The key turned in the lock with a soft, metallic sigh, a sound so familiar it was woven into the very fabric of Adamson Yu’s being. He pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the cool, silent expanse of their apartment. The only greeting was the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the minimalist clock James had insisted on buying from that overpriced design store in SoHo.

“James?” Adamson’s voice, though quiet, seemed to echo in the vast, open-plan living area. It was met with more silence.

He dropped his leather messenger bag by the console table, its thud absorbed by the plush grey rug. His eyes swept the room, taking in the impeccable order. The throw pillows on the large, sectional sofa were arranged at precise, ninety-degree angles. The glass coffee table held nothing but a single art book and a small, sculptural vase that was, as always, empty. There was no jacket slung over the back of a chair, no discarded coffee mug leaving a ghost ring on the polished surface. It was pristine, beautiful, and utterly lifeless.

It was a far cry from the cramped, chaotic walk-up they’d shared in their early twenties, where books and vinyl records spilled from milk crates and takeout containers perpetually cluttered the tiny kitchen counter. They’d dreamed of a place like this back then, a testament to their success, a physical manifestation of the life they were building together. Now, standing in the middle of it, Adamson felt a peculiar hollowness, as if the foundation of that dream had been quietly replaced with polished concrete and cold, Scandinavian design.

A light was on under the door of James’s study. Adamson padded over and pushed it open a crack. James was there, bathed in the blue-white glow of his monitor, his brow furrowed in concentration. His dark hair was slightly mussed, a sign he’d been running his hands through it. He was so engrossed in whatever architectural rendering was on the screen that he didn’t hear the door. Adamson watched him for a long moment, the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar slope of his neck, the way his bottom lip was caught slightly between his teeth. He was still the most beautiful man Adamson had ever seen. The sight sent a familiar ache through his chest, a longing so deep it was almost a physical pain.

He thought about saying something. Hey. I’m home. How was your day? The words felt like stones, too heavy and insignificant to break the surface of James’s focus. Instead, he closed the door softly and retreated to the kitchen.

He opened the stainless-steel refrigerator. Inside, the contents were meticulously organized. Meal-prepped containers of grilled chicken and quinoa, a row of green juice bottles, a single, perfect lemon. Nothing that suggested a shared meal. On the centre shelf, held in place by a minimalist magnet, was a note in James’s precise architect’s script.

"A, Had to work late.There’s leftover pasta for you. Meeting with the Vancouver clients ran long.Don’t wait up. – James"

Adamson’s eyes lingered on the initial. A. It used to be ‘Ads,’ then ‘my love,’ then ‘Adamson.’ Now it was a single, stark letter. He balled the note up and tossed it into the recycling bin. It landed with a soft crinkle, a sound of finality.

He wasn’t hungry. He poured himself a finger of expensive Scotch, the amber liquid catching the low light, and walked out onto the balcony. Twenty-five floors below, the city of Toronto was a vibrant, glittering circuit board of life. Up here, it was just cold glass, cold metal, and the cold wind whipping off Lake Ontario.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting another text from James, perhaps an afterthought. But it wasn’t.

Liam : Missed you at the pub, mate. The gang’s all here. We’re toasting to landing the Henderson account. You were a beast today. You deserve to celebrate.

A picture followed. A group of his colleagues, flushed and laughing, crowded around a high-top table littered with pint glasses. Liam was in the centre, his arm slung around Sarah from marketing, grinning directly at the camera with a look that was both congratulatory and challenging.

Adamson stared at the photo. The energy, the noise, the uncomplicated camaraderie—it was a stark contrast to the tomb-like silence of his apartment. Liam’s texts had become a more frequent occurrence lately. They’d started as work-related banter, then evolved into friendly check-ins, and now… now they felt like a lifeline. Liam was bold, funny, and unapologetically present. He looked at Adamson like he was something fascinating, not just a piece of furniture in a perfectly curated room.

Another buzz.

Liam : Seriously. Come out. Just for one. Don’t make me drink all this victory champagne by myself.

Adamson turned and looked back through the glass doors into the dark, silent apartment. He could see the sliver of light under James’s study door. He imagined the rest of his night: eating cold pasta alone, watching TV with the sound down low so as not to disturb James, going to bed only to lie awake waiting for the sound of James finally coming to bed, his body rigid and careful not to touch.

The loneliness was a physical weight on his sternum.

His thumbs hovered over the screen.

Adamson: I just got home. Place is dead.

The reply was instant.

