if he’s heard it before. “Yeah. But it’s something I learned in combat.”
“Really?”
“Nope. Just naturally cocky.”
He says it so effortlessly, with a casual grace that almost feels rehearsed, and the mix of Abbot’s humor and ease strikes him with an almost disarming force: he actually likes him. Robby isn’t easily charmed. He’s usually too wary, too skeptical, too quick to roll his eyes. Maybe the whiskey softens him a touch, but he knows it’s really just Jack, reminding him of that old, awkward thrill of having a crush all over again. They’re close, closer than feels polite, but Robby doesn’t mind. He needs it.
“Look,” Jack says suddenly, his tone softening, just a touch of seriousness threading through it. “I know I can be a lot. If you want me to step back, I will. No pressure.”
Robby swallows hard. That’s the exact opposite of what he wants. He has to be brave. He has to make sure Jack knows he wants all of this. He wants him.
“Don’t. Please. I just…” His words stumble, searching for a balance between honesty and restraint. “I want it too. To know you. I just… have this terrible habit of overthinking everything. I’m always one step away from making a fool of myself.”
Jack studies him then, carefully, a flicker of sympathy in his beautiful green eyes. “You think one more drink might help?”
“It might,” Robby admits.
Abbot leans toward the bartender. “Hey, can we get two more scotches, please?”
-
Robby has never been a jealous person. He learned early the limits of what he could be and what he wanted to be. Envy, jealousy, those were feelings that barely registered in him, in life or at work. Maybe it had something to do with growing up alone. For years, the world felt like a playground for everyone else. Not him. He didn’t have big dreams beyond what he knew he could claim: be a doctor, be a better man than his father. He never looked at someone else and wished his life was theirs.
But listening to Jack talk, peeling back the layers of the man in front of him, Robby feels something entirely different: admiration, fast-growing and impossible to ignore. Not jealousy, not envy. Just awe. Jack is beautiful, yes, but also funny, clever, completely unselfconscious in a way that makes Robby want to crawl into a corner and simultaneously sit next to him forever. He wonders if Jack ever trips over his own brilliance, if he’s aware of it.
He likes the Eagles, though Robby suspects it’s casual. Cars excite him in a way Robby can’t quite relate to. He loves to cook, and judging by the way he talks about it, he’s good. He also talks passionately about gym, therapy, loud music, and his biggest guilty pleasure: true crime shows. “I was never one to sleep,” he shrugs. “So I watched every single true crime show in existence. It’s all garbage, but I can’t help it.” And has Robby mentioned he is funny? Because he’s hilarious, even when he’s not trying. His impressions alone could steal the show
Robby realizes he’s never met anyone like this. Not really. Someone whose passions flare naturally, whose humor lands effortlessly, whose presence fills a space without pushing anyone out. And it becomes impossible to ignore: he wants it all. Every story, every laugh, every glance, every inch of Jack.
They move through the night like the room itself can’t contain them. Bar to table, out to the garden by the entrance, back again. Sometimes interrupted by Jack’s buddies, Robby’s childhood friends, even Dasha and Steve. But no one lingers once they see how absorbed the two of them are in each other. The only territory left unclaimed is the dance floor, and Robby silently hopes it stays that way.
But, of course, promises have a way of catching up.
“Don’t think I forgot you promised me a dance,” Jack says as the DJ shifts from obligatory wedding bops to something slower, more romantic. Singles drift toward the bar, couples find each other on the near-empty floor, and for a moment, the world contracts around them.
Robby shrugs, pleasantly tipsy. “I didn’t promise anything. I told you I was hopeless.”
“And then I saw you dancing. You were fine,” Jack says. “Come on. Just one. No one’s watching.”
It’s true. The night is thinning. Families have long gone home with yawning children. Guests wander for drinks or a last bite, realizing how quickly the evening has passed. The dance floor is nearly empty. Dasha and Steve are nowhere in sight.
“Would it be a problem if they were?” Robby teases.
Jack turns to him, eyes bright. “You tell me, Mr. Overthinker.”
If Robby can’t summon the courage for a kiss, a slow dance is the next best thing. A simple, undeniable way to close the distance between them.
“Okay,” he says, barely above a breath.
Jack’s expression lights up. “Yeah?”
Robby stands, offering his hand. “Yeah.”
They drift to a quiet corner, away from the other couples. Not that Robby feels self-conscious, he isn’t ashamed, but he likes the privacy, the sense that the night has shrunk to just the two of them. Part of him, the slightly drunk part, wants everyone to see him dancing with the hottest guy at the party. The rational part is content to keep it to themselves.
They find the rhythm quickly. It’s slow, slower than his dance with Dasha, which makes it easy to follow. For the first few minutes, they don’t speak. Their conversation is in glances, in the tilt of a smile. Robby forces himself not to look down, keeps his gaze steady, as if sheer attention could convey everything he hasn’t yet found words for. The first song passes in quiet understanding, and it feels more than enough.
