SHANE WEEK | day 3: favourite quote

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SHANE WEEK | day 3: favourite quote
Do you want that problem to go away? I don't ever want that problem to ever go away.
HEATED RIVALRY | 1.06
"What a ridiculous word. What a ridiculous, wonderful word."
I think I like you a little too much.
1.02 ⥠1.04 â This was exactly what they werenât supposed to be doing. This was what couples did.
You're looking very pretty today. Different, maybe? Someone take you shopping?
DECEMBER 18: Connor Storrie at the Los Angeles premiere of Searchlight Pictures' "Is This Thing On?" at Vidiots
HEATED RIVALRY â PAGE 241
It was so bold and fearless and so...Ilya. [in/sp]
(đđđđđ)
mission complete
Pairing: Alex Claremont-Diaz x Henry Fox Word Count: ~16k Tropes: Spy/Not-a-Spy Romance, Farmersâ Market Meet Cute, Mistaken Identity, Action, Angst, and Fluff Warnings: Graphic Violence, Interrogation/Torture (minor), Explicit Sexual Content, Language, International Shenanigans
Summary: Alex Claremont-DĂaz did not plan to get kidnapped on his first trip to London. He really didnât plan on being mistaken for The Taxmanâa mysterious, terrifying ghost of the intelligence world. And he definitely didnât plan on finding out that the gorgeous, brooding Brit who bought a cactus from his farmerâs market stall is, in fact, said Taxman.
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70879376
A/N: this is basically the ghosted movie but make it firstprince!!! and my poor attempt on a romantic comedy. hope you like it :) <3
The morning in Austin had been unseasonably bright, the sun spilling across the old brickwork of the cityâs farmerâs market as though some careless painter had tipped a pot of liquid gold across the square. Alex Claremont-DĂaz was already sweating through his t-shirt, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, hair half-tamed under a backward cap as he leaned against a rickety wooden stall. His hands were marked with faint streaks of dirt from the crates of produce he and Nora Holleran had unloaded earlier that morningâokra, tomatoes, sweet peppers, and a couple of bushels of corn, their husks fanned like ceremonial feathers.
âYou stacked the heirlooms wrong,â Nora said without looking up from the notebook in which she was scribbling down the dayâs early sales. Her hair was pinned in a loose, messy knot, oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes like armor against the glare. âI stacked them fine,â Alex retorted, tossing her a bottle of water heâd swiped from the cooler. âTheyâre tomatoes, not ancient relics from the goddamn Mayan ruins.â
âTheyâre heirlooms,â Nora fired back, catching the bottle one-handed. âYou bruise them and Mrs. McIntyre is going to tell every other stall you donât respect the sanctity of her precious Cherokee Purples. Then where will you be? Shunned. Outcast. Banished from the market.â
Alex smirked, leaning across the counter with the kind of easy swagger that came naturally to him, half show and half habit. âIf Mrs. McIntyre canât handle my stacking technique, she can take her business to Whole Foods.â
Nora opened her mouth to reply but paused, gaze shifting past Alexâs shoulder. Her eyebrow arched. âIncoming. Tall, tragic, looks like heâs lost a duel with his own cheekbones. Very much your type.â
Alex turned.
He had expected a customer in sandals and a floppy hat, the usual Saturday-morning crowd of yoga moms and barbecue dads. Instead, his eyes landed on a man whose presence seemed to cleave a line straight through the marketâs ordinary bustle. He was dressed too sharply for Texas heatâtailored shirt rolled just enough at the forearms, trousers that suggested heâd stepped out of another life entirely. Blond hair, brushed but not stiff, caught the sunlight like pale metal. His expression was neutral in the way that spoke of effort, as though emotions were things he stored elsewhere, out of reach.
He walked slowly, deliberately, surveying stalls not with curiosity but with a kind of detached cataloging. When his eyes finally met Alexâs, there was a jolt, electric and disorienting, like a socket Alex had stuck his finger into as a kid.
âHi there,â Alex said before he could stop himself, voice pitched easy, playful. âYou look like a man whoâs never eaten a tomato that wasnât sliced by a butler.â
The strangerâs mouth twitchedânot a smile, not yet, but something that threatened to become one. His accent, when it came, was warm velvet over steel. âIs that what you sell here? Class warfare disguised as produce?â
Nora muttered behind Alex, âOh, I like him.â
Alex leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in his hand. âWe sell honesty. Which is to say, we sell vegetables grown in dirt, not in laboratories. You pick one up, you eat it, youâll survive. Revolutionary, I know.â
The man considered a cluster of cherry tomatoes in a basket between them, then reached out and plucked one with precise fingers. He rolled it across his palm as though testing the weight of it. âDo you always open with insults, or am I receiving special treatment?â
âYouâre getting the deluxe package,â Alex shot back, grin tugging at his mouth. âTexas hospitality.â
âTexas,â the man repeated, almost to himself. He glanced at Alex again, eyes narrowing as if trying to slot him into some mental box and failing. âAnd youâre the proprietor here?â
âMy parents are the proprietors,â Alex said easily. âIâm just the grunt labor. Though I do all the heavy lifting. And by heavy lifting, I mean the charm offensive that keeps people buying zucchini.â
That earned him the faintest huff of air, almost a laugh, and Alex felt absurdly victorious.
Nora leaned an elbow on the counter, cutting in. âHeâs single, by the way.â
Alex whipped around. âNoraââ
âWhat?â She widened her eyes behind the sunglasses. âItâs true. Community service announcement.â
The strangerâs lips finally curved, just a fraction, the barest ghost of a smile. âHow efficient of you.â
Alex ignored the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He reached under the counter, pulled out a paper sack, and tossed in a handful of tomatoes with careless flair. âFirst bagâs on the house,â he said, pushing it toward him. âConsider it a down payment on coming back next week. Same stall, same questionable jokes.â
The man studied him for a moment longer, gaze steady, unnerving in its intensity, then reached into his pocket and placed a folded bill on the counter. âI prefer not to be indebted,â he said simply.
Before Alex could argue, before he could even process the strange combination of aloofness and gravity, the man turned and walked away, his figure vanishing into the crowd like smoke dissolving into air.
Nora let out a low whistle. âSo. Who the hell was that?â
âI,â Alex said, watching the retreating back until it disappeared around a corner, âhave absolutely no idea.â
What he did know was that he had never in his life seen someone who looked so untouchable, and never in his life felt so determined to touch anyway.
Henry Fox had never much liked Austinâs heat. It clung to him like damp cloth, oppressive in ways that no training regimen at Sandhurst or MI6 had prepared him for. He had swapped the tailored jacket for shirtsleeves the moment he escaped the marketplace, but even so, the sun seemed intent on peeling layers of composure away from him.
He ducked into the cool of a shaded cafĂŠ several blocks off the main street, one of those places with chipped tabletops and chalkboard menus, ordered nothing, and slipped into the farthest corner. His phone was already buzzing in his pocket.
âHenry Fox,â came the voice on the other end, laced with a rhythm Henry had always found both comforting and exasperating. Pez Okonjo, flamboyant where Henry was reserved, a man whose laughter could fill a war room and whose instinct for danger was matched only by his instinct for mischief.
âChecking in already?â Henry said, lowering his voice though the cafĂŠ was empty. âYou canât possibly have missed me in the twenty-four hours Iâve been stateside.â
âOh, darling, I miss you the instant you hang up,â Pez replied. âBut thatâs not why Iâm calling. Iâve just had the most startling notification. Our dear Taxman has filed a vacation leave.â
Henry closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. âI was under the impression one is permitted to take leave without submitting to an inquisition.â
âNot when one is you. A machine does not suddenly decide it fancies a nap. Headquarters is vibrating with speculation. Have you gone rogue? Have you been compromised? Have you beenâoh, whatâs the phrase?âghosted?â
Henry exhaled through his nose, the faintest flare of irritation beneath the calm surface. âIâm in Texas, Pez. Hardly a hotbed of international intrigue. Unless you count brisket as a weapon of mass destruction.â
âI count brisket as a religious experience,â Pez said solemnly, before his tone shifted, sly. âBut tell me, Henry. Did I hear whispers of you lingering at a farmerâs stall? A handsome boy with dimples and far too much confidence for his own good?â
Henryâs silence stretched.
âOh, I have struck gold,â Pez crowed. âDescribe him. Quickly. I need to picture the poor soul whoâs bewitched you enough to make you actually file paperwork for a holiday.â
âHe is⌠insufferably earnest,â Henry said at last, words clipped, as though he might dislodge the image from his mind by speaking it aloud. âHe argues with his friend about tomatoes as though the fate of nations rested upon their arrangement. He smiles as if he hasnât learned to ration it. And heââ Henry cut himself short, jaw tightening.
âAnd he what?â Pez pressed, voice like silk tugging at a knot.
Henryâs hand flexed against the phone. He recalled the way Alex had leaned across the counter, daring, entirely unbothered by Henryâs own deliberate reserve. The way his gaze had been direct, bright, unflinching. âHe⌠looks at me,â Henry admitted, almost to himself, âas if Iâm not a collection of lies.â
There was a long pause on the line. Then Pez laughed, low and delighted. âOh, Henry. My sweet, damaged friend. Youâre positively doomed.â
âI am on leave,â Henry corrected sharply, as if precision might salvage dignity. âThis is temporary. A brief⌠interlude. I needed air.â
âAir,â Pez echoed, still chuckling. âAir that just happens to be flavored like sun-warmed tomatoes and Texas drawl. If you wanted a fling, Henry, you could have had one in Monaco. No, no, I see the signs. Youâve stepped in something sticky. And you, of all people, cannot abide mess.â
Henry pressed a fingertip against the tableâs rough grain, grounding himself. âIt is irrelevant. Iâll be gone in a week.â
âMm,â Pez hummed, unconvinced. âIâll believe that when I see you boarding the flight back without looking over your shoulder. Until then, Iâll be here, preparing the worldâs tiniest violin for the tragic aria of Henry Fox, undone by a farmer.â
Henryâs lips twitched, the ghost of a smile he refused to acknowledge. âGoodbye, Pez.â
âGoodbye, lover boy.â
Henry ended the call, slid the phone face-down on the table, and sat in the hush of the cafĂŠ for a long moment. He told himself it was the sunâs fault that his pulse still beat fast, that the memory of dark eyes and reckless grin lingered, insistent, impossible to shake.
Mrs. McIntyre had commandeered her usual folding chair in front of the stall, wide-brimmed hat perched at a perilous angle, her purse bursting with loose bills and receipts. She had been a fixture of the farmerâs market since Alex was twelve, and she never bought anything without giving him hell for it.
