Chapter 1: The Man Who Walked In 

The lights overhead glowed warm against the polished wood of the long table, their gentle twinkle catching in the rims of champagne flutes and the brass buttons of semi-formal jackets. Laughter rang out from different corners of the room—distant cousins clinking glasses, work friends hearing embarrassing teenage stories for the first time, someone pressing play on a nostalgic playlist that made Charlie groan and grin. Seamus stood near the head of the table, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other resting on Charlie’s lower back. The gesture was casual, yet proprietary. In a word, perfect. 

The back room of the restaurant had been dressed to impress. String lights adorned the ivy-covered trellises, the table boasted a trio of custom hydrangea and rosemary centerpieces, and the faint scent of the main course’s roasted garlic and truffle oil still lingered in the air. Their friends had joked it looked like a scene from a lifestyle blog, and Charlie had winked. “That’s what happens when you let the control freak plan things.” 

But Seamus had smiled. He took the joke on the chin. He liked being the dependable one, the anchor of the relationship. It was a role that fit him like his tailored shirt: crisp, confident, and stitched with quiet pride. 

“Look at you two,” someone said, Charlie’s cousin maybe, a touch drunk and deeply sentimental. “You make the rest of us feel like we’re still kids playing house.” 

Charlie laughed, leaning into Seamus, arm warm against his side. “Don’t get used to it,” he quipped. “He’s the grownup. I’m just the messy one he just let in as a rescue pet.” 

Seamus gave a measured and indulgent laugh. “Who rescued who?” he fired back, eliciting a chorus of “awws” from the assembled well wishers. He could feel the attention on them. Guests smiled at their chemistry, admiring the contrast between them. He was the steady man with the neat beard and the expensive wristwatch. Charlie was the charming, creative one, dressed in a vintage blazer and boots that were far too scuffed for the occasion. 

And yet somehow they worked. Everyone could see it. The air buzzed with approval, even admiration. It was the kind of night Seamus had once only imagined for other people, men with cleaner pasts and straighter teeth, maybe. But here it was. His life. Claimed. Ordered. 

He sipped his champagne, letting it bloom dry and elegant across his tongue and thinking, This is how you know you’ve done it right. 

Seamus was halfway through retelling the story of how he had popped the question with a ring the jeweler had called “The Pharaoh” when there was a ripple of broken attention near the door. A few heads turned, and murmurs crested softly over the sound of clinking glasses and familiar laughter. Then the door swung wider and the ripple became a hush, like someone had cracked open a window in midwinter. 

A man ducked slightly beneath the lintel as he stepped into the room, his shoulders stretching the seams of a dark blazer worn just short of formal. His beard was thick, russet touched, and framed a smile too easy for someone interrupting a private event. His shirt collar was open, casually defiant and revealing the thatch of chest hair that curled confidently above it. There was no name announced, and apparently no need. He moved like someone who expected to be welcomed wherever he went. 

Charlie was halfway across the room before Seamus could blink. 

“Garth! You made it!” 

The shout was unguarded and boyish, a burst of “glad you’re here” energy that broke the script of the evening. Seamus watched, frozen, as Charlie launched himself into the man’s arms. They hugged with the full press of bodies, Charlie’s feet briefly lifting off the ground. 

Garth laughed a low, warm rumble, and clapped Charlie on the back as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, which, Seamus realized, they very well might not have. 

When they pulled apart, Charlie turned, his hand already catching Garth’s wrist and tugging. “Seamus! Come meet him. This is Garth, my roommate from college. You’re gonna love him.” 

Roommate. The word landed oddly in Seamus’ ears. They were awfully familiar, even intimate, for college roommates. The word was like a secret only now being let out. 

Seamus stepped forward, offering a composed smile. “Of course. I’ve heard the name.” 

Garth’s handshake was engulfing, one of those crushing grip pulls that men use to greet and dominate at once. His palm was calloused and thick; his scent was sharp, a mix of vetiver and clean sweat. His arm alone seemed to radiate heat. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Garth said. “Hell of a party. Nice to meet the guy who’s finally reining this one in.” His eyes flicked to Charlie, affectionate and conspiratorial. 

Seamus smiled tightly. “Someone has to keep him fed and scheduled.” 

Charlie grinned unabashedly. “I asked Garth to be my best man. He said yes!” 

The words were tossed off casually, like announcing who was driving them home. But something in Seamus’ stomach turned over. Best man. 

Around them, guests began gravitating toward Garth, drawn like iron filings to a magnet. He gave out easy laughs, waved off praise, and teased a mutual friend with a bear hug that cracked the man’s back. Seamus stood there, glass in hand, his name drifting in and out of conversations as Garth became the gravitational center of the room. 

Seamus straightened his jacket reflexively, suddenly aware of how tight his shirt felt across his chest. He was in shape, sure, and disciplined about it. But standing near Garth made him feel constructed and overengineered. A try hard. Garth, by contrast, moved with the lazy ease of someone born into his body, like he’d ever once thought about how he looked because he never had to. 