Liam : All the more reason to come resurrect the night. We’re at The Oak Room. 15 mins in an Uber. I’ll even buy the first round.

Adamson took a long, burning sip of the Scotch. The alcohol warmed a path down his throat, fueling a sudden, reckless impulse. It wasn’t about Liam, not really. It was about not being here, in this beautiful, aching silence. It was about feeling seen, even for an hour.

He made a decision.

He walked back inside, placed his glass in the sink, and went to their bedroom to change out of his suit. He chose a dark, soft cashmere sweater James had bought him for his birthday two years ago. He avoided looking at the king-sized bed, a vast plain of grey linen that seemed to emphasize the distance between two pillows.

As he was pulling on his boots by the door, the study door finally opened.

James stood there, silhouetted by the light behind him. He looked tired, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes more pronounced. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light of the living room.

“Going back out?” James asked. His voice was neutral, just curious. There was no accusation, no concern. Just a question.

“Yeah,” Adamson said, his own voice sounding strangely bright and false in the quiet space. “The team from the Henderson account. They’re forcing me to go for a celebratory drink. Didn’t want to be a buzzkill.”

James nodded slowly, leaning against the doorframe. “Right. The Henderson account. That’s great, Ads. Really great.” He used the old nickname, but it sounded hollow, a habit rather than an endearment. “Don’t feel like you have to rush back on my account.”

There it was. Permission. Or, more accurately, indifference disguised as support.

“I won’t be late,” Adamson said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

“Okay.” James offered a small, tired smile. “Have fun.”

He turned and disappeared back into his study, closing the door softly, sealing himself back into his world of lines and structures and silent ambition.

The click of the latch was the loudest sound Adamson had heard all night. It was the sound of a door closing, literally and metaphorically. It was the sound of an opportunity lost, of a moment where a simple “stay” could have changed everything.

But James hadn’t said it. And Adamson was already halfway out the door.

The Uber ride was a blur of city lights and a nervous, fluttering sensation in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in years. The pub was everything his apartment wasn’t: loud, warm, and thick with the smell of beer and fried food. He spotted them immediately. Liam saw him at the same time, his face breaking into a wide, triumphant grin. He extricated himself from the group and weaved through the crowd.

“You made it!” Liam shouted over the music, clapping a hand on Adamson’s shoulder. His grip was firm, his presence overwhelming. He smelled of citrusy cologne and beer. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

He steered Adamson towards the bar, his hand never leaving his shoulder. “A proper drink for the man of the hour! None of that corporate Scotch nonsense.”

Liam ordered two shots of tequila and two beers before Adamson could protest. The night began to accelerate, the sharp edges of his guilt and loneliness softening under the barrage of laughter, backslaps, and Liam’s unwavering, intense attention. Liam listened to him, laughed at his jokes, his gaze never wandering. He made Adamson feel brilliant, funny, and most importantly, visible.

Hours later, the crowd had thinned. Sarah had left with her boyfriend, and a few others had drifted away. Adamson was pleasantly fuzzy, leaning against the bar as Liam regaled him with a story about a disastrous client meeting.

“...and the model just disintegrated in his hands! I’ve never seen a grown man look so close to tears,” Liam finished, and Adamson laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign and wonderful.

Liam’s laughter subsided, and he looked at Adamson, his expression shifting into something more serious, more intimate. The noise of the pub seemed to fade into a dull roar.

“You know,” Liam said, his voice lower now, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone all night.”

Adamson’s breath hitched. He knew this was a threshold. He could still step back. He could make an excuse, call another Uber, go back to the silent apartment and his sleeping husband.

But he didn’t.

“Oh?” was all he managed to say.

Liam moved closer, eliminating the already small space between them at the bar. “I think you’re incredible, Adamson. And it kills me to see you so… lonely.”

The word was a direct hit. Adamson flinched. “I’m not—”

“Don’t,” Liam interrupted gently. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”

Liam’s hand, which had been resting on the bar, moved and covered Adamson’s. His skin was warm. The touch was electric, terrifying, and exhilarating. It was a touch that spoke of possibility, of risk, of a desperate connection that was the antithesis of the cold silence at home.

Adamson should have pulled away. He should have stood up, ended this before it began. But he didn’t. He looked down at their hands, Liam’s slightly larger, covering his own. He thought of James’s hand, how long it had been since it had held his without purpose, without habit.

He felt his fingers relax under Liam’s.

It was a small movement, almost imperceptible. But it was an answer. It was a chink in the armour of his marriage, the first deliberate crack in a foundation he had spent a decade building.