âSeventeen, eighteen, nineteenâŚâ She squinted down at the stack of crumpled ones in her hand, lips pursing in concentration. Her reading glasses hung useless at the end of her nose, lenses smeared with fingerprints. âOh, hell, Alex, youâve done it again. Distracted me so I canât count properly.â
âI didnât say a word,â Alex protested, though his grin betrayed him. He leaned against the stall post, arms folded. âThatâs the gummies talking, Ms. McIntyre.â
Her head shot up, scandalized and amused all at once. âGummies? What do you take me for?â
âI take you for a woman who buys three packs of peach rings every Saturday and calls them vitamins,â Alex said, voice carrying enough that Nora cackled from behind the cashbox. âYou think I donât see the evidence when you sit right there and inhale them like popcorn?â
âThatâs slander.â She jabbed a crooked finger in his direction. âI am a respectable old lady.â
âYouâre a respectable old lady who canât get past twenty without losing her place,â Alex shot back, stepping forward and gently plucking the bills from her fumbling hands. He straightened the edges, counted them quicklyââTwenty-five exactly, see? No gummies required.â
She harrumphed, folding her arms but smiling despite herself. âYouâre lucky youâre charming, boy. Otherwise Iâd take my business elsewhere.â
âMaâam, youâd never survive the zucchini section without me,â Alex said grandly, sliding her change across the counter. âThink of me as your produce guardian angel.â
That was when he caught sight of the blond man again.
Henry Fox moved through the market slower this time, his gaze not on exits or angles but on the neat rows of stalls, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He wore the same crisp shirt as earlier, but the sleeves had been pushed higher, revealing wrists pale against the sun. He stopped at a flower vendor first, brows knitting faintly at the riot of colors, then veered toward Alexâs stall as if drawn despite himself.
âBack again,â Alex called, casual, though his chest thumped harder than he liked. âEither my tomatoes were that good or youâre stalking me. Careful, Iâm flattered easily.â
Henryâs eyes flicked up to him, the faintest glint of amusement before his expression settled into something even. âI was⌠considering a plant,â he said, tone careful, as though unused to asking for ordinary things. âSomething alive. Something I might not immediately kill.â
Alex blinked, then broke into a grin. âWell, youâve come to the right place. Weâve got peppers, basil, even succulents if you want something basically immortal. Perfect starter kit for the botanically challenged.â
âSucculents,â Henry repeated, gaze dropping to the tiny pots lined along the table. He crouched slightly, studying them as though they were rare artifacts. âDo they require little?â
âThey thrive on neglect,â Alex said. âIf you forget to water them, theyâll forgive you. You forget to talk to them, theyâll still show up for work the next day. Honestly, theyâre like the most dependable coworkers youâve ever had.â
Henryâs mouth curved, faint but real. âThat sounds⌠manageable.â
âPick one,â Alex urged, leaning closer. âYouâll take it home, put it by your window, and boomâcongratulations, youâre a plant dad. Instant street cred.â
Henryâs fingers hovered, elegant and deliberate, before settling on a small aloe in a clay pot. He lifted it with surprising care, as though afraid it might shatter. For a heartbeat, something softened in his faceâa shedding of armor, the heavy cloak of secrecy replaced by something startlingly human.
âI can manage this,â he murmured, almost to himself.
Alex caught the moment, tucked it away like a secret gift. He had no idea why this stranger radiated such distance, why every word seemed chosen with surgical precision, but seeing him cradle a stubborn little aloe like it matteredâit stirred something deep and reckless in Alexâs chest.
âGood choice,â he said, quieter this time, letting the usual bravado ease off. âThat oneâs tougher than it looks.â
Henry glanced up, eyes meeting his, and for the first time since theyâd crossed paths, Alex thought he saw something close to unguarded curiosity. Not suspicion, not calculationâjust a man, trying, maybe for once, to feel normal.
Nora had the uncanny ability to look like she wasnât paying attention when in fact she was filing every detail away for later use. She leaned lazily against the cooler, twirling a pen between her fingers as Henry handed Alex a folded bill and walked off with the little clay pot tucked under his arm.
Her sunglasses slid down just enough for Alex to catch the glint of her eyes. âMm-hmm.â
Alex blinked, defensive before she even said anything. âWhat?â
âThat,â Nora said, dragging the word out, âwas not just a guy buying a plant. That was⌠courtship. Very Jane Austen. Very yearning glances over succulents.â
âCourtship,â Alex scoffed, though heat crept across his ears. âYouâre out of your mind.â
âAm I?â She tilted her head, tracking Henryâs figure as he reached a sleek car parked a few stalls down. The blond man opened the passenger door, bent with that precise, almost ceremonial grace, and carefully placed the aloe on the seat as though buckling in a child. Noraâs smile widened like a cat stretching in the sun. âOh my God. Heâs tucking it in. Thatâs commitment. Alex, if you donât ask him out, I swear to God, I will.â
Alex shoved his hands through his hair, heart jackhammering against his ribs. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYouâre smitten,â Nora countered. âAnd Iâm telling youâshoot. Your. Shot.â
He exhaled, shaky, but the truth was there, pulsing through him. The stranger had him hooked. Something about the way Henry carried himself, all poise and silence, only to betray himself with that tender glance at a cactusâit was magnetic, impossible to ignore. Alex had spent enough of his life tiptoeing around the gravitational pull of attraction; he wasnât interested in pretending anymore.
âFine,â he muttered, shoulders squaring. âIâm doing it.â
âGodspeed, cowboy,â Nora said, grinning wolfishly.
Alex left the stall at a jog, weaving past two women haggling over a melon and cutting across the lane until he reached the car. Henry was bent over the trunk now, unloading a folded jacket and tucking it into a leather satchel. He moved with an efficiency that made even something as ordinary as reorganizing luggage look deliberate, elegant.
âHey!â Alex called, a little breathless.
Henry straightened slowly, turning to face him. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his eyes flicked down to Alexâs flushed face, then back up again, as though registering the rush. âYes?â
Alex shoved his hands into his back pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. âSo, hereâs the thing. You canât just come waltzing into my stall, drop cryptic one-liners, adopt a cactus, and disappear. Itâs against market bylaws. Punishable byââ He paused, bit back the urge to grin too wide. âPunishable by me insisting you come out with me sometime.â
The silence stretched, the hot air buzzing with cicadas. Henryâs brows drew together, not unkindly, but as if he were parsing a puzzle.
âYouâre⌠asking me to dinner,â he said at last, voice even, careful, like he was testing the sound of the words.
âDinner, coffee, drinks, tacos at two in the morning, whatever youâll actually say yes to,â Alex said, words tumbling out faster than he meant. âIâm not picky. I justâlook, I think youâre interesting. And Iâd kick myself if I didnât at least try.â
Henryâs gaze lingered, steady and unblinking. There was no dramatic swoon, no instant acceptanceâonly that impenetrable calm, and beneath it, something flickering, something that looked dangerously close to curiosity.
âYou are⌠remarkably persistent,â he murmured.
Alex flashed a crooked grin. âYeah, thatâs what they all say.â
Henryâs eyes softenedâbarely, but enough. He closed the trunk with a decisive thud, adjusted the strap of his satchel, and said, âIâll think about it.â
It wasnât yes. But it wasn't a no.
And for Alex, it was enough to keep his pulse thrumming all the way back to the stall, where Nora was already smirking like sheâd won a bet.
Sunday dawned hotter than Saturday, the kind of heat that crawled over bare skin and baked the blacktop until it shimmered. Alex arrived at the market early, hauling crates from the back of his dadâs pickup, Nora at his side with her sunglasses already in place and her iced coffee sweating in her hand.
He set up the stall, tried to ignore the restless energy that kept him glancing up every time a blond head bobbed through the crowd. He joked with Mrs. McIntyre again, haggled with a college kid over peppers, and even flirted with a customer out of sheer stubbornness, but every minute that passed without Henry Fox drifting back into his orbit was another stone in his gut. By noon, the weight of it had settled deep.
âDonât sulk,â Nora said, munching on a cucumber spear. âHeâs probably⌠I donât know. Brooding on a clifftop somewhere, writing sad poetry. Heâll show.â
âOr he wonât,â Alex muttered, swiping sweat from his temple. âWhich is fine. Totally fine. Itâs not like Iâm sitting here like some tragic extra in a rom-com.â
âYouâre exactly like a tragic extra in a rom-com,â Nora said, handing him another cucumber spear as consolation.
He took it, bit down harder than necessary.
And then, just as the market began to thin, a flash of silver caught his eye. A sleek car rolled slowly down the street, the driverâs window sliding open with a low hum.
Henry.
He leaned slightly across the wheel, sunglasses perched neatly on his nose, voice carrying just enough over the market din. âGet in.â
Alex froze, cucumber halfway to his mouth.
âHoly shit,â Nora whispered. âThatâs your cue. Go. Donât trip.â
Alex tossed the cucumber back into the cooler, muttered something incoherent, and jogged toward the curb. The passenger door clicked open, and he slid into the leather seat before his brain could catch up to the rest of him. The aloe from yesterday sat primly in the cupholder, looking smug.
âHi,â Alex said, too loud, too awkward.
Henryâs lips twitched. âHello. I believe you asked me on a date.â
âYeah,â Alex said, pushing his cap back. âDidnât think youâd take me up on it with a kidnapper vibe, though.â
âWould you have preferred a formal invitation?â Henry asked, steering smoothly into traffic. âFlowers, perhaps? A card embossed in gold leaf?â
âIâd have settled for a text,â Alex shot back. âBut I guess a drive-by abduction works, too.â
Henryâs chuckle was low, warm, startling. âI donât text.â
âOf course you donât,â Alex muttered. âProbably still carry around a fountain pen.â
âAs it happens, yes.â Henry merged onto a wide stretch of road, city giving way to open skies. âWhere shall we go, then?â
Alex blinked. âYou donât already have a plan? You look like a guy who always has a plan.â
âI had a plan,â Henry admitted. âIt involved brooding alone. Youâve disrupted it.â
âGlad I could help.â Alex leaned back, the AC blasting his sweat away, his grin settling in. âOkay, first rule of dates with me. No brooding. If I catch you staring pensively out of a window for longer than twenty seconds, I will physically poke you until you stop.â
Henry side-eyed him, one brow arched. âThreats already?â
âNot threats. Promises.â
The day unfolded like a ribbon unspooling.
They stopped first at a taco truck painted in peeling blues and reds, where Alex insisted on ordering for Henry, slapping cash onto the counter before Henry could protest.
âYouâre going to want barbacoa,â Alex said, handing him a paper plate. âTrust me. Life-changing.â
Henry regarded the dripping tortilla with skepticism, then took a bite. His eyes widened just slightly before he schooled his face back into calm. âAcceptable,â he murmured.
âAcceptable?â Alex gaped. âThatâs not acceptable, thatâs divine intervention wrapped in a tortilla.â
âI said acceptable,â Henry repeated, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that Alex caught, triumphant.
From there, Alex dragged him to Zilker Park, sprawling beneath the shade of a pecan tree with iced teas sweating in their hands. They talkedâabout Austinâs skyline, about the stubbornness of mesquite roots, about whether Henry believed in aliens.
âStatistically, there must be life elsewhere,â Henry said, stretched elegantly against the grass. âWhether it resembles little green men, however, I canât say.â
âStatistically, youâre no fun,â Alex shot back, tossing a pecan shell at his arm.
Henry caught it midair, dropped it neatly beside him. âYouâre remarkably rude for someone attempting to charm me.â
âAnd yet,â Alex said, rolling onto his elbow, âyouâre still here.â
Henryâs lips curved faintly. âSo I am.â
By evening, they were strolling through South Congress, neon signs buzzing overhead, music spilling from open doors. Alex narrated every mural they passed, every odd shopfront, every piece of trivia he could dredge up. Henry listened quietly, occasionally asking sharp, precise questions that made Alex feel both seen and dissected.
