Still Valid His uniform hangs from the wardrobe door. His suitcase remains open on the luggage stand. His shoes are lined up beneath the desk, one beside the other. Adrian closes the door behind him. For the first time in several days, there is no sound of Jack moving in another room. No low voice from the kitchen. No hand reaching for him without warning. Adrian places his bag on the floor. He remains standing there in Jack’s shirt. The fabric still carries the fai

Still Valid The drive north begins quietly. Jack keeps one hand on the wheel and the other near the gearshift. Adrian places his hand over it before they have reached the main road. Jack turns his palm upwards and closes his fingers around Adrian’s. They drive that way until the road begins to curve inland. For the first hour, they speak only when necessary. Jack asks about the temperature. Adrian changes the music. They stop for coffee beside the highway and drink it

Still Valid Not urgently. Not even properly at first. Jack’s mouth moves against his in slow, lingering touches, as though he has been awake for some time and has finally given up trying not to disturb him. Adrian opens his eyes. Jack is close enough that there is no room for the morning between them. “Good morning,” Adrian murmurs. Jack kisses him again. “That was not a good morning.” “No?” “It was barely a sentence.” “I understood it.” Jack’s hand moves ar

Untill Morning Jack stands. He takes Adrian’s shirt by the hem and pulls it over his head. Adrian lets it fall. Jack’s hands settle against his bare waist. The kiss begins softly. For a while, it remains that way. Their mouths moving slowly, hands taking their time because neither man needs to hurry towards something he already knows is waiting. Jack undresses Adrian without letting him move far away. Adrian opens Jack’s shirt one button at a time, kissing each ne

Untill Morning They make lunch together. Adrian slices the remaining tomatoes and mozzarella while Jack cuts the bread with the bending knife and complains about it throughout the entire process. They eat outside with the pesto, olive oil and the last of the cheese. Afterwards, Jack discovers that one of the windows in the living room does not close properly. Adrian finds him kneeling beside it with the new wrench. “You bought that yesterday.” “I know.” “You said

Untill Morning Adrian wakes with his hand resting over Jack’s heart. For a few seconds, he does not remember why the position feels different from the night before. Then Jack shifts beneath him, and Adrian feels the pleasant heaviness in his own body, the faint ache in muscles he had not expected to notice this morning. Jack’s arm is wrapped around his back. One of Adrian’s legs is caught between his, and at some point during the night Adrian has moved almost entirely ont

Next Time They sit opposite each other. Jack looks at the food. “You made all this in half an hour.” “Less.” “This is the meal you were talking about this morning?” “No. That one takes four hours.” Jack picks up his fork. “You make meals that take four hours when it’s only you?” “Sometimes.” “Why?” “Because I’ve eaten enough bad food at thirty thousand feet to last several lifetimes. When I’m off, I like food that tastes like food.” Adrian picks up his wine.

Next Time By the time they get back to the cottage, the light has begun to turn gold over the water. They carry the day inside with them. Salt dried on their skin. Sand in their shoes. The paper bags from Main Street cutting into Adrian’s fingers because Jack has somehow ended up carrying only the new wrench he did not need and the bottle of wine. “You realise I’m carrying all the food,” Adrian says as Jack unlocks the door. “I’m carrying the important things.” “You’r

Next Time They kiss their way out of the kitchen with none of the grace either man might have preferred to remember later. Jack backs into the wall beside the hallway. Adrian’s shoulder catches the doorframe. One of them knocks something from a narrow table, and neither looks to see what it is. Jack gets Adrian’s belt open before they reach the bedroom. Adrian pushes Jack’s shirt from his shoulders while Jack is still trying to walk. It falls somewhere behind them. By t

Redwoods Adrian wakes to the smell of coffee and the empty space beside him. For a moment, he keeps his eyes closed. The sheets are tangled around his legs, Jack’s pillow still carrying the faint warmth and scent of him. Adrian remembers Jack’s arm around his waist, the weight of his chest against his back, and the kiss that had slowed until neither of them could tell exactly when it became sleep. Dinner went well. The thought makes him smile into the pillow. From the