He had crossed the line. And as he sat there, allowing another man to hold his hand, the only thing he could think was that the world hadn’t ended. The polished concrete floor of his life hadn’t cracked open. It was just him, in a loud bar, making a choice that would change everything, all because the silence at home had finally become too loud to bear.

Chapter 2: The Geometry of Distance

The first thing Adamson registered was the smell of bacon.

It was so profoundly out of place that for a disorienting second, he thought he was still dreaming, or perhaps in someone else’s apartment. He blinked against the weak, grey light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His head throbbed with a dull, tequila-laced rhythm, and his mouth felt like it had been lined with felt.

He was on the sofa. The throw pillows, usually arranged with geometric precision, were scattered on the floor. A knitted afghan he hadn’t seen in years was tangled around his legs. He had fallen asleep here, too exhausted and emotionally spent to make it to the bedroom.

And James was cooking.

Adamson pushed himself up, the world tilting slightly. He could see into the open-plan kitchen. James stood at the stove, his back to the living room. He was wearing a soft, faded grey henley and a pair of old sweatpants, an outfit so unlike his usual sharp, minimalist style that it felt like looking at a stranger. The sight was both comforting and unnerving.

He padded into the kitchen, the cold floor a shock against his bare feet. “Morning,” he croaked.

James turned, a spatula in his hand. His expression was unreadable. “Morning. You’re alive.” He turned back to the pan. “I heard you come in. Sounded like you were navigating an obstacle course.”

Adamson’s stomach clenched. He had been quiet, he’d thought. Or at least, he’d tried to be. The Uber ride home was a blur of nausea and self-loathing, punctuated by the phantom sensation of Liam’s hand on his. He’d fumbled with his keys, stumbled over the rug, and collapsed onto the sofa, praying for unconsciousness.

“Yeah, sorry,” Adamson muttered, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island. “The team… they were really celebrating.”

James didn’t reply. He focused on carefully transferring crispy strips of bacon onto a plate lined with paper towel. The silence stretched, filled only by the sizzle of grease. It was a different silence from the night before. This one was heavy, charged with things unsaid.

“I didn’t know we had bacon,” Adamson said, desperate to fill the void.

“We didn’t. I went out.” James’s tone was flat. “I woke up early. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d make breakfast.”

It was a peace offering. A bizarre, cholesterol-laden peace offering. James only cooked like this—messy, indulgent, domestic—when he was trying to fix something. Or when he felt guilty. Adamson’s heart ached. He wanted to reach across the island and take his husband’s hand, to confess everything and beg for forgiveness in the face of this unexpected kindness.

But he didn’t. The image of Liam’s intense, admiring gaze flashed in his mind, a counterpoint to James’s quiet demeanor.

“It smells amazing,” Adamson said instead, the words ash in his mouth.

James brought two plates over. They were piled high with bacon, perfectly scrambled eggs, and toast cut into triangles. It was a breakfast from their university days, from Saturday mornings spent tangled in sheets, sharing sections of the newspaper and planning a future that felt infinite.

They ate in a silence that was anything but comfortable. Adamson could feel James’s eyes on him, assessing. He kept his own gaze fixed on his plate.

“So,” James said finally, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “The celebration must have been something. You don’t usually drink tequila.”

Adamson froze, a triangle of toast halfway to his mouth. He’d brushed his teeth, but apparently, it hadn’t been enough to erase the evidence. “Yeah. Liam—from the sales team—he insisted. It was his idea.”

“Liam,” James repeated. The name hung in the air between them, neutral and yet loaded with unspoken inquiry. James had heard Adamson mention colleagues before—Sarah, Mark, Diane. But ‘Liam’ was new. “He’s the one who texted you?”

Adamson’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t mentioned a text. He’d said the team was forcing him. How did James…? His eyes flicked to his phone, lying on the counter where he’d dumped it last night. The screen was dark, but had James seen it light up? Seen the name?

“Yeah,” Adamson said again, feeling like a broken record, a liar trapped in a circular narrative. “He’s… very persuasive.”

James nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Adamson’s face. He was an architect. His entire world was about reading plans, seeing the underlying structure, identifying points of stress and weakness. Adamson felt like a flawed blueprint under his gaze.

“You should be careful with that,” James said, his voice deceptively soft. “Tequila. You always get a terrible hangover.” He stood and took his plate to the sink. The moment of interrogation seemed to have passed, but the tension remained, a new wall erected between them.

He was washing the pan when he spoke again, his back to Adamson. “I was thinking… maybe we could do something today. Since it’s Saturday. We could go to the Distillery District, walk around. Get a coffee like we used to.”