âWhy do you care so much about this city?â Henry asked as they paused before a wall splashed with color.
âBecause itâs messy,â Alex said simply. âAnd alive. And because itâs mine. You grow up here, you learn how to love things even when theyâre loud and imperfect and in your face all the time. Maybe especially then.â
Henry looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
As night drew down, they ended up back in the car, parked beneath strings of fairy lights strung across an outdoor bar. The windows were down, the summer air heavy with the smell of grilled meat and honeysuckle.
Alex rested his chin on his arm against the window, turning to Henry. âSo. Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how much did I annoy you today?â
Henryâs gaze lingered on him, steady and unhurried. âSeven.â
âSeven?â Alex yelped. âThatâs brutal.â
âIt would have been nine,â Henry said evenly, âbut you bought me tacos.â
Alex broke into laughter, loud and unrestrained, the kind that shook his shoulders. Henryâs mouth twitched, then softened into something dangerously close to a smile.
And in that moment, Alex thought. This wasnât just a yes. This was the beginning of something Henry had never let himself have beforeâand something Alex had no intention of letting slip away.
The carnival had mostly emptied by the time midnight gave way to two in the morning, its once-raucous noise reduced to the sleepy hum of generators and the occasional bark of laughter from stragglers weaving toward the parking lot. A few rides still blinked with tired neonâthe Ferris wheel turning lazily against the sky, its carriages creaking in rhythm.
Alex and Henry had staked their claim hours ago on a peeling red bench near the ring toss, sodas long drained and forgotten at their feet. They had talked their way through everything. Favorite books, cursed ex-roommates, the politics of barbecue sauce. At some point Alex had convinced Henry to try funnel cake, which ended with powdered sugar on Henryâs immaculate shirt and Alex doubled over with laughter.
Now the conversation had slowed into the sort of half-coherent nonsense only possible when exhaustion blurred the edges of time.
âSo technically,â Alex was saying, gesturing animatedly with his hands, âif cowboys had had cell phones, the entire Wild West wouldâve been like one giant group chat. Think about it. One guy says, âBandits spotted,â and then five minutes later someoneâs like, âlol already shot them.â No train robberies, no drama.â
Henryâs eyes glinted in the soft carnival glow. âYes, the tragic demise of the American frontier, undone by emojis.â
âExactly,â Alex said, snapping his fingers, leaning in closer. âImagine Wyatt Earp sending a winky face after a duel. Legendary.â
Henry shook his head slowly, a smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth. His posture had loosened, his long frame slouched against the bench back, knees spread just enough that Alexâs thigh brushed his. It was subtle, accidental at first, but neither of them moved away.
Alex, jittery with sugar and nerves, leaned back too, head tilted to watch the wheel of lights turn above them. âMan, itâs late.â
âEarly,â Henry corrected, voice quiet, almost thoughtful. âNearly morning.â
âSee, thatâs the difference between you and me,â Alex said, eyes slipping shut for a moment. âYouâve got this⌠composed, precise way of looking at the world. I just call it late and complain about being tired.â
âYet you donât seem eager to leave.â
Alex opened one eye, smirked sideways at him. âNeither do you.â
Henryâs lips parted, as if he might deny it, but no words came. Instead he looked at Alexâreally looked, with a depth that made the air between them feel charged. His gaze dropped, lingered for the briefest second on Alexâs mouth, and Alexâs pulse stuttered, traitorous.
The Ferris wheel clanked in the distance, laughter rippled faint from some last stragglerâs joke. Time seemed to fold, pressing the world small and sharp around them.
Then Henry leaned in, almost imperceptibly at first, as if giving Alex the chance to pull away. His breath was warm against Alexâs cheek, carrying the faint scent of sugar and spice from the taco stand earlier.
And then, with the precision of a man who had weighed a thousand risks and chosen only this one, Henry kissed him.
It wasnât hurried, wasnât tentativeâit was steady, deliberate, the press of his lips cool and soft against Alexâs heat. Alex startled, heart ricocheting against his ribs, but then he leaned in too, his hand curling against the bench as if anchoring himself to the earth.
For a moment, everythingâthe neon, the creak of rides, the distant hum of generatorsâfaded into silence.
When Henry finally drew back, just enough to look at him, his voice was barely a whisper. âYou are⌠infuriating.â
Alex grinned, dizzy, breathless. âAnd you like it.â
Henryâs answering silence wasnât denial. It was a truth too dangerous to name, hanging in the air between them like the taste of sugar on their lips.
Alexâs bones felt like theyâd been rewired. Every tendon and nerve sang with the kind of ache that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the hours he had just lived. The carnival lights still clung to his vision like afterimages, Henryâs kiss replaying again and again in the back of his head until it drowned out reason.
By the time Henry steered them back to his townhouse on the quiet edge of Austin, the city was asleep. The streets stretched hushed and empty, porch lights casting cones of gold across clipped lawns. The air had cooled at last, carrying the faint scent of honeysuckle.
They walked the last block together in silence, shoulders brushing now and then, Alex deliberately slowing his step just to draw the moment out. His body was begging for sleep, his spine protesting, but he didnât want to surrender to it. Not tonight.
The townhouse rose out of the dark, neat and unassuming, its porch light burning steady. Henryâs keys jingled softly in his hand as he stepped up to the door. He moved with the same careful precision he always carried, unlocking the bolt as if it were another mission detail.
Alex lingered a few steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying not to stare like a stray dog waiting for scraps. He told himself he should leaveâsay goodnight, walk home, crash face-first into his bed. That was what a reasonable person would do.
But he wasnât reasonable. Not after tonight. Not after the kiss that still scorched the edges of his mouth.
Henry pushed the door open, turned back, and smiledâa small, polite thing, but warmer than any smile Alex had seen from him before. âGoodnight, Alex.â
And then he closed the door.
The soft click of the latch was like a pinprick, deflating something fragile and glowing inside Alexâs chest. He stared at the wood grain, heart stumbling, his throat working as he turned away, forcing one foot to move, then the other.
He had made it only two steps down the walk when the door opened again.
âAlex.â
The voice stopped him cold. He pivoted, and there was Henryâframed in the doorway, hair mussed, shirt collar loosened, something undone in his expression that hadnât been there before.
Before Alex could reply, Henry crossed the threshold, reached out, and caught him by the wrist. The grip was firm but not harsh, fingers burning against Alexâs skin.
And with a tug that brooked no hesitation, Henry pulled him inside.
The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the quiet neighborhood, sealing them in the hush of Henryâs space. The air was different hereâcooler, shadowed, faintly scented with cedar and the crisp linen of freshly laundered sheets.
For a heartbeat, Alex just stood there, chest heaving, pulse in his throat, the world narrowed to the pressure of Henryâs hand still circling his wrist.
Henry let go, but he didnât step back. His gaze lingered, sharp and searching, as if weighing the risk again and again but finding no reason to stop. His voice was low, steady, stripped bare of all the cool distance heâd carried.
âI wasnât ready for you to leave.â
Alex swallowed hard, every thought scattering. âThen donât make me.â
Henryâs breath hitchedâso quiet, so quick, Alex might have missed it if he werenât standing so close. Then Henry closed the remaining space, his hand sliding up Alexâs arm, his mouth finding Alexâs with a certainty that burned away every shred of restraint.
This time there was nothing tentative in it, no polite hesitation. Just heat, urgency, and the crackle of something dangerous and new igniting between them as Alex pressed forward, kissing back like heâd been waiting his whole life for this exact pull.
The townhouse was quiet but alive with their breath, the sharp scrape of shoes being kicked off in the dark, the clumsy urgency of hands tugging at shirts. Henryâs back pressed against the wall just inside the entryway, the faint glow from a streetlamp outside catching the sharp lines of his face, softening them until he looked almost unguarded.
Alex broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against his lips, âTell me what you want.â
Henryâs eyes fluttered shut, his voice steady but low, fragile as glass. âI want⌠to stop pretending. I want you.â
Alexâs throat tightened. He pressed his forehead to Henryâs, his hand cradling the side of his jaw. âYouâre sure? With me?â
Henry nodded once, breath shuddering. âYes. With you.â
It was clumsy and tender all at once as they stumbled toward the bedroom, Alex trailing kisses along Henryâs throat, Henryâs fingers gripping at his shoulders like he might fall if he let go. Clothes hit the floor in uneven intervalsâHenryâs shirt half-buttoned one moment, tossed aside the next; Alexâs belt undone with impatient hands.
On the bed, Alex paused, hovering over him, searching his face. âIâve got you,â he said, voice raw with promise. âBut I need to knowâhow do you want this?â
Henryâs cheeks flushed, his gaze steady even as it flickered with nerves. âYou lead. I want⌠you above me.â
Alexâs grin flickered, fond and fierce all at once. âGood. Because thatâs how I want it too.â
The words broke something open between them. Henry lay back against the sheets, pale skin luminous in the dim light, his chest rising fast as Alex kissed a slow trail down his torso, hands splayed across him like reverence. Every sound Henry madeâa sharp gasp, a bitten-off moanâseemed to echo too loudly in the silence, so he buried his face in the crook of his arm, muffling himself.
âDonât hide from me,â Alex murmured, catching his wrist, threading their fingers together. âI want to hear you.â
Henry let out a strangled laugh that broke into a groan as Alex slid into himâcareful, steady, murmuring soft encouragement. âYouâre okay. Breathe. Just breathe with me.â
It wasnât just sex. It was unspooling, surrender, Henryâs polished composure unraveling with every thrust, every whispered word. Alex moved slow at first, gentle, kissing him through every shiver, then deeper, surer, until Henry was clutching him like heâd drown without the anchor.
âGod, Alex,â Henry gasped, voice cracking on the syllable. âYou make me feelââ His words dissolved into a helpless moan, eyes wide and wet and open in a way Alex had never seen from him.
Alex bent to kiss him, swallowing the sound, whispering against his mouth, âYou donât have to explain. I know. I feel it too.â
The rhythm built, sweat-slick skin sliding, Henry trembling beneath him but not from fearâfrom release, from the heady shock of being utterly himself, no masks, no lies. When he came, it was with Alexâs name on his lips, desperate and raw.
After, Alex stayed pressed against him, their breaths tangled, his hand still cradling Henryâs cheek. âYouâre so goddamn beautiful when you let go,â he whispered, kissing the damp curl of hair at his temple.
Henry let out a weak laugh, burying his face in Alexâs neck, voice muffled and tender. âYouâre insufferable.â
âI like you, too, sweetheart.â
For the first time in years, Henry didnât correct him. He only closed his eyes, clung to him, and let himself believe.
The pale light of dawn crept through the blinds, painting Henryâs bedroom in faint stripes of gold and gray. The air smelled faintly of cedar and sleep, the sheets tangled around Alexâs legs as he blinked awake in a bed that felt far too big, far too quiet for only two people.
Henry was still asleep beside him, sprawled on his side, face softened in rest. His lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly with each slow breath. The careful, deliberate man Alex had met yesterday was gone, replaced by something fragile and real.
Alexâs chest ached.
