Semua Bab Sinful Affairs (MM Erotica collection): Bab 101 - Bab 110

I found Ethan three days later in his studio, surrounded by new paintings. They were different from his other work. Rawer, more honest, filled with a pain that made my heart ache. “These are about us,” I said. It wasn’t a question. “Yeah.” He didn’t turn around. “Turns out heartbreak is great for creativity. Who knew?” “I told my parents about the promotion,” I said. “Told them I was turning it down.” That made him turn. “What?” “I turned it down. Told them I was staying at my current position, with my current hours, because I have a life outside of work that matters to me.” I moved closer. “Told them that life includes you. Told them that if they can’t accept that, they’re choosing not to be part of my life.” His eyes were wide. “Stanley…” “I’m not done.” I pulled out my phone, pulling up a website. “This is the Riverside Community Center I designed. It got approved. They’re breaking ground next month.” I scrolled to a section of the plans. “This is the east wing. A community

Three weeks in, and we’ve stopped pretending to like each other. “The cantilever won’t support that much glass,” I say, pointing at his latest rendering. “It will if we redistribute the load here.” Miles taps the screen, zooming in on a structural detail I somehow missed. “That’ll blow the budget.” “Not if we use this instead.” He pulls up an alternative material spec. I study it. He’s right, which is becoming annoyingly common. “Fine,” I say. “Was that a compliment, Carter?” “It was an acknowledgment of mathematical reality.” He grins and goes back to his screen. It’s nine thirty PM. The office has been empty for hours. My stomach growls. “Thai?” Miles asks, not looking up. “Sure.” He orders from his phone, still working. Twenty minutes later, the food arrives. Pad see ew, no peanuts, extra lime. Exactly what I would have ordered. I stare at the container. “How did you…” “You picked the peanuts out last time. And you used all the lime wedges.” He shrugs, opening his o

The award is heavy in my hands, gold-plated and expensive. I stand at the podium looking out at the industry crowd, my prepared remarks smooth and professional. “This project represents the best of collaborative design,” I say. “Miles Brennan’s invaluable creative vision combined with our team’s dedication to structural integrity has resulted in something we’re all proud of.” Invaluable creative vision. The same words I’d use for anyone. From the audience, Miles smiles. Applauds with everyone else. But I know that smile now, and know the difference between real and performance. That night, he’s quiet in my apartment. “You were brilliant up there,” he says, staring at his wine glass. “I should have said more about your work.” “You said enough.” He looks up. “I’m proud of you, Daniel.” The “but” sits between us like a third person in the room. We don’t talk about it. We’ve gotten good at not talking about things. The pattern settles in like sediment. At work, we’re colleagues

I’ve known Eli for seven years, which is long enough to know things about a person they don’t even notice about themselves anymore. Like how he takes his coffee black with two sugars but always lets it go cold because he gets distracted. He laughs at his own jokes before he finishes telling them. How his left knee bounces when he’s anxious and how he goes completely still when something is really wrong. We met freshman year at one of those mandatory orientation mixers that nobody wanted to be at. I walked in, looked around the room full of people performing enthusiastically, and spotted him standing near the drinks table with an expression that said he was calculating exactly how long he had to stay before leaving became socially acceptable. I walked up to him and said, “Same.” He looked at me, looked back at the room, and said, “You want to get out of here?” We ended up at a diner two blocks away eating pancakes at nine in the evening, and that was it. Seven years of friendship b

December came in cold and certain, and I noticed the slippage before I had a word for it. It started with small things. Eli texted me a photo of a holiday sweater in a store window, the kind with a reindeer doing something undignified, no caption because he knew he didn’t need one. I laughed at my phone alone in my office and then, without thinking about it, saved the photo. I noticed I’d done it and told myself it was just a funny picture and moved on. He started bringing things when he came over. Good coffee, not the gas station kind he usually grabbed on his way somewhere, but the actual stuff from the place on Dearborn that has a line out the door on weekends. Once he brought a book, held it out when I opened the door, and said, “You’ll like this,” with the confidence of someone who had already decided. I read it in three days. That’s not something I do. I’m a slow reader by choice, I like sitting with books, and I burned through this one like I was trying to finish it before I