Seamus tried to smile through it, but his inner voice whispered, sharp and unfamiliar: Why am I suddenly on the back foot at my own engagement party? He lingered at the edge of the group, fresh drink in hand, the chill of the glass offering little relief from the heat building under his collar. Around him, the table hummed with conversation, but all of it now seemed to orbit the same sun: Garth, seated with one ankle hooked over a knee, posture loose and lordly, like he’d been born into the leather of the chair. 

“…and I sold the rights to it right after graduation,” Garth was saying, gesturing idly with his glass. “Some dumb party game with cards and dice. I made it up in the dorm to kill time. Got laid every time we played it. Some exec’s niece played it with us on spring break and boom! Seven-figure licensing deal. Dumb luck.” 

Laughter rippled across the table. Seamus blinked. Board game? 

One of Charlie’s work friends leaned in, wideeyed. “Wait, seriously? You just… made a game and retired?” 

Garth shrugged. “I mean, I keep busy. Invested, played with real estate, that kind of thing. But yeah, technically, I guess I haven’t had to work since I was, what, 23?” He scratched his beard. “These days, I just clock in a couple afternoons at the driving range, piloting the ball catcher. Pays for protein powder. Leaves time for deer season.” 

More laughter. Someone clicked glasses with him. The way people looked at Garth—awed, amused, adoring—was the kind of attention Seamus had spent years cultivating in small, measured doses. Except Garth didn’t cultivate. He merely existed, and people responded like fawning pets. 

Seamus tried to inject himself into the current. “Deer season, huh? Where do you hunt?” 

Garth turned his head, slowly, as if noticing Seamus for the first time. “Upper Peninsula of Michigan, mostly. Got a buddy with land. Big bucks this year.” Garth paused, then grinned. “You hunt?” 

“Not really,” Seamus admitted, smoothing the front of his shirt. “I’m more of a city gym kind of guy.” 

“Ah,” Garth nodded, eyes skimming over Seamus’ frame. “Yeah. You’ve got that lean thing going. Functional fitness.” His tone made it sound like a polite euphemism. 

As he shifted to take a sip of his drink, his forearm brushed Seamus’. The subtle slide of warm skin against starched cotton was too casual to call out, but too intentional to ignore. 

Seamus stiffened. 

Garth’s gaze lingered. Not overtly challenging, just a heartbeat longer than it should have. In his look, there was no apology, only the unspoken confirmation that yes, he knew. Knew how the brief moment of contact landed and what it stirred. 

Charlie didn’t seem to notice, leaning in with a laugh to tell Garth about some shared college prank. Seamus tried to follow the thread, but the words blurred under the low thrum of heat building in his chest. It was an uncomfortable mix of adrenaline and shame, like being caught doing something private in a public place. 

He chuckled weakly at something Garth said, but his own voice sounded unfamiliar, higher and uncertain. A classic boardroom laugh, the kind you give when trying to keep up. To belong. His skin prickled. His collar felt too tight. 

He adjusted his cufflink. It’s just conversation, he told himself. 

But the voice in his head had gone quiet. The one who usually narrated his control, his image. All he could hear now was the soft echo of Garth’s laughter and the quiet humiliation of feeling forgettable. 

“Isn’t he great?” Charlie asked, slipping an arm around Seamus’ waist. His breath felt warm against Seamus’ neck. “We had so many ridiculous nights in college. He was always the guy convincing everyone to jump off rooftops or skinny dip in the neighbors’ pool. 

Seamus forced a smile, pivoting toward Charlie with a slight shake of the head. “I’m sure you did.” He meant it to sound wry, maybe affectionate. But it came out clipped, a hair too acerbic. Charlie didn’t seem to notice, already distracted by someone calling his name from the dessert table. Seamus turned back toward the crowd, lifting his empty glass. “Gonna grab a refill,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. His hand was steady, but his chest felt tight, like he hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes. 

He wove through clusters of friends and relatives, all in various states of festive intoxication. Someone clapped him on the back. Another complimented the shrimp crostini. He smiled and laughed through the din. 

At the bar, he set his glass down and gave the bartender a polite nod. “Just a top off, thanks.” 

He didn’t look back immediately. He didn’t need to. He felt it first, the unmistakable prickle of being watched. Then finally, he turned. 

Across the room, Garth stood half tuned in conversation, hand resting on the back of a chair like he was propping it up rather than the other way around. His shirt sleeves were now rolled up, his forearms thick and tan under the lights. His eyes met Seamus’ and, for a moment, he didn’t look away. 

A slight smirk curled the edge of his mouth. Not gloating or mocking. Just… knowing. Then, as if the moment had never happened at all, he turned back to the woman beside him and laughed at something she’d said, his body shifting with effortless confidence. 

Seamus exhaled slowly, the sound too loud in his own ears. He sipped his refreshed drink, feeling the fizz on his tongue, but it tasted thinner now. Less celebratory, more numbing. He slid back into the crowd, smiling when expected, nodding through the small talk, and doing what he always did best: appearing composed. But somewhere behind his practiced expression, a single truth spun like a loose screw in a machine built too tight. 

This changes everything. 

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