Careful not to wake him, he reached toward the nightstand, where Henryâs phone lay neatly aligned with his wallet and watch. The screen unlocked easily beneath Henryâs thumbprint when Alex guided his hand, Henry stirring but not waking. Alex smiled guiltily, thumbing quickly through the menus.
He saved his number in Henryâs contacts as simply Alex đľ, shot himself a quick âGood morningâ text so heâd have Henryâs number, andâafter a moment of hesitationâinstalled a small location-sharing app. Nothing obvious, nothing that would buzz or ping. He told himself it wasnât stalking; it was insurance. Henry was a mystery wrapped in silk and shadows, and something in Alexâs gut told him heâd need a way to find him again when he inevitably vanished.
By the time he set the phone back on the nightstand, Henry stirred, eyes fluttering open. They were bleary at first, but when they focused on Alex, something softened.
âYou stayed,â Henry murmured, voice rough with sleep.
âYeah,â Alex whispered, smiling faintly. âDidnât think youâd mind.â
Henryâs hand found his waist, tugging him closer until Alex was folded against his chest. They lay like that for a long time, snuggled into the hush of morning, Alex tracing idle patterns on Henryâs forearm while Henry pressed the slow rhythm of his breath into Alexâs hair.
Eventually, though, Henry pulled back, lips curving wryly. âBreakfast?â
âOnly if you let me cook,â Alex said, sitting up with a grin.
Henry gave him a flat look. âI donât believe youâre capable of boiling water.â
âWow. No faith at all. Watch and learn, your majesty.â
The kitchen smelled of eggs and coffee within minutes, Alex moving with practiced ease as Henry leaned against the counter, watching him with arms folded, expression caught between amusement and disbelief.
âDo you do this often?â Henry asked.
âCook? Yeah. Grew up in a house where if you wanted breakfast, you had to fight for skillet time. June makes pancakes like a god. Dad always tried to sneak extra bacon before Mom caught him. Chaos, but, you know⌠good chaos.â
Henry smiled faintly, though his gaze slipped distant. âSounds⌠nice.â
âIt is,â Alex said softly, setting a plate in front of him.
They ate together at the small kitchen table, the morning stretching slowly around them. Alex wanted to freeze it, to pretend that Henry wasnât still a question mark in human form, that this was just another ordinary Sunday.
But Henry set down his fork with the quiet finality of someone cutting through his own fantasy.
âI canât stay here long.â His voice was calm, measured, as though he had rehearsed the line.
Alex froze, fork halfway to his mouth. ââŚWhat do you mean?â
âMy leave is limited,â Henry said, eyes steady on his plate. âA week at most. Perhaps less. Then I will return to London.â
The words hit like a fist in Alexâs chest. He swallowed, trying to mask the crack in his voice. âSo thatâs it? You show up, steal my heart, and then just⌠disappear across the ocean?â
Henry looked up at him then, and there was something in his eyesâregret, longing, fearâthat made Alexâs heart twist harder.
âI donât want to disappear,â Henry said quietly. âBut my life is not one I can transplant here. It isnât⌠simple.â
Alex forced a laugh, brittle around the edges. âWell, lucky for you, I donât like simple.â
Henryâs lips curved, but it was sad, fleeting. He reached across the table, fingers brushing Alexâs. âAlexâŚâ
Alex gripped his hand tightly, because letting go felt impossible. âIâm not asking for forever. Iâm just asking for now. Donât close the door on this before we even see where it goes.â
Henry didnât answer right away, only held his gaze, the silence heavy with everything unsaid.
And though Alexâs heart already felt bruised, he clung to the touch of Henryâs hand, to the memory of last nightâs laughter, to the stubborn spark that refused to let him believe this was all theyâd get.
Henryâs departure was as quiet as his arrival had been. No grand gestures, no promises etched in stoneâjust a pressed kiss against Alexâs mouth at the threshold, a long look that said more than either dared voice, and then the sleek car pulling away down a sleepy Austin street. The little aloe still sat in his cupholder, straight-backed and stubborn, the only witness to Henry Fox slipping out of Alexâs orbit.
By the time Alex and Nora set up their stall again, the market hummed with its usual rhythmâvendors shouting about peaches, kids tugging at balloon strings, the smell of smoked sausage wafting from the food trucks. But to Alex, the air felt thinner, the colors sharper and harsher all at once, as though the entire place had shifted just slightly off its axis.
Mrs. McIntyre plunked herself into her folding chair across from their stall, purse bulging with change as always. She peered at Alex, her sharp old eyes catching everything.
âYou look different, boy,â she said, narrowing her gaze. âLike someone knocked the sass right out of you.â
Alex arched an eyebrow, hauling up a crate of cucumbers. âPlease. No one can knock the sass out of me. I was born sassy.â
âMhm,â she said, lips twitching. âMore like youâve been kissed silly. Who was it? Some poor girl finally took pity on you?â
Nora snorted so loudly her iced coffee nearly came out her nose.
Alex froze, the crate balanced against his hip, before forcing a grin. âMs. McIntyre, I donât kiss and tell.â
âWell,â she huffed, settling deeper in her chair, âwhoever it was, youâve got that look. Like the world tastes sweeter, but youâre afraid someoneâs going to take it away.â
Alex muttered, âYou should be running a psychic tent,â and dropped the crate with a thud.
When Ms. McIntyre wandered off to scold another vendor for mislabeling their tomatoes, Nora elbowed him. âSheâs not wrong, you know. Youâve been floating since yesterday.â
âIâm not floating,â Alex said, fiddling with the cashbox. âIâm⌠maybe hovering a little. Off the ground. Like an inch.â
âUh-huh. Hovering. Sure.â Nora tipped her sunglasses down, smirked. âYouâre in trouble, Diaz.â
Alex ignored her, but his smile betrayed him.
By midday the sun was brutal, and Alex shoved his cap backward, sighing. âWeâve gotta close up early today.â
âWhat, afraid the heat will melt your newfound glow?â Nora teased.
âNo, smartass,â Alex said, wiping his brow. âThe fence on the north side of the ranch is busted again. Dad told me to fix it before the cattle figured out how to escape to the neighborâs field. Last time, it took us four hours to chase them back.â
âSounds like a personal problem,â Nora said, gathering receipts.
Before Alex could retort, the familiar honk of a car horn cut through the market din. Juneâs battered sedan rolled up to the curb, the window already down. She leaned out, curls bouncing, a grin plastered across her face.
âGet in, loser,â she called. âWeâre mending fences.â
Alex groaned but started hauling crates into the back. Nora hopped up, brushing off her shorts. âShotgun.â
âAbsolutely not,â Alex said, tossing her a cucumber as bribery. âThatâs mine.â
âBite me,â Nora shot back, shoving him playfully before darting ahead.
By the time Alex climbed into the backseat, June was already rolling her eyes. âYou two are exhausting. Mom says hi, by the way. Also, if you die of heatstroke fixing that fence, sheâs not paying for the funeral because she warned you to hydrate.â
âClassic Mom,â Alex muttered, leaning forward between the seats. âIs she still making Dad eat salads?â
âLast night she made him kale lasagna,â June said with a dramatic shudder. âI thought he was going to pass away right there at the table.â
Nora cackled. âYour familyâs a sitcom.â
âDonât encourage them,â June said. âThey already think theyâre Americaâs sweethearts.â
âCorrection,â Alex said, grinning as the car rattled down the road toward the ranch. âIâm Americaâs sweetheart. The rest of you are supporting characters.â
âSupporting characters donât drive your ass to fix fences,â June shot back.
âAnd they definitely donât keep your stall from collapsing when youâre too busy daydreaming about blond men with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass,â Nora added.
Alex swatted the back of her seat, cheeks heating. âShut up.â
But the smile tugging at his mouth wouldnât fade, no matter how hard he tried. Everything was louder nowâthe banter, the sunshine, even the groan of the carâs old engineâand he couldnât help but think that Henry had changed something permanent, even if Alex had no idea whenâor ifâheâd see him again.
The ranch house smelled of mesquite and roasted chicken, the screen door banging shut behind Alex as he trudged in from the fields, sweat-streaked and dusty from mending the fence. The long wooden table in the kitchen was already set, pitchers of sweet tea sweating in the center, cornbread steaming in a basket, and his momâs roasted chicken sitting proudly on a platter.
âWash your hands before you sit, Alexander Gabriel,â Ellen Claremont said without looking up, her voice sharp and warm at once. She was standing at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, already wielding the carving knife like it was a prop for one of her stump speeches.
âYes, Madam President,â Alex muttered, trudging toward the sink.
âYou better listen,â Oscar DĂaz chimed in from where he was pouring iced tea. âThat woman once filibustered a bill for sixteen hours. You think she wonât filibuster dinner until you show up clean?â
June snorted, sliding into a chair with Nora at her side. âDad, filibusters arenât how dinner works.â
âMaybe not in your house,â Oscar said, dropping into his seat with a grin.
Alex returned with damp hands, raking them through his curls before sitting down. âCan we just eat without turning it into political theater?â
âOh, sweetheart, everything is political theater,â Ellen said, passing him the bowl of green beans. âEspecially when your face looks like youâve been caught kissing somebody behind the bleachers.â
Alex nearly choked on air. âWhat?!â
Nora leaned in, smirking wickedly. âTold you.â
Juneâs grin widened. âYeah, Mom, you shouldâve seen him last week at the market. This blond guy shows upââ
Alex groaned. âDonâtââ
âTall, cheekbones like they could file paperwork for him,â Nora cut in. âBuys a cactus, drives a car so sleek it probably has its own butler. And Alex? Alex goes all moony-eyed like a cow staring at a new gate.â
Oscar slapped the table, cackling. âOh my God, weâve got a lovesick cowboy on our hands.â
âDad!â
Ellen raised an eyebrow, her knife poised dramatically mid-carve. âA blond, you say?â
âYes,â June said sweetly, already tearing off a piece of cornbread. âAnd brooding, like some kind of tragic prince.â
âOr spy,â Nora added, shrugging. âThe man gives off serious James Bond vibes. Except prettier.â
âPrettier than Bond?â Oscar gasped. âAlexander, youâve finally raised the family standards.â
Alex dropped his face into his hands. âI hate all of you.â
Ellen leaned on the counter, her tone mock-serious. âIs this blond cactus-buyer the reason youâve been floating around like a balloon someone forgot to tie down?â
âFloating?â Oscar repeated, eyes twinkling. âBoyâs been grinning so wide I thought his face would crack in half.â
Alex groaned louder, muffled by his palms. âCan I just eat in peace?â
âNo,â June, Nora, Ellen, and Oscar chorused together, perfectly timed, the kitchen erupting in laughter.
Ellen finally relented enough to set the knife down and sink into her chair, though her gaze softened when she looked at him. âYou know we only tease because weâre glad. You deserve to look that happy, Alex. You deserve someone who makes you forget how to brood.â
Oscar reached over, clapping a hand to his sonâs shoulder. âAnd when this guy breaks your heart, weâll go full Texas and egg his car.â
âDamn right,â Ellen said, raising her glass of iced tea. âFamily solidarity.â
June lifted her cornbread. âTo the blond cactus guy!â
Nora followed suit. âMay his cheekbones never dull.â
The table rang with laughter as Alex groaned into his mashed potatoes, but the truth was, beneath all his protests, warmth spread through his chest like sunlight. Teasing or not, they were his familyâand they had always made space for all of him, even the parts he was only just learning to share.