It was a monumental effort. Adamson knew it. James was carving time out of his sacred work schedule, attempting to bridge the gap with a plan, an itinerary for intimacy. A week ago, a month ago, Adamson would have grasped at it with both hands.

But now, the offer felt like a duty. A chore. The guilt from last night curdled in his stomach, mixing with the rich food. He couldn’t stand the thought of walking through the cobblestone streets, pretending everything was fine, feeling the ghost of Liam’s touch on his hand while James’s swung, untouched, beside him.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Both their eyes snapped to it. The screen lit up.

Liam : Hope the head isn’t too punishing today, champ. 😉 Last night was fun. We should do it again soon.

Adamson’s heart hammered against his ribs. He saw James’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly. He didn’t turn around, but his hands went still in the soapy water.

The silence was deafening. The message was innocent enough on the surface, but the winking emoji, the word “fun,” the easy camaraderie of “champ”—it spoke of a shared secret, a connection that excluded James completely.

Adamson didn’t pick up the phone. He didn’t explain. He just watched the screen go dark again, the message now a permanent, digital specter in the room.

James finished washing the pan. He rinsed it, dried it with a methodical slowness, and placed it back in its designated cupboard. He wiped his hands on a towel and finally turned around. His expression was carefully neutral, the shutters drawn.

“Well,” he said, his voice devoid of all the tentative warmth from moments before. “If you’re feeling rough, maybe it’s best you just rest today. I’ve actually got to review those Vancouver revisions anyway. The deadline got moved up.”

It was a retreat. A full-scale withdrawal behind the familiar battlements of work.

“James, wait—” Adamson started, but James was already walking away.

“It’s fine, Ads. Really. I’ll be in my study.”

The door closed with a soft, definitive click.

Adamson sat alone at the island, surrounded by the remnants of a breakfast that tasted like regret. He had gotten what he wanted. He was free of the obligation of a shared day. He was alone.

The loneliness, however, was now a different, more terrifying creature. It was no longer a passive absence; it was an active chasm, dug by his own choices, and on the other side of it, he could see James, willingly locking himself away.

His phone buzzed again.

He looked at it. Then, with a hand that trembled slightly, he picked it up.

Liam (Work): Seriously though. You free tonight? I know a great little speakeasy. No tequila, I promise. Just good conversation.

Adamson stared at the words. Good conversation. Attention. Excitement. It was the antithesis of the crushing, silent judgment of his own home. It was an escape from the monument he and James had built, which had somehow become a museum of their past love.

He thought of James in his study, building digital worlds because the real one between them had become too complicated to fix.

His thumbs typed out a reply.

Adamson: What’s the address?

He hit send. The action was like taking a match to the final remaining bridge. He could almost hear the crackle as it began to burn.

The speakeasy was everything Liam had promised it would be: dimly lit, intimate, and hidden behind an unmarked door down a narrow alley. The air was thick with the scent of old whiskey, citrus, and a low, thrumming jazz number that felt like a secret being whispered directly into Adamson’s ear.

He’d spent the day in a haze of guilt and restless energy. After James had retreated to his study, the apartment had felt like a gilded cage. Every tick of the clock was an accusation. He’d tried to watch a movie, but the images blurred together. He’d picked up a book, but the words meant nothing. His entire being was focused on the digital clock, counting down the hours until he could leave again, until he could escape the suffocating weight of his own life.

Now, sitting across from Liam in a plush, velvet booth, the escape felt complete. The guilt was still there, a low hum beneath his skin, but it was muted by the two expertly crafted Old Fashioneds and the sheer force of Liam’s presence.

“So then I told him,” Liam was saying, leaning forward conspiratorially, his forearms resting on the small table, “if he wants the quarterly reports to look like a work of abstract art, he can damn well learn to use the spreadsheet software himself.” He laughed, a rich, unselfconscious sound that drew a genuine smile from Adamson.

“You didn’t.”

“I absolutely did. The man’s a dinosaur. A very well-paid dinosaur.” Liam shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was handsome in a way that was entirely different from James. Where James was all sharp, elegant lines and quiet intensity, Liam was warmth and easy confidence. He took up space, and he made you feel like you were the only person in it.

“I could never talk to Henderson like that,” Adamson admitted, swirling the ice in his glass. “I just nod and make it work.”

“That’s because you’re a genius, Ads. You make magic happen. I’m just the charming bastard who takes credit for it.” Liam’s foot brushed against Adamson’s under the small table. It could have been an accident. It wasn’t.