Then a new track cuts in. Robby freezes, recognition striking before he can blink. Let’s Fall in Love Tonight by Lewis. An 80s synth relic, shared once with his sister in the strictest confidence. His expression shifts before he even registers it: the song carries history, a private intimacy that now feels exposed, amplified over the speakers.
He feels the sudden, irrational urge to explain himself, even though Jack has no idea what’s running through his mind.
“Can I confess something?” he murmurs, just above the hum of the music, as if speaking louder would break the spell.
Jack tilts his head, curiosity shadowed by a trace of surprise. “Of course.”
He hesitates, the weight of the words pressing down. “I don’t want to make it weird but—” He stops. Panic rises, quick and familiar. I can’t ruin this. “Never mind. Forget it. It’s dumb.”
Jack squeezes his hand gently. “Hey. No overthinking. Just… say it.”
Robby exhales, conceding. “I always imagined this as my wedding song.” The words hang, fragile and trembling. He studies Jack’s face, searching for any flicker of judgment, any sign he’s ruined the moment. There’s none. Encouraged, he continues. “Not that I ever thought I’d actually have one. I didn’t. But if it ever happened, this would be it. I told Dasha once. Maybe that’s why she slipped it to the DJ. It’s not exactly popular. Nobody really knows it.”
Jack’s smile comes slow, reaching his eyes. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never heard it before.” He shifts slightly, taking the lead in their slow dance and Robby finds himself mirroring the rhythm naturally, the corners of his mouth lifting without thought.
Jack leans closer, voice lowered to match the intimacy of the song. “Why didn’t you think you’d get married?”
Robby doesn’t want to lie. “Want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
He keeps his tone private, letting it settle into the quiet around them. “Because, for a long time, I thought guys like me weren’t supposed to. I was a gay Jewish kid growing up in the shadow of the AIDS epidemic. Half the world said it was God’s punishment. It terrified me. I thought life would just be… survival, and shame, maybe small flashes of happiness. But the big stuff, marriage, family… that was never on the table.”
Jack nods slowly, like he understands, but there’s a furrow in his brow. “The world moved forward, though. Not nearly far enough, I know, but it did. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“It should’ve. But by the time I noticed, I was already buried in medicine. And once you convince yourself love is for other people…” he shrugs faintly. “It’s hard to unlearn. Easier to just stay on the outside.”
Silence stretches between them. Robby feels the sting of having said too much, of letting the words hang where they can’t be taken back. Then Abbot cuts in, gentle but firm. “I think that’s a shame.”
Robby raises an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’d look really, really good in a wedding suit.”
The line lands exactly where it needs to, like a hand pulling him back from the edge. The tension breaks.
“Better than this groomsman getup?” he asks, emboldened.
“Much better,” Jack murmurs, leaning close enough that his lips hover near Robby’s ear. Then, after a beat: “Thanks for telling me. But now I feel like we just ruined your wedding song.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like I’ll ever need it.”
Jack tilts his head. “Want to know mine?”
The question catches Robby off guard. His eyes drift, briefly, to the ring Jack still wears. The one that earned Robby’s respect from the start.
“Sure."
He hesitates, and for a second, Robby thinks he sees the slightest blush. “Iris. Goo Goo Dolls.”
Robby almost laughs but stops himself. He’s never good at hiding things, so all he manages is a dry, “Wow.”
Jack bursts out laughing. “I know. It’s terrible.”
Relief washes through Robby, and he grins. “I wasn’t gonna say it.”
“I was in my twenties. It was the nineties,” he insists, mock-defensive.
“So your wife picked it?”
“We both did. But City of Angels was her favorite movie.”
His face must give away exactly what he thinks, because Jack smirks immediately. “What? You’re about to tell me the German version is better, aren’t you? I already know that, Robby.”
It’s the first time Jack has called him Robby instead of Mike, the name his sister and Steve always use. And just like that, the word feels different. Like it belongs to him in a way the other never quite did.
“I didn’t say anything,” he protests.
“Yeah, right. I know that look."
They laugh and linger, swaying lazily, trading small confidences, until the DJ, apparently tired of romance, shifts gears and calls the crowd back to the floor. The spell breaks. They separate just as Dasha and Steve weave toward them, flushed and visibly drunk.
Dasha throws her arms around Robby. “My dear brother, I love you so much.” Her words wobble on the alcohol.
He hugs her back, amused. “I love you too, Daria.”
She pivots to Jack, eyes glinting with mischief. “Didn’t I tell you he was the best, Abbot? Have you fallen in love with him yet?”
Heat rushes to Robby’s face so fast he almost chokes. Jack, unfazed, only laughs. “Hard not to.”
“See?” Dasha crows, turning to Steve like she’s collecting receipts. “I’m the best matchmaker alive.” Then, without missing a beat: “Will you dance with me, Mike?”
“I think I’ve danced enough for one night,” he protests, already exhausted.
“Bullshit. Slow dancing doesn’t count.”
“She’s right,” Jack chimes in, and Robby shoots him a betrayed look.
“Really?”
Jack shrugs, that deliberate smile in place. “Yeah. I’ve seen you. I know you’ve got the moves.”