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Dinner had reached that glorious lull where plates were half-cleared, everyone leaning back in their chairs, sweet tea glasses sweating rings onto the wood. Alex sat slumped, fork twirling absent-mindedly through the last of his mashed potatoes, and finally let the words slip out that had been pressing against his ribs all afternoon.
âHeâs gone,â he muttered, staring down at his plate.
The table fell quiet for a beat, the usual racket paused like someone had hit a remote. Ellen set down her napkin slowly, her sharp eyes narrowing in on her son. âGone where?â
âLondon,â Alex said, picking at his food. âSaid his leave was up. Heâs⌠back there now.â
Oscar let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. âSo thatâs it, huh? Just rides off into the sunset like some Bond villain with better hair?â
June winced sympathetically, her chin in her hand. âThat sucks, little brother.â
âYeah,â Nora added, softer now, setting her fork down. âYou looked so alive with him. Like youâd just⌠lit up.â
Alex shrugged, forcing a laugh that didnât quite land. âYeah, well. Thatâs my luck. Meet a guy, turns out heâs got one foot out the door. Or in this case, on a different continent.â
Ellen reached over, squeezing his hand. âHoney, thatâs not bad luck. Thatâs life. Sometimes the timingâs wrong. Doesnât mean it wasnât real.â
Alex exhaled, shoulders heavy. âI know where he is exactly, though.â
The room stilled again. Juneâs eyes narrowed, suspicious. âWhat do you mean, you know where he is exactly?â
Alex hesitated, then blurted, âI⌠may have installed a tracker app on his phone.â
The silence shattered instantly into chaos.
âYou WHAT?!â June screeched, already grabbing for the nearest tomato from the bowl in the center of the table. She lobbed it across the table with deadly aim. It splattered square against Alexâs forehead, red juice dripping down his temple as everyone erupted.
âJesus Christ!â Alex yelped, swiping at the mess with his napkin.
Nora was doubled over in her chair, wheezing with laughter. âOh my God, you psycho! You hacked his phone?!â
Ellen pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath. âI raise him with values, compassion, and respect, and he grows up to commit cyber-stalking.â
Oscar, meanwhile, was laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. âBoy, you donât plant a tracker on someone youâre dating! Thatâs not romance, thatâs espionage!â
Alex threw his arms out defensively. âItâs not stalking! I wasnât gonna use it unlessâunless something happened, okay? Heâs⌠heâs different. Heâs got this whole secretive vibe, like thereâs more going on than he says. I just⌠wanted to make sure I could find him if I needed to.â
âAlex,â June said flatly, wiping tomato juice off her hand. âThatâs what people on true crime podcasts say right before theyâre arrested.â
Ellen gave him a look that could freeze rivers. âAlexander Gabriel Claremont-DĂaz, you delete that app right now.â
Nora, still laughing, leaned over to June. âBet you ten bucks he doesnât delete it.â
âIâll raise you twenty,â June muttered.
Oscar pointed a fork at his son, trying to look stern but failing through his grin. âIf youâre gonna stalk a man across international borders, at least admit youâre smitten. That way itâs romantic comedy material instead of felony material.â
âIâm not stalking!â Alex shouted again, though his cheeks flamed red.
âSure, honey,â Ellen said dryly, pouring herself more tea. âTell it to Interpol.â
The kitchen roared with laughter again, Alex groaning into his hands, tomato pulp still clinging to his hairline. The Claremont-DĂaz home had always been loud, loving, impossibleâbut now, with Henryâs absence humming through the air, it felt exactly like a sitcom. Messy, ridiculous, and just enough to keep Alexâs heart from splintering.
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The night settled deep around the ranch, cicadas buzzing outside the screen door while the family lingered in the kitchen, the laughter from dinner finally tapering into a hum of clinking dishes and half-drunk glasses of tea. Alex sat hunched over his phone at the table, thumb hovering over the app he had no business opening. The little red dot pulsed in the middle of London, steady and undeniable, like a heartbeat on a screen.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. âFine,â he muttered to himself, pressing the delete option. The app vanished with a blink, leaving behind only a hollow ache in his chest. Henry had said London, and the dot had proven him right. Henry was thousands of miles away now, an ocean between them, the memory of his kiss already stretching thin like thread.
Oscar wandered back into the kitchen just in time to see Alex drop the phone onto the table. âSo, whatâs the verdict? Our blond Bond wannabe is really back in Jolly Old England?â
Alex dragged a hand through his hair. âYeah. London. Thatâs where he is.â
Oscar leaned against the counter, crossing his arms with a grin that spelled trouble. âSo why donât you go after him?â
Alex snapped his head up, incredulous. âWhat?â
âYou heard me,â Oscar said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. âGet on a plane, show up at his door, sweep him off his feet. Isnât that what they do in the movies?â
June perked up instantly, eyes gleaming. âOh my God. Dadâs right. You should totally follow him.â
Nora nearly choked on her iced tea. âYes! Yes, exactly. Imagine the drama of it allâjetting off across the Atlantic, finding him in some fog-drenched alley. Itâs cinematic.â
Alexâs mouth dropped open. âYouâre all insane. Thatâs notâpeople donât just fly across the ocean for some guy theyâve known for, like, two days.â
âYou would,â June said smugly, resting her chin in her palm.
âYou want to,â Nora added, pointing a finger at him.
And then Ellen, who had been quiet, set her fork down with the calm finality of a judgeâs gavel. âHonestly, Alex, I donât hate the idea.â
Alex gaped at her. âMom!â
She shrugged, pouring herself a little more tea. âWhat? He made you happy. Happier than Iâve seen you in a long time. If you feel that strongly about him, maybe itâs worth the risk. Maybe itâs worth one ridiculous plane ticket.â
Oscar clapped his hands together like the idea had already won. âSee? Consensus! Pack a bag, son. The Claremont-DĂaz family is officially sanctioning a cross-continental romantic chase.â
June and Nora exchanged a high-five, already buzzing with schemes.
Alex slumped back in his chair, burying his face in his hands. âThis is literally deranged. Youâre all enabling me.â
But his heart betrayed him. It was pounding, wild and eager, so loud it drowned out reason. Every nerve in his body screamed that maybe, just maybe, this was the momentâthe one chance heâd ever get to prove to Henry, to himself, that what theyâd started wasnât a fluke.
He lifted his head slowly, meeting the expectant eyes of his family. âYou really think I should go?â
Ellen smiled faintly, the sharp edges of her politicianâs armor softening. âI think once-in-a-lifetime opportunities donât knock twice. And I think you already know what you want.â
Alex swallowed hard, pulse racing. His family was insane. Entirely, gloriously insane. And maybe so was he. But the thought of Henryâs guarded smile, his careful voice, his lips soft and sure in the darkâit made Alex feel like for once, insanity might be the only sane choice.
The plane touched down under a low gray sky, London spread beneath Alex like a damp wool blanket stitched with lights. The flight had been sleeplessâhis nerves kept him bouncing between overthinking and half-formed fantasies of Henryâs face when he saw him again. By the time he stumbled off the Heathrow express and into the city proper, the clock was edging toward 7 p.m., the streets awash in the glow of streetlamps just beginning to blink awake.
The last time heâd checked the trackerâbefore heâd deleted it, before June had beaned him with a tomatoâHenryâs dot had hovered over a place called The Grafton Meridian Hotel. Grand and discreet, the kind of place that looked like it had been hosting diplomats and spies for decades. Alex found himself standing across the street from its broad stone façade now, neon TAXI signs reflecting in its polished brass doors.
He pulled out his phone, thumb hesitating over Henryâs contact: Henry đľ.
Hey, he typed, deleting it instantly. Too casual.
Iâm in London, he tried next. At your hotel. He deleted that too, horrified.
He scrubbed a hand through his curls, muttering under his breath. âJesus Christ, Alex, youâre about to look like a stalker. Again.â
Finally, he typed: I know this is crazy. But I couldnât just let you disappear. Iâm outside The Grafton Meridian if you want to see me. If not⌠Iâll go.
He hovered over send, heart rattling like a tin roof in a storm.
That was when he felt itâthe prickling on the back of his neck.
From the corner of his eye, three men peeled away from the shadows at the mouth of the alley across the street. Big, heavy coats, the kind that hid a lot. Their strides were deliberate, converging.
Alexâs pulse spiked. He turned, phone still in his hand, and saw another three behind him, stepping out from the dim alcove heâd ducked into to text. Six men in total, boxing him in.
âOh, shit,â he muttered under his breath.
His first wild thought was. Are these hotel security guys about to throw me out for loitering?
But the way they movedâsilent, coordinated, their eyes glinting cold in the lamplightâtold him this wasnât some hospitality welcome party.
Alexâs fingers tightened around his phone. He swallowed, forcing a shaky grin. âUh⌠good evening, gentlemen. You all lost, or is there some kind of group discount on trench coats I didnât hear about?â
The tallest of them, a bald man with a jagged scar cutting across his cheek, stepped forward. His accent was Eastern European, low and guttural. âYou are American.â
Alexâs stomach dropped. âYeah. Congratulations, Sherlock. What gave it away, the accent or the bad posture?â
The man didnât laugh. None of them did.
The circle closed tighter, and Alexâs back hit the cold stone. His phone buzzed in his handâHenry, maybe?âbut he couldnât look, not now.
âShit, shit, shit,â Alex whispered, eyes darting. Heâd come to London to find Henry, not to get himself mugged or worse in the shadow of some swanky hotel.His heart thundered, one thought screaming louder than the rest. Henry, if youâre out there, I really need you right now.
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The world tilted from absurd to terrifying with brutal speed.
The six men moved in sync, like theyâd done this a hundred times before. Alex tried to twist away, but a hand like iron clamped on his arm, another slammed against his back, and suddenly he was being dragged down the side street, boots scraping over the uneven stones. His phone clattered to the ground, screen shattering, the message to Henry unsent.
âHeyâwhat the hellââ he gasped, but his words were drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears and the thick cloth bag yanked over his head.
Darkness, muffled sounds, the hot press of rough fabric against his mouth. He was shoved into the back of a van, wrists cinched painfully tight with zip ties. His chest heaved, panic clawing up his throat. Jesus Christ, what the fuck did I just get myself into?
The drive was short and silent, punctuated only by the low murmur of foreign voices. When the van finally screeched to a halt, he was hauled out, stumbling on unsteady legs, the sack yanked away from his head.
A dim warehouse swallowed himâsteel beams overhead, concrete floor slick with oil stains, the air pungent with rust. He was shoved into a chair, zip ties cutting deeper into his skin as two of the men loomed nearby, their expressions hard and empty.
The scarred man who had spoken earlier leaned down, his breath hot and foul. âDidnât expect The Taxman to be American.â
Alexâs heart lurched. âThe what now?â
Another man barked a laugh. âThe Taxman. The one who makes all the smugglers pay their dues. The ghost who cleans up messes for governments too cowardly to admit the blood.â His gaze swept Alex, slow and assessing. âWho would have thought? Loud. Clumsy. A cowboy in disguise.â
âThis is insane,â Alex said, fighting against the ties, wrists burning. âI donât know what youâre talking about! I sell vegetables for Christâs sake!â
They didnât believe him. He could see it in their eyesâthey were convinced, their story already written.
