The first year, I taught introductory physics to undergraduates who looked at me like I was either a savior or a sadist, depending on whether they’d done the homework. Professor Colby had pulled strings to get me the position, adjunct and temporary but with the implication of permanence if I proved myself. I proved myself by caring too much and sleeping too little, which seemed to be the academic standard.
Jason started at a sports marketing firm downtown, all glass walls and standing desks and people who said “synergy” without irony. He hated it for three months, then figured out how to make it work for him. By the end of the first year, he was managingclient relationships for half the firm’s athlete roster, charming his way through negotiations the way he’d charmed his way through everything else.
“You’re good at this,” I’d said one night, reading over a contract he’d brought home.
He’d looked up from his laptop, surprised. “You think?”
“You make people feel seen,” I’d said, because it was true. “That’s half the job.”
His smile had been softer than usual.
We fell into rhythms. Morning runs for him, morning coffee for me. I’d grade papers at the kitchen table while he reviewed game footage on the couch, Peanut sprawled between us like a furry bridge. Dinner was a negotiation. He cooked with enthusiasm and no regard for recipes. I cooked with precision and no regard for flavor. We ordered takeout more than either of us admitted.
Fridays, we went to the Thinkers’ House for D&D. Rowan had graduated but stayed local, and the campaign continued with new players folding in and old ones drifting out. Jason’s Cave Troll had become legend. He’d died heroically in the third year, saving the party from a collapsing bridge, and Jason had rolled up a bard with maxed-out charisma who flirted with every NPC and drove Rowan to actual madness.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Rowan had said, exasperated, after Jason’s bard seduced a sentient sword.
“I’m doing thisin character,” Jason had replied, grinning.
I’d watched him from across the table, dice in hand, fully committed to the bit, and thought about how much I loved him.
We didn’t talk about the future in grand terms. We talked about next month’s rent and whether Peanut needed a dental cleaning and if we should buy a second bookshelf or accept that the floor was now a viable storage option. The future built itself around us in quiet moments. His toothbrush next to mine. My name on his emergency contact forms. The way he said “we” without thinking about it.
The first time he called me his boyfriend in public, we were still students, living in separate fraternity houses. Someone had asked how we knew each other, and Jason had said, “This is Bennet, my boyfriend,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I’d frozen for half a second, then recovered. “He’s terrible at statistics,” I’d added.
Jason had laughed, warm and genuine, and his hand had found the small of my back. The touch had been brief and casual, but it had anchored me for the rest of the night.
In the second year, Professor Colby offered me a tenure-track position. I’d read the offer letter three times, convinced I’d misunderstood something. Jason had found me sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the paper like it might vanish.
“You got it,” he’d said, reading over my shoulder.
“I got it,” I’d repeated, numb.
He’d kissed the top of my head. “Of course you did.”
The certainty in his voice had undone me more than the offer itself. He’d believed it before I had.
I’d celebrated by working twice as hard, because that was who I was. Jason had celebrated by dragging me to a restaurant I couldn’t pronounce and ordering wine I definitely couldn’t afford. We’d toasted to the future, and I’d felt the weight of it settle into something manageable.
The third year, Jason’s firm promoted him to director. He’d come home with champagne and a grin that could’ve powered the eastern seaboard.
“Director of what?” I’d asked.
“Athlete relations and brand strategy,” he’d said, popping the cork with more enthusiasm than skill. Foam had spilled onto the floor. Peanut had licked it up immediately.
“That’s a lot of words,” I’d said.
“It means I’m in charge of making sure our clients don’t say stupid things on social media,” he’d clarified. “Which is harder than it sounds.”
I’d laughed, and he’d poured two glasses, and we’d sat on the couch drinking champagne and watching Peanut chase his tail.
“I’m proud of you,” I’d said. And I was.
Jason had looked at me, something vulnerable crossing his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”