Chapter 2 Contact
I hate arrogance.
I hate people who move through the world like every room belongs to them. And I especially hate people who use a copy of my all-time favorite book to note down their groceries.
My eyes drop before I can stop them.
There's the book in his hands, creased open on his knee. And in the margin, in bold, indifferent handwriting, he’s actually scribbling: milk, eggs, bread, detergent....
My chest tightens in betrayal on behalf of the book. Who does that? Who uses a masterpiece for a shopping list? I shake my head hard, tearing my gaze away from his fingers curled casually around the page. People are settling in now, filling the rows, chattering quietly. I lift my eyes toward the stage where a full panel of editors has already taken their seats. Only the most renowned names get chairs up there.
A host steps forward, bright-voiced, standing beside the one empty seat at the panel. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re just about to begin. We’re only missing....” she checks her list, then raises her eyebrows with a tight smile, “.....Michael Foster? Michael Foster, are you here?”
Beside me, Michael goes very, very still.
Then he sinks lower in his chair with a muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” and brings the book up to cover his entire face.
And he leans. Too much, too close.
His shoulder bumps mine first, but he keeps going, folding into himself, curling downward until his forehead is almost pressed against my chest.
His hair brushes my shirt...... too soft, and the heat of him pours across my ribs. My hands go useless at my sides. My pulse stutters. Every nerve stretches thin enough to sing.
There’s a statistic I read once about connection and probability.
In a room of about hundred people, the odds of meeting someone you genuinely like, someone who sparks something in you, sits somewhere around 1 in 10. Already low. Then you factor in mutual attraction, timing, circumstance....the number sinks to about 1 in 50.
And that’s when you’re straight.
When roughly 90% of the room is, in theory, an option.
But when you’re gay? When your pool shrinks to maybe 5% of the crowd?
Those odds nosedive. They fall to something like 1 in 500, a number so depressingly small it feels like a cosmic joke. Most days, liking someone feels like trying to spot a star at noon.
And it’s even worse when you’re a dreamer like I am. When you see someone who sparks the slightest interest and your mind....traitorous, hopeful thing that it is, starts sketching futures you have no right imagining. Little flashes of what-ifs and maybe-somedays that bloom like wildflowers in places they shouldn’t grow.
It’s a habit I’ve spent my entire life trying to tame. To keep my imagination from sprinting miles ahead of reality. Some days, I think I’m succeeding, I convince myself I’ve learned.
And then there are moments like now, when a total stranger is leaning against me in a crowded room, forehead nearly touching my chest, breath warm through my shirt, his shoulder pressed to mine, and he whispers, barely loud enough for me to hear, “Sorry.”
The host steps up to the mic, smiling too brightly. “Alright, we’re almost ready to begin. It seems like Michael Foster is running a bit late, so we’ll go ahead and start. He can join the panel whenever he arrives.”
Beside me, he mutters, low and unapologetic behind the book he’s still hiding behind, “Please do.”
How the hell is he supposed to be up there? On that stage, on a panel reserved for the sharpest minds in the industry, the people who shape stories, nurture voices, breathe life into manuscripts until they bloom. It’s a place for visionaries, for people who care. And yet somehow....this empty, exhausted, infuriatingly vain man belongs with them? The best editors in the business? I can’t reconcile it. I can’t imagine him pouring over pages at two a.m., fighting for a sentence, championing an author’s voice. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Like stories don’t touch him at all.
He’s still leaning into me. I force my gaze away and stare forward. People are settling in, the lights dimming, the stage glowing. I should be focused. I came here for this. I’ve been waiting for this event for months.
But I can feel him. His bold stare, it prickles down my arms and gets under my skin. It coils somewhere low and alive in my stomach.
And I can’t ignore it. I turn to him, refusing to let the heat in me show. “Can I help you with something?”
I expect him to look away. To mutter something dismissive. Hell, I even brace for an eye roll. But he nods, A small, dip of his chin. My brows pull together. “What?”
He lowers the book, revealing those blue striking and empty eyes, and focused solely on me.
“Can I....” His voice drops. “Rest my head on your lap?”
My lips part and I just stare at him. At the quiet seriousness in his expression. At the way he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t take it back.
My heart thuds hard once, then twice.
“What?” I whisper, because I genuinely can’t make sense of him. He yawns....an unbothered, unapologetic, slow kind of yawn that hits me like a personal insult.
“Rough week,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, without giving me a chance to respond, he lifts his gaze to mine. “Can you do me a favor?”
I blink. “What—?”
“I’m trying to lie low tonight,” he says, voice dipped in a kind of careless charm that shouldn’t work but does. “So if you could do the same? No enthusiastic commentary, no eager hand-raising, no drawing attention to either of us while the lovely panel does their song and dance.”
He nods at the stage as if they’re performing a children’s play. “I’d appreciate it.”
Before I can decide whether to be offended, amused, or confused, he sets his copy of the book on the floor with a dull thud. And then he just moves. He leans sideways, then down....a heartbeat later, his head settles on my lap.
My thighs go rigid. My hands fly up in pure panic, hovering uselessly in the air as every neuron in my brain short-circuits. I freeze. I can’t think. I’m not even sure I know what reality is right now. This guy's lying on me.
His cheek warm through the fabric of my pants. His body relaxed....trusting, even....as if this is the most natural place for him in the world. And I’m sitting here like an idiot, hands suspended awkwardly above him, unsure whether to wake him, shove him off, or pray I never have to move again.
Then people start turning.
Slowly at first, then in clusters. Curious glances and frowns. My entire body tightens.
I hate attention, always have. I can navigate a classroom full of teenagers like a conductor, but the second strangers look directly at me, I unravel. And right now? I’m the centerpiece of some bizarre exhibit.
Some people look offended. Some look confused. I glance down at the culprit. His eyes are fully closed, long dark lashes resting on his skin in a way that feels unfairly beautiful for someone causing me this level of distress.