A heavy metal door screeched open across the warehouse, and the men stiffened. Footsteps echoed, deliberate, expensive shoes against concrete.
The boss had arrived.
He was sharp in a tailored suit that didnât belong in this place, his hair slicked back with ruthless precision, his gaze like a scalpel. He approached slowly, studying Alex as though he were a specimen under glass.
âSo,â the boss said, voice smooth, accented faintly French. âThe infamous Taxman. At last.â
âIâm notââ Alex began, but a fist cracked against his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared, copper flooding his mouth.
âSave your lies,â the boss continued coolly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. âYouâve meddled in too many of my transactions. The Algerian shipment. The raid in Marrakesh. The leak in Hamburg. Always one step ahead.â
Alex spat blood onto the floor, coughing. âYouâve got the wrong guy! I donât even have a passport until yesterday!â
The boss crouched in front of him, face close enough that Alex could see the faint sheen of cologne on his skin. âIf you are not The Taxman, then tell meâwho do you work for? CIA? MI6? Mossad?â
âI work for my parentsâ farm,â Alex snapped, desperation clawing at his throat. âI fix fences and sell tomatoes and sometimes flirt with strangers at farmersâ markets, okay? Thatâs it!â
The men around him exchanged looks, some scoffing, some frowning in uncertainty.
The bossâs eyes narrowed, a glimmer of doubt flickering. But then his smile sharpened. âVery well. If you will not speak truth, we will make you.â
He nodded to the guards. A bucket of water was dragged into view, its surface dark and rippling under the dim light.
Alexâs stomach dropped.
He had crossed an ocean for love, and now he was zip-tied to a chair in a London warehouse, about to be tortured for secrets he didnât have.
So much for cross-Atlantic romantic gestures.His heart slammed against his ribs, one thought pounding louder than fear. Who the hell is The TaxmanâŚ
Alex lost track of time under the warehouse lights. Minutes, maybe hoursâeverything blurred into a haze of pain and fear. His jaw throbbed from the repeated slaps the boss delivered whenever he didnât like Alexâs answer. His head ached, a dull, pounding drumbeat behind his eyes, every question ricocheting against his skull.
âWho do you work for?â âNobody!â
âWhere is the intel from Hamburg?â âI donât know what the hell Hamburg isâbesides, like, sandwich meat!â
The guards laughed darkly at his sarcasm, but the boss did not. Another backhand. The metallic tang of blood pooled in Alexâs mouth. His shoulders burned where the zip ties cut into him, plastic biting deeper every time he shifted in the chair.
And always, the same refrain. The Taxman, The Taxman, The Taxman. Whoever this phantom was, Alex had become his mistaken double, and that identity could very well get him killed.
Then the world cracked.
An explosion thundered through the far end of the warehouse, a bloom of fire painting the steel beams orange. The concussion rattled the chair, dust raining from the rafters. Guards shouted in confusion, weapons raised, scattering toward the source.
Alex jolted in his bindings, heart surging in his throat. What the hellâ?
Gunfire erupted, sharp and deafening. The warehouse filled with smoke and chaos. Shouts in three different languages, the bark of orders, the heavy clank clank of boots against concrete. Shadows darted through the haze, too fast to track.
Thenâout of nowhereâa figure dropped to one knee in front of him. Tactical black gear from head to toe, mask obscuring all but the eyes. Gloved hands worked quickly at the zip ties, a combat knife slicing through the plastic with practiced precision.
Alex blinked up at him through the smoke, dazed, his pulse hammering. And then he saw them. The eyes.
Pale, clear, sharp as ice cutting through the haze. Eyes he had memorized under carnival lights, eyes that had looked at him like he was the only real thing in a world of masks.
Alex froze, breath catching. âHenryâŚ?â
The figure didnât answer, but the flicker in his gaze was enough. Recognition.
The ties fell away, Alexâs wrists burning as blood surged back into his hands. He sagged forward, and the masked man caught him, steadying him with a hand against his shoulder.
âStay close,â Henryâs voice rasped, low, barely audible through the distortion of the mask.
It was him.
The explosion, the raid, the precisionâit all snapped into place with a dizzying clarity. The Taxman.
Alexâs stomach dropped. The man the guards feared, the ghost who haunted black markets, the operative whispered about in shadowsâHenry wasnât just a brooding stranger with a cactus and a killer smile. He was The Taxman.
And Alex, a lovesick idiot from Texas, had just stumbled into the middle of his secret war.
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Smoke rolled out of the ragged hole blown into the warehouse wall, choking and acrid. Henry hauled Alex forward with a firm grip at his elbow, scanning every corner, every shadow, his rifle raised and ready. The tactical gear turned him into a different creature entirelyâsilent, precise, a weapon honed to terrifying sharpness.
Alex stumbled behind him, dazed, body aching, but when he glanced back and saw his duffel bag abandoned on the concrete floor, instinct kicked in. âWait!â
Henry snapped his head around, voice sharp through the mask. âWhat are you doing?â
âMy bag,â Alex said, darting sideways and dragging the scuffed luggage upright. âDo you know how much shit I stuffed in here? You think Iâm leaving my only clean underwear in a terrorist warehouse?!â
âAlexââ Henryâs voice was tight with disbelief, but he swallowed it and turned, firing a burst into the shadows where a guard tried to regroup. The man dropped, and Henry gestured frantically. âFine. Bring it. Just stay behind me.â
So Alex staggered forward, dragging his luggage wheels clattering over broken concrete, absurdly out of place in the chaos. He thought he saw Henryâs shoulders twitchâwhether with irritation or a barely contained laugh, he couldnât tell.
They burst out into the night air. Cool damp wind slapped Alexâs face, welcome after the choking dust. The London skyline shimmered faintly beyond the river, serene and uncaring, as though the city itself had no clue heâd just been interrogated under threat of death.
Henry pushed him against the shelter of a brick wall, sweeping the alley with his rifle one last time. When he was satisfied, he yanked off the mask, tossing it aside. His face, flushed with exertion, hair damp with sweat, was every bit the Henry Alex knewâexcept sharper, harder, his eyes still burning with adrenaline.
Alex gaped at him, chest heaving. The words tumbled out in a rush, ragged with disbelief and exhaustion.
âOkay. Okay, no. Weâre not skipping past this. Who the hell are you, Henry Fox? Because last time I checked, you were the tragic pretty boy who bought a cactus at my stall. And nowââ He flung a hand toward the smoldering warehouse. âNow youâre Jason Bourneâs scarier cousin?â
Henryâs jaw tightened. âIt isnât safe here. We need to move.â
âNo!â Alex barked, planting his feet, luggage dragging at his side like a stubborn child. âIâve been kidnapped, interrogated, slapped around, and almost drowned, and now youâre playing military cosplay like itâs no big deal. I deserve some answers.â
Henry exhaled slowly, the weight of years hanging on the sound. He slung the rifle across his back, finally meeting Alexâs eyes. âMy name is Henry Fox. To most people, Iâm no one. But to the people who matterâthe people you just met in thereâIâm The Taxman.â
Alexâs mouth fell open. âThe Taxman,â he repeated, the word tasting surreal. âThatâs what they kept calling me. They thought I was you.â
Henry nodded once. His gaze flicked over Alex, lingering on the bruises already blooming along his jaw. His voice dropped, thick with regret. âAnd for that, you almost died.â
Alexâs stomach turned, his pulse wild. âSo you⌠youâre a spy. Like an actual, real-life, movie-level spy.â
Henryâs mouth twitched faintly, a humorless smile. âSomething like that.â
Alex dragged a hand down his face, groaning. âOh my God. I crossed an ocean for a date, and it turns out my crush is basically a government boogeyman.â
Henryâs eyes softened, despite the chaos still humming around them. âAlexâŚâ
âNope,â Alex cut him off, shaking his head. âYouâre explaining this. All of it. Because right now, my choices are either fainting in the street or demanding answers, and I donât faint.â
For the first time all night, Henry almost smiled. âThen youâd better keep up,â he said, stepping back toward the shadows. âBecause the people inside wonât stop hunting you until they realize youâre not me. And that means, whether you like it or not, youâre part of this now.â
Alexâs heart thundered. âOh, fantastic. A one-way ticket to spy hell. Thanks, Henry.â
But even as he grumbled, his feet moved after him, luggage wheels clattering on the cobblestonesâbecause whatever Henry Fox was, Alex couldnât bring himself to walk away. Not now.
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The warehouse was still belching smoke when Henry shoved Alex into the waiting sedan, slammed the door, and vaulted behind the wheel. The car roared to life, tires screaming on wet pavement. Alex yelped, clutching his duffel to his chest like it was a shield, his pulse rattling his ribs.
âDo all your first dates end with a kidnapping and an explosion?â he shouted over the growl of the engine as Henry swerved around a black van bearing down on them.
Henry didnât glance at him. His jaw was set, profile sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps. âI told you to stay in Texas.â
Alexâs laugh was half-hysterical. âYeah, well, I donât like simple.â
The car shot into a side street, narrowly missing a delivery truck. Alexâs head slammed back into the seat, and he groaned. âJesus, Mary, and brisketâdo you drive like this on errands too?â
Henryâs knuckles flexed on the wheel. âHold on.â
They flew through Londonâs veins like a bullet, and Alex realized two things. One, his life had been hijacked by a man who was clearly not who he said he was; and two, he had never been more alive.
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They ditched the sedan in an underground car park, Henry switching plates with the calm of a man folding laundry. Then, without ceremony, they walked straight into the bustle of St. Pancras station. Alex trailed, clutching his duffel, eyes darting everywhereâvendors hawking snacks, commuters pulling roller bags, the departures board glowing with destinations.
Henry strode ahead with brisk purpose, a forged passport in his hand. Alex jogged to catch up.
âAre we seriously just hopping on a train like weâre going on vacation?â
Henryâs reply was curt. âParis. Weâll regroup there.â
Alex grumbled, but when the Eurostar rocketed into darkness beneath the Channel, he couldnât help the nervous laugh that bubbled up. He turned to Henry, who was silently reviewing something on a secure tablet.
âSo let me get this straight,â Alex whispered. âThe bad guys think Iâm you. Me. Farmer Alex from Texas. And apparently Iâm this mythical spy everyone whispers about, scary enough to make smugglers soil their pants.â
Henry didnât look up. âCorrect.â
Alex dropped back in his seat, throwing his hands wide. âFantastic. Barely got my passport stamped and now I'm an International Man of Mystery. Next thing you know, Iâll be starring in my own Netflix series.â
Henryâs mouth twitched, but he kept his eyes on the screen.
Alex smirked, leaning closer. âAdmit itâyou find me entertaining.â
âI find you loud,â Henry murmured. But there was warmth in the words.
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Morning broke over Paris with a blaze of sun on stone. The MarchĂŠ dâAligre was a chaos of colors and soundsâshouts of vendors, towers of oranges, crates of fish still glistening from the river. Henry walked with clinical awareness, Alex at his elbow trying not to gape like a tourist.
âYou could at least let me get a croissant,â Alex muttered.