Redwoods Afterwards, Adrian rises slowly between Jack’s knees. Jack remains on the counter, his breathing uneven, his head resting back against the cupboard. For once, he seems to have nothing clever to say. Adrian places both hands on his thighs and looks at him. Jack opens his eyes. There is something almost dazed in his expression, but the desire has not disappeared. It has merely softened around the edges, settling into something heavy and satisfied. “You all ri

Redwoods After lunch they follow the coastal trail north, where wind-shaped cypress trees give way to low sandstone cliffs above the water. White foam breaks against the rocks below. Jack steps out onto a flat-looking rock, still watching the ocean instead of where he’s putting his feet. It shifts under him. “Jack—” Adrian’s hand closes around his upper arm before he’s decided to move, pulling him back just enough that the loose stone tumbles harmlessly down the slope

Dinner Went Well They talk about work. Not the details of procedures or aircraft types, but the rhythm of leaving. The strange intimacy of sharing a confined space with people and then never seeing them again. The speed with which Adrian can learn what someone needs without knowing anything about the life waiting for them on the ground. “You like knowing what’s expected,” Jack says. “I like knowing what needs to be done.” “That’s not the same thing.” “No?” “No. One

Dinner Went Well Chet Baker’s trumpet enters the room quietly. Not enough to fill the silence. Enough to give it shape. “You want anything?” Jack asks. “No.” “Water?” “I’ve had water.” “Food?” “You ate half my dessert.” “That wasn’t the question.” Adrian looks at him. “You do realise that ordering people to eat and drink is not a personality.” “It’s working so far.” Jack sits on the sofa. Adrian remains standing for a moment. “What?” Jack asks.

Dinner went well “Us, for the next two nights.” Adrian looks at Jack. “That sounds suspiciously like a plan.” “It is.” “I didn’t know you made those.” Jack lifts Adrian’s bag into the back of the truck, a faint smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “I make plans. I just don’t hold meetings about them.” Adrian places a hand against his chest as if wounded. “I feel personally attacked.” “You should.” Jack closes the tailgate and walks around to the drive

The Wrong City The message from Crew Control arrives at 9:17 in the evening. Adrian is standing in his bedroom, an open suitcase on the bench beneath the window, checking for the third time that he has packed enough shirts for the layover. His uniform hangs ready on the wardrobe door. Everything is organised. Everything has been organised since that afternoon. He has spent the entire day trying not to count the hours until Los Angeles, and knowing exactly how many are left. I

The Wrong City By the time Adrian reports for duty the following morning, Jack has sent him the train details, the hotel name and a map marked with the station where he will be waiting. The final message says: Do not miss the stop. Adrian looks at it for a moment before replying. I know exactly where I’m going. I navigate aircraft cabins professionally. I believe I can manage a platform. Jack answers several minutes later. You walked into a workshop looking for

A Week from Now Adrian wakes slowly this time. There’s no unfamiliar room to place, no confusion about where he is. The hotel curtains are still drawn, but pale morning light finds its way around the edges, enough to see the shape of the room and Jack lying behind him beneath the sheet. Jack’s arm is still around his waist. Adrian stays where he is for a moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of Jack’s breathing, feeling the steady warmth of his body against his back. They

The View from Here Jack turns toward him. “Here?” “Los Angeles. Third layover in a row.” The surprise on Jack’s face gives way to something warmer. “How long?” “Two nights this time. So not as much time.” “But you’ll be here.” “Yes.” “When did you find out?” “I already knew when I arrived. I just didn’t know it would matter.” Jack looks down at their joined hands. “And now it does.” Adrian nods. “Now it does.” Jack smiles then, without trying to hide it.

The Door on the Left In the kitchen, Jack fills the coffee machine while Adrian sits at the small table near the window. Morning light falls across the records stacked beside the stereo and the photographs along the wall. One shows Jack and a younger woman standing beside an old truck, both covered in grease and laughing. Another shows Jack with an older man Adrian assumes is his father. In a third, Jack is younger, maybe in his twenties, hair longer, expression more guarde