Page 19 of A Man To Remember
All without asking for anything in return except maybe the chance to watch me work.
The hallways of Skin on Skin wind around me like a familiar maze, bodies pressed together in various states of desire and undress. The usual chaos that should feel overwhelming has become background noise, white static that can't penetrate whatever the fuck is happening inside my head.
Was I wrong about Jesse?
The thought creeps in uninvited, worming its way past every defense I've built around my anger. Maybe the man who smoothed my way in this place, who watches my work with genuine interest, who responded to my touch yesterday like he'd been waiting for it his whole life—maybe that man isn't the same person who destroyed me back in high school.
Maybe that's a past life.
Maybe people actually can change. Grow. Become better versions of themselves.
Maybe I've been carrying around resentment toward a ghost while the real Jesse has been right here, trying to build something new from the wreckage of who he used to be.
As hard as it is to admit, even to myself, I kind of wish he had shown up today.
The bar comes into view, and I make a decision before I'm fully conscious of making it. I could leave the key card with whoever's working. Slip out the back and avoid any chance of seeing him again tonight. Maintain the distance I claimed to want and pretend yesterday never happened.
Instead, I walk straight to the bar like I'm following a script I didn't write.
A man whom I recognize as Sawyer is working tonight, polishing glasses with the kind of efficiency that comes fromyears of practice. He notices me approaching and raises his chin in acknowledgment.
"Austin, right?" He sets down the glass and towel. "How'd the shoot go today?"
"Good. Great." I slide the key card across the bar, but keep my fingers on it, not ready to let go. "Actually, is Jesse around?"
Sawyer glances toward the back of the bar. "Probably still changing after his shift. Want me to grab him?"
I nod before I can think better of it, watching Sawyer disappear through a door I've never paid attention to before. My heart rate picks up, and I realize I have no idea what I'm going to say when Jesse appears. No plan beyond this vague need to see him again, to test whether the space between us is as charged as it felt this morning when he handed me that key card.
The door opens, and Jesse emerges in street clothes—dark jeans and a gray henley that makes his eyes look more green. His hair is damp from what I assume was a quick shower in the employee space, and there's something careful about the way he approaches the bar, like he's not sure what kind of interaction this is going to be.
"Hey," he says, voice neutral. Bland. Everything I asked for and nothing I actually want.
"Hey." I push the key card toward him, then tap my fingers on the bar top. Something to do with my hands. "Just wanted to return this."
He picks up the card, turning it over in his fingers. "How was today?"
"Fine. Good." The words feel inadequate, but I don't know how to bridge the gap between what we're saying and whatwe're actually talking about. "Listen, I was thinking... you want to come by my place later? I've got the proofs from your shoot ready. Figured you might want to see how they turned out."
The invitation spills out before I've fully decided to make it, and I immediately want to take it back.
This is the opposite of space.
This is me actively seeking him out, manufacturing reasons to spend time together, behaving exactly like the teenager I swore I'd evolved beyond.
But Jesse's expression shifts slightly, something that might be relief flickering across his features before he schools them back to neutral.
"Yeah," he says after a moment that stretches too long. "I'd like that."
I grab a napkin from the stack on the bar and scribble my address, the same way he drew me a map on my first day here. The parallel isn't lost on me—we keep finding ways to navigate toward each other despite every rational reason to maintain distance.
"How about an hour?" I slide the napkin across the bar. "Gives me time to get everything set up."
Jesse glances at the address, and I wonder if he recognizes the neighborhood. Wonder if he's already calculating drive time, already deciding whether this is worth the risk of complicating things further.
"An hour works," he says, pocketing the napkin.
I step back from the bar, already second-guessing this decision but unable to take it back now. Jesse watches me go, and I can feel his eyes on me as I navigate through the crowd toward the exit.