âWeâre here for a contact,â Henry replied, scanning faces. âNot breakfast.â
But the contact never arrived. Instead, a hail of bullets ripped through the market. Stalls toppled, fruit splattering underfoot as tourists screamed and scattered. Alex dove behind a cart of peppers, his duffel clutched like a life preserver.
âAre you kidding me?!â he shouted as Henry returned fire with terrifying calm.
âStay down!â Henry barked.
âNot exactly an option!â Alex yelped, eyes wide as a mercenary lunged. His hands scrabbled for anythingâand landed on a baguette. With a yell, he swung it like a baseball bat, smacking the man across the head. The merc collapsed, dazed.
Henry turned, eyes wide for a flicker of a moment. âImpressive improvisation.â
âImprovise this!â Alex yelled, hurling the baguette across the alley at another merc. It bounced harmlessly, but his grin was feral.
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They drove through the night, snow-tipped peaks rising into the clouds. By dawn, they reached a lonely chalet clinging to a mountain slope. Inside, the fire snapped, casting warm light over rustic wood beams.
Alex sat on the sofa, a bruise blooming on his cheek, while Henry knelt with a first-aid kit. He dabbed antiseptic on Alexâs split lip with maddening precision.
âYou couldâve told me,â Alex hissed. âInstead, you let me walk straight into this like a goddamn idiot.â
Henryâs eyes flicked up, cool. âIf youâd known, youâd never have come near me.â
âExactly!â Alex snapped, then faltered, voice cracking. âAnd maybe I wouldnât have kissed you.â
The fire crackled. Henry froze, his hand hovering midair. For one dangerous second, the walls around him slippedâthe hardened mask gave way, eyes raw with want and fear.
But then he turned back to the kit, shoulders rigid. âGet some sleep. We leave at dawn.â
Alex stared at him, heart pounding. He wanted to scream, to kiss him again, to demand everything. Instead, he bit his tongue and let the silence thicken like snow outside.
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By the time they reached Barcelona, the chase had grown bloodier. Word spread fast. The Taxman is on the move, with a partner. Rival assassins descended like vultures.
In a neon-lit plaza, Henry shoved Alex behind a stone column as three killers advancedâone with a bouquet of knives strapped across his chest, another tossing grenades like candy, the last carrying a gleaming saber.
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â Alex groaned. âDid I just stumble into Mortal Kombat?â
The assassins, absurdly, began arguing mid-fight.
âIâll take him!â Knife Guy snapped. âPlease, you couldnât cut butter,â Grenade Guy sneered. âYou two are amateurs,â Saber Guy purred.
âDo assassins always argue like divas, or is this just Spain?â Alex yelled over the chaos.
Henry ducked a knife, cool as ever. âThis is tame compared to Istanbul.â
Alexâs eyes bulged. âExcuse me?!â
But there was no time for answersâonly running, dodging, surviving, Alex clutching Henryâs sleeve as explosions tore up the cobblestones.
The Marrakesh night was alive, stitched together from color and sound. The call to prayer echoing from minarets, the hum of scooters weaving through alleys, the kaleidoscope blaze of spices and silks hanging from the souks. Lantern light bathed everything in molten gold, and the air was thick with smoke from grilled lamb skewers, cinnamon, and diesel fumes.
Alex trailed Henry through the labyrinthine streets, duffel slung over his shoulder, eyes darting everywhere. He felt like he was walking inside a fever dreamâa thousand voices, a thousand scents, and Henry cutting through it all like a blade, every step purposeful.
âDo you always drag your boyfriends to tourist death traps?â Alex muttered, sidestepping a cart loaded with saffron.
Henry shot him a look, dry as sand. âThis isnât sightseeing. Itâs survival. And youâre not myââ
âSpare me,â Alex cut him off, smirking. âWeâve literally kissed under carnival lights and slept in the same bed. Labels are just paperwork.â
Henryâs lips pressed into a line, but his ears turned faintly pink. Alex caught it and grinned wider, despite the tension humming in his chest.
At the edge of the market square, Henry stopped at a shadowed cafĂŠ tucked behind a stall selling pomegranates. A man sat alone at a table beneath the awning, a pot of mint tea steaming between him and the empty chair across from him.
He was striking. Tall, broad-shouldered, his skin the warm bronze of desert sun, a pale scar cutting diagonally across one eye that only seemed to make his gaze sharper. His hair was black, cropped short, and his white linen shirt looked effortless, like it belonged more on a magazine cover than in a backstreet cafĂŠ.
âIdris,â Henry said as they approached, his voice steady, formal.
âHenry Fox,â the man replied, his deep baritone curling into amusement. He stood, clasping Henryâs hand with a firm grip, then leaned in, brushing their cheeks together in greeting. When he pulled back, his scar caught the lamplight like a silver stroke. âAlways a pleasure.â
Alex, hovering behind, shifted awkwardly until Henry gestured to him. âThis is Alex Claremont-DĂaz. Heâs⌠with me.â
âAh,â Idris said, turning his gaze onto Alex. His smile broadened, warm and easy. âSo this is the American causing whispers already.â
âUh, hi,â Alex said, extending his hand. âNice to meet someone who doesnât want to waterboard me.â
Idris barked a laugh, taking his hand in a firm shake. âRefreshingly honest. I like him.â He motioned for them to sit. âCome. Drink. The tea is hot, the air is warm, and my friends are already complaining that I never introduce them to anyone interesting.â
They settled in, tea poured into delicate glasses, the taste sweet and sharp with mint. Idris spoke with the kind of charisma that filled the space around him. Witty, quick, his stories tumbling out like well-polished stones. He asked Alex questions about Texas, about farms, about the ridiculousness of farmersâ markets compared to Moroccan souks. Alex bantered back easily, relieved by the manâs openness, watching Henry sip quietly as though immune to the charm.
Then, casually, Idris leaned back, his gaze sliding to Henry. âDo you remember Istanbul?â he asked, lips quirking.
Henryâs expression didnât flicker, but Alex caught the faint tightening of his grip on the glass.
âOh, Istanbul,â Idris went on, his tone rich with innuendo. âThe rooftop, the rain, the trouble we made. You still owe me new boots, Fox. You never paid for the damage.â
Alex blinked, then choked on his tea, coughing into his fist. âOh my God,â he wheezed, laughing despite himself. âAre you seriouslyâ? Is this you two having some weird sexy spy banter right in front of me?â
Idrisâs grin widened, unbothered. âWe shared a⌠memorable evening. That is all Iâll say.â
Henryâs jaw clenched, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. âIdris.â
But Alex was still laughing, leaning back in his chair. âYou know what? Fine. Whatever. My boyfriendââ
Henry made a strangled noise. âAlex.â
ââmy not-boyfriend-but-definitely-more-than-a-fling has an international past. Great. Fabulous. Istanbul, huh? Guess Texas really isnât exotic enough for you.â He grinned crookedly, shaking his head. âI knew you were mysterious, but I didnât think it came with a travel brochure.â
Idris chuckled, raising his glass in a toast. âI like him,â he said again, eyes glittering. âYou should keep this one, Henry. He doesnât frighten easily.â
Henry downed the rest of his tea in silence, his ears burning crimson under the cafĂŠâs dim lanterns, while Alex laughed into his sleeve, the absurdity of it all washing over him.
He was in Marrakesh, drinking mint tea with a gorgeous scarred spy, his maybe-boyfriend bristling beside himâand somehow, it felt like the most normal thing in the world.
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The night in Marrakesh burned with lantern light and the low hum of music spilling from doorways, but Henry had already pulled Alex into the back of a battered jeep, its engine coughing like an old smoker. Idris had clapped Henry on the shoulder one last time, wished him luck, and disappeared into the crowd with the kind of casual swagger only a man who feared nothing could manage.
The jeep jolted into motion, weaving through the tangle of souks, Alex gripping the rusted door handle for dear life. His laughter was still echoing in his chestâhalf from Idrisâs shameless innuendo, half from the absurdity of still being alive.
âJesus,â Alex said, bouncing on the cracked seat, âyour friends are even scarier than you. And apparently better storytellers, too. Istanbul? Really? Iâm never letting that go.â
Henryâs grip on the wheel tightened. âYou shouldnât have been there.â
âYou mean Marrakesh or Istanbul?â Alex teased.
âBoth,â Henry said flatly, though the faintest twitch at his mouth betrayed him.
The desert unspooled around them as they left the city, dunes glowing silver under moonlight. The wind lashed Alexâs hair into his face, the night air carrying scents of dust and smoke. He was exhilarated and exhausted in equal measure, adrenaline still sizzling through his veins.
Henry pulled a phone from his jacket, a secure satellite line blinking to life. He spoke rapidly in clipped tones. âPez. I need you to throw smoke. Feed half the agencies false intel, scatter the others on decoys, and burn the Marrakesh files entirely. Make sure our friends from Hamburg see it.â
The voice on the other end was smooth, velveted with amusement. âDarling Henry, you sound positively stressed. Are you certain you donât want me to send flowers instead?â
âPez.â Henryâs tone sharpened.
âOh, fine,â Pez sighed dramatically. âIâll salt the earth behind you. But I expect stories when you return. And perhaps an introduction to this mysterious American who keeps tripping over your secrets?â
Henry ended the call with a flick of his thumb, exhaling like heâd been holding his breath for hours.
Alex raised an eyebrow. âThat your partner in crime?â
Henry glanced at him, voice even. âIn a manner of speaking.â
âSounds like a riot,â Alex said, leaning back, watching Henryâs profile in the dim glow of the dashboard. âI like him already. He called you darling.â
Henry didnât respond, eyes fixed on the ribbon of road.
They drove until dawn bled pink across the horizon, until the jeepâs engine wheezed and finally gave out on a strip of rocky coastline. The sea stretched wide and endless, waves slapping against dark volcanic rock. Henry coaxed the engine twice more, then stepped out with calm acceptance.
âStranded,â Alex said, climbing out after him. âPerfect. Just what I dreamed of when I booked a ticket to London.â
âWeâll call for exfiltration once the dust settles,â Henry said. âFor now, this is safer.â
The island was sparse, dotted with scrub and twisted trees, the air sharp with salt. They made a small camp along the cliffs, Henryâs practiced hands building a fire while Alex sat cross-legged, hugging his knees.
For the first time in days, there was silence. No gunfire, no sirens, no shouting assassins. Just waves and wind, the fire crackling low.
Alex finally said, âYou know, I thought chasing you across the ocean was the stupidest thing Iâd ever done. Turns out I was wrong. The stupidest thing is still sitting here, trying to make sense of you.â
Henry didnât look up from the fire. âThereâs nothing to make sense of.â
âBullshit.â Alexâs voice cracked with the force of it. âYouâre Henry Fox. Youâre also The Taxman. Youâre also the guy who bought a cactus from me because he wanted something alive he couldnât kill. Youâre all of those things, and I canât figure out how you live with it.â
Henryâs eyes lifted, pale and raw in the firelight. âI donât live with it. I survive it.â
Alexâs chest ached. He shifted closer, their knees brushing. âMaybe you donât have to, though. Not alone.â
For a long moment, Henry just stared, his breath shallow, the wind tugging his hair into his eyes. Then, with a slowness that felt like surrender, he said, âYou terrify me.â
Alex huffed a laugh, shaky. âYeah, I get that a lot.â
Henry leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Alexâs, voice barely a whisper. âYou make me want things Iâve spent my whole life denying myself.â
Alexâs hand slid up to Henryâs jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble. âThen stop denying them.â
The kiss was different this timeânot frantic, not born of danger. It was deliberate, tender, Henryâs lips soft against Alexâs, the fire snapping quietly beside them. For the first time, Henry wasnât The Taxman. He wasnât a ghost or a weapon. He was just Henry.
And Alex, reckless and earnest and impossibly alive, kissed him like he was finally home.
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The island held them for two daysâtwo days of fragile quiet stitched together from driftwood fires, salt spray, and stolen touches. Alex teased Henry about being a terrible fisherman, Henry scolded Alex for trying to climb the cliffs barefoot, and in between, the tension that had stalked them since Texas softened into something almost domestic.
But peace, Henry knew, never lasted.
On the second night, as the fire sank into embers, the low crackle of the satellite phone broke the silence. Pezâs voice came through, sharp and urgent.
âTheyâre regrouping in London, Henry. The boss you flushed in Marrakesh wants to auction the bioweapon on neutral ground. Theyâre calling it The Party. Yacht on the Thames, forty-eight hours. If you want to end this, it has to be there.â
Henryâs jaw clenched. âSend coordinates.â
When the line clicked dead, Alex sat up, brushing sand from his palms. âA yacht party? Bioweapon auction? Thatâs not even subtle. Can we please acknowledge that your job sounds like a shitty James Bond fanfic?â
Henryâs eyes softened despite himself. âAnd yet here you are. Still in it.â
Alexâs grin faltered. âYeah. Because I canât leave you in it alone.â
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The Grafton Meridianâs glittering lobby was a memory now. Tonight the Thames glittered with neon as a sleek white yacht bobbed under the city lights, music drifting across the water. Inside, crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and men in tuxedos whose smiles hid blood money.
Alex tugged at his bow tie, scowling. âI look like a penguin at prom.â
Henry adjusted his cufflinks, immaculate in his own black tuxedo. âYou look⌠appropriate.â
âAppropriate?â Alex rolled his eyes. âYou could just say hot, Henry.â
Henryâs lips twitched, but he didnât take the bait.
Inside, the air reeked of money and menace. Guests murmured in French, Russian, Arabic, their eyes cutting sharp as glass. At the center, a glass case gleamed beneath spotlights. The device, a slim canister with innocuous markings. The weapon every intelligence service in the hemisphere wanted.
Alex muttered, âSo how do we do this? You grab the bioweapon, I throw champagne in someoneâs face, we run?â
Henryâs eyes swept the room. âYouâll be bait.â
âBait?!â
âThey think youâre me. If theyâre focused on you, I can dismantle the device.â
âUnbelievable.â Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. âI crossed an ocean for a date, and now Iâm a decoy at a death auction. Noraâs gonna kill me when she hears this.â
Henryâs hand brushed his briefly, quick and almost hidden. âI wonât let them touch you.â
The words made Alexâs heart stutter.
It unraveled fast. The boss from Marrakesh emerged, his scarred smile cutting across the crowd. His men surged forward, guns drawn, the champagne towers crashing in a glittering explosion of glass. Guests screamed, scattering.
âThe Taxman!â the boss crowed, pointing at Alex. âCaught at last!â
Alex raised his hands, eyes wide, muttering under his breath, âOh my God, why do they all buy this?â
Before the boss could order the kill, Henry movedâsmooth, deadly, his pistol silencing three guards in seconds. The room erupted into chaos, bullets, shouting, chandeliers shattering overhead.
Henry reached the canister, hands moving with precision, dismantling wires. But the boss lunged, knife flashing, and Alexâheart hammeringâdid the only thing he could. Swung his champagne bottle like a baseball bat. Glass shattered across the manâs temple.
Henry spun, eyes wide. âAlexââ
âDonât yell at me!â Alex snapped, grabbing Henryâs arm. âI saved your ass!â
The deck was on fire, alarms shrieking. Helicopters roared overhead. Henry yanked Alex toward the railing, the canister clutched in one hand.
âTheyâll tear this city apart if they think youâre me,â Henry shouted over the chaos. âYou have to disappear.â
âNot without you!â Alex yelled back, his voice raw.
For once, Henry let the walls crack. His hand cupped Alexâs cheek, thumb smudging soot across his skin. âYou make me want a life I canât have.â
Alexâs throat closed. âThen have it. With me. Justâjump.â
Bullets ripped through the deck, splinters spraying. Henryâs eyes searched his, a storm of want and fearâand then, without another word, they leapt.
The Thames swallowed them whole, icy water searing lungs, suits dragging heavy. Alex surfaced gasping, Henry beside him, still gripping the ruined canister. They swam, kicked, clawed their way to the dark underbelly of the dock, clinging to each other, hearts pounding.
The Claremont-DĂaz ranch house had never been a quiet place, but tonight it was a carnival in itself. The table stretched under the weight of foodâEllenâs roasted chicken, Juneâs skillet cornbread, Noraâs chaotic attempt at a salad, Oscarâs brisket that was more smoke than meat. Laughter ricocheted off the walls, the warm hum of cicadas rolling through the open windows.
And Henry Fox, the man the underworld whispered about as The Taxman, sat among it all with his sleeves rolled, a glass of sweet tea in his hand, and the faintest look of wonder trying to disguise itself as composure.
Pez Okonjo had taken to the family like heâd been born to it. He was perched on the arm of the couch with June, recounting some ridiculous story about Henryâs misadventures in a Venetian masquerade. âAnd then, mind you, my darling Henry here tried to vault a balcony. Elegant in theory, but in practiceââ He threw his hands up, eyes gleaming. âLike a startled goat.â
June doubled over in laughter, smacking the table. âOh my God, Henry!â
Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a smile. âIt was three stories. And it worked.â
Alex, seated beside him, grinned so wide his cheeks ached. âSee? This is why I keep him around. Free entertainment.â
âEntertainment?â Pez gasped, scandalized. âHe saved your reckless American ass!â
âExcuse me,â Alex shot back, âmy reckless American ass saved him right back. You werenât there for the champagne bottle moment in London.â
Oscar leaned back, waving his fork like a conductorâs baton. âWait, waitâchampagne bottle? Whatâs this?â
Henryâs lips twitched, the faintest glimmer of pride surfacing. âHe knocked out a smuggler twice his size with vintage Dom PĂŠrignon.â
âHell yeah, I did,â Alex crowed, raising his iced tea like a victory flag. âTexan ingenuity, baby.â
The table erupted in laughter. Ellen clapped her hands together, shaking her head. âYou know, I spent years worrying Alex would get himself in over his head. And now I find out he has, but with someone competent enough to drag him back out.â
âThank you, maâam,â Henry said, his accent polished and steady. âThough he hardly makes it easy.â
âOh, we know,â June chimed in, rolling her eyes. âHe once tried to fix the barn roof with duct tape. In the rain.â
âFunctional duct tape!â Alex protested.
âUntil it collapsed,â Nora said sweetly.
Pez laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. âMy God, Henry, youâve been adopted into a sitcom.â
Oscar leaned across the table, squinting at Henry. âSo. Tell me. How does one go from⌠whatever you areââ
âInternational man of mystery,â Pez supplied helpfully.
ââto sitting here in Texas with my boy?â Oscar finished.
Henry glanced sideways at Alex, something soft blooming behind his eyes. âBy accident. And then by choice.â
The table stilled just long enough for June to make an obnoxious âawwwâ sound, which Nora immediately echoed.
Alex kicked June under the table, face burning, but he couldnât stop the grin tugging at his mouth.
Ellen raised her glass, commanding the room. âTo accidents that turn into choices. And to anyone brave enough to love my son.â
Glasses clinked, laughter rising again, Pez already launching into another story, this time about Henry being mistaken for a Swedish prince in Stockholm.
And for once, Henry didnât feel the weight of shadows pressing at his back. He felt the warmth of a family heâd never had, the noise of people who loved without conditions, the solid hand of Alex brushing his under the table.
The Taxman was feared across continents. But here, on this noisy Texas night, he was Henry. Just Henry.
And with Alex by choice.
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The ranch had gone quiet at last. Dinner was cleared, the laughter of Alexâs family trailing upstairs and out to the porch swing where Nora and June were still conspiring with Pez. The cicadas droned like a steady hymn, and the stars spilled silver across the Texas sky.
Henry and Alex sat on the hood of the old pickup, the metal still warm from the dayâs sun. Alex leaned back on his palms, boots dangling, shoulders loose in a way that came only when he was home. Henry sat straighter, suit jacket shed, sleeves rolled, hair mussed from the breeze. He looked less like The Taxman and more like someone who could actually belong here.
Alex broke the silence with a huff of laughter, shaking his head. âYou know, sometimes I think about how stupid this all is.â
Henry tilted his head. âDefine stupid.â
âLikeâŚâ Alex waved a hand toward the fields. âYouâre you. The guy who dismantles bombs on yachts and talks to assassins like theyâre annoying telemarketers. And Iâm⌠me. The dorky farmer from Texas who sells tomatoes at the market, accuses Mrs. McIntyre of being high on gummies, and can make a pecan pie so good people propose marriage in the fall.â
Henryâs lips twitched, his gaze steady on Alex.
âSeriously,â Alex pressed on, mock-dramatic now. âAre you sure youâre okay with this? With me? Because thereâs no training montage for dealing with me, Fox. I donât come with a manual. I come with bad puns, aggressive flirting, and a very unhealthy addiction to queso.â
Henry let out the smallest laugh, quiet but genuine. He shifted closer, knees bumping against Alexâs. âYou think thatâs what I see?â
Alex raised a brow. âEnlighten me.â
Henryâs eyes softened, voice low. âI see the man who made me buy a cactus because he wanted me to keep something alive. I see the man who faced a warehouse full of mercenaries and still had the audacity to make jokes. I see the man who kissed me at a carnival at two in the morning and made me believe, for the first time, that I could have something⌠real.â
Alex swallowed, throat tight. âYouâre really in love with all that ridiculous?â
Henry leaned in until his forehead touched Alexâs, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. âHopelessly.â
Alexâs grin split wide, goofy and unstoppable. âGod, youâre doomed.â
Henryâs mouth found his, the kiss warm and unhurried, the cicadas droning on, the stars indifferent. And when Alex pulled back, laughing against Henryâs lips, he whispered, âHope you like pecan pie, Fox. Because youâre getting one every damn fall.â
Henryâs smileâreal, unguarded, utterly hisâwas answer enough.
And under the Texas sky, The Taxman stopped being a myth, and Henry simply let himself be loved.
THE END.
Fleeting little dreamlets printed on the tissue of my dying brain.
Taylor Zakhar Perez | This Is About Humanity's 7th Anniversary Soiree in Los Angeles, California | August 23, 2025
it's always "i like you" and not "all the people are fake. they're made out of metal. but i like you. and that is not fake."
You could've been getting all of my time but you were being mad
so i watched superman đ¤
the rwrb x superman au nobody asked for is now on ao3 đââď¸âĽď¸