The contact sent a jolt through him. He didn’t pull away.

“It doesn’t feel like magic most days,” Adamson said, the alcohol loosening his tongue, unlocking the vault where he kept his disappointments. “It feels like… moving pieces on a board. Same pieces, different day.”

“And at home?” Liam asked, his voice dropping, becoming softer, more intimate. The music seemed to swell around them, insulating their booth. “Is it the same pieces there, too?”

Adamson looked down into the amber depths of his drink. He’d avoided mentioning James all night, and Liam, perceptively, had avoided asking. Until now.

“It’s… quiet,” Adamson said finally, the understatement feeling like a betrayal in itself.

“Quiet can be good,” Liam offered, but his tone suggested he knew this wasn’t that kind of quiet.

“It’s the kind of quiet that has its own gravity. It pulls everything into it.” The words were spilling out now, a leak he couldn’t plug. “We used to talk for hours. About everything, about nothing. Now we just… coordinate. ‘Did you pay the electric bill?’ ‘Your mother called.’ ‘I have to work late.’” He took a long drink. “It’s like we’re roommates who share a mortgage and a past.”

Liam listened, his gaze fixed on Adamson, absorbing every word without judgment. He didn’t offer platitudes or advice. He just let Adamson talk, and in that permission, Adamson felt a sense of relief so profound it was dizzying.

“You deserve to be seen, Adamson,” Liam said quietly when he’d finished. His hand was on the table, mere inches from Adamson’s. “You deserve to be heard. You’re this brilliant, vibrant person, and the idea of you going home to… quiet… it kills me.”

He reached out and gently touched the back of Adamson’s hand. His skin was warm.

“I see you,” Liam whispered.

It was the final key turning in the lock. All the resistance, the guilt, the lingering loyalty—it crumbled under the weight of those three words. I see you. James looked through him. Liam saw him.

Adamson turned his hand over, so their palms were aligned. He didn’t lace their fingers, but the connection was made. An understanding passed between them, silent and profound.

“I should go,” Adamson said, his voice hoarse. He didn’t move.

“You should,” Liam agreed, his thumb making a slow, gentle stroke across Adamson’s knuckles. “But you don’t want to.”

It wasn’t a question.

The Uber ride home was a silent movie. Adamson stared out the window, watching the bright lights of the city blur into streaks of color. His hand, the one Liam had touched, felt like it was glowing, a brand-new limb. He could still feel the ghost of that contact, a thrilling, terrifying promise.

He let himself into the apartment, bracing for the silence.

But it was different.

The living room was dark except for the faint, blueish glow of the television, muted. James was on the sofa, but he wasn’t working on his tablet. He was just sitting there, watching a nature documentary. A pack of wolves moved silently across the screen, moving through a snowy landscape.

James looked up as Adamson entered. His eyes were unreadable in the dim light.

“You’re home,” he said. His voice was flat.

“Yeah,” Adamson replied, hovering awkwardly by the door. “That speakeasy was… hard to find.” He winced at the lameness of the excuse.

James just nodded, turning his gaze back to the screen. The wolves were circling a lone caribou. “I went to the gym,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“Oh? How was it?”

“Fine. Crowded.” James paused. “I saw Mark from your floor there. He said he heard the Henderson account celebration got pretty wild last night. Said he was surprised to see you in the thick of it.”

Adamson’s blood ran cold. Mark was a notorious gossip. The story of Adamson’s “wild” night was probably already making the rounds.

“It was just a few drinks,” Adamson said, his voice tighter than he intended.

“Must have been. Mark said you and Liam were practically attached at the hip.” James’s tone was still neutral, but the observation was a laser-guided missile. “He said you two looked like you were having a very… private celebration.”

The image of Liam’s hand covering his on the bar flashed in his mind. Had Mark seen that? Had he seen the way Liam leaned in, the intensity of their conversation?

“Liam’s just… enthusiastic,” Adamson deflected, walking further into the room, wanting to end this conversation. He could smell his own cologne, mixed with the faint, sweet scent of whiskey. He felt transparent.

James finally muted the television completely. The sudden silence was absolute, more oppressive than before. The wolves on the screen now moved in a soundless, deadly pantomime.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” James asked softly. He turned his head to look at Adamson fully. In the flickering light of the screen, his face was a mask of quiet devastation. He wasn’t angry. He was hurt. Deeply. And he was finally, finally showing it.

“James, I—”

“Don’t,” James interrupted, his voice cracking on the word. He held up a hand. “Just… don’t