“I positively don’t.”
“He does!” Dasha insists, tugging him. “Come on, for me!”
And Robby gives in, because how could he not? It’s her day, and truth be told, he already feels like he’ll owe her for life for introducing him to Jack. He lets her drag him out to the center of the floor, where the music is louder and the lights softer. He doesn’t put much into it, he’s not nearly drunk enough to lose himself completely, but he dances, holding her hands, letting her spin them both into the crowd.
He feels Jack’s gaze from across the floor, amused, watching some hidden part of him emerge. It rattles him, in the best possible way. Before long, Steve joins in, and the four of them form an uneven, lopsided circle, dancing like overgrown kids.
Vodka shots blur the hours, time slipping past in waves of laughter and reckless movement. Robby remembers only fragments: hands clasped, music pounding, Jack impossibly close, their faces inches apart, almost touching, always almost. And every time, something — a laugh, a shove, another song — pulls them back apart
By the time night tips into morning, the sky paling, the blue thinning toward something brighter, Robby and Jack are collapsed side by side on a couch. Exhausted, half-drunk, they orbit each other as if the rest of the room doesn’t exist. Other guests are scattered in similar states, slouched in chairs, asleep at tables, but Robby barely notices. His attention is fixed on Jack.
They’ve lost their thread of conversation more times than he can count, circling back, drifting off, forgetting what they meant to say. None of it matters. What gnaws at him, though, is the absence of a kiss. Not once, though opportunities had been abundant. Dozens. And Robby let them slip, afraid that giving in too easily would turn this into a one-night blur, just another story half-remembered in the morning. But now it’s morning, or close, and still nothing. The regret starts to sour in his chest.
Abbot studies him, eyes heavy-lidded, hair a mess. When Robby first saw him, he wondered what Jack would look like ruined. Now he has the answer, and it’s not his doing. He looks beautiful anyway.
“I’m trying to think of a reason to stay,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue and liquor.
Robby scrapes together a reply from his fried brain. “Can’t think of one. But I also don’t see why you should leave.”
“I work tomorrow. Figured I should get some sleep, so I don’t put anyone’s life at risk.”
“Yeah, that might be smart,” Robby says, though disappointment presses against his ribs, sharp and insistent. He doesn’t want him to go. He feels stupidly, childishly desperate for more.
Jack’s gaze is intense as he says. “You know I’d take you home if I could, right?”
The words land like a blow and a gift at once. Robby’s stomach drops. That’s all he wants.
He swallows. “Yeah.”
“Will you kiss me goodnight?"
He asks it as though he’s not sure he should, stepping an inch past some invisible line. His voice is uncertain, and Robby feels it like a spark running straight through him. For a second, all he can do is stare. His chest hammers. It’s absurd. He’s fifty-five, too old for butterflies, but his body is wired with nerves and anticipation. Jack looks nervous too, faint pink on his cheeks, eyes restless, and that’s all Robby can take.
He closes the space in a rush, arms looping around Jack’s shoulders, fist in his shirt to pull him close. Jack melts into him instantly, gripping him back just as tight. When their mouths meet, it’s needy. Abbot lets out a surprised sound, fingers skimming Robby’s chest, bunching fabric like he’s afraid to let go. Robby’s hand finds the back of his curls, finally, and holds on as if the night had been building to this moment alone.
When Jack tilts his head, kisses deepening, Robby parts on a sigh, tangled and hungry, whiskey sharp on their tongues. He feels half-drunk from the kiss alone, his body alight. For a second, he imagines them from across the room: two grown men clinging to each other like teenagers at the world’s last school dance. But Jack’s tongue brushes his, and the thought burns away.
Robby slows it down with effort, pulling back just enough to breathe. Forehead resting against Jack’s, both panting. “If you’re not planning on taking me home,” he manages, voice rough, “getting me all worked up like this is just cruel.”
Jack laughs, hoarse and wrecked. “Christ. I should just call in sick tomorrow.”
Robby grins, stealing another kiss. For a moment, there’s nothing but Jack. Then reason creeps back. “You shouldn’t. We need sleep. Both of us.”
Jack’s disappointment is brief. He nods, resigned, but softens it with quick, greedy kisses over Robby’s jaw and cheek.
“Let me take you out,” Robby blurts, heart racing again.
Jack smirks. “What about your busy beyond comprehension schedule?”
“I’ll make it work,” Robby says, too fast, too earnest. “For you.”
“Good.”
They fall back into each other, kissing like they’re trying to memorize the taste before morning steals it away. When Jack finally leaves, Robby is left standing, lips swollen, body aching, a bittersweet warmth in his chest. The night is over, yes, but something else has begun, bigger than himself, and he knows it.
Still dazed, still tasting Jack, he nearly collides with Dasha in the hall. She looks a shade more sober, though her smile is still crooked.
“So,” she asks, all knowing mischief, “any opinions on Jack Abbot?”
Robby doesn’t answer. If she looks closely, the answer is already written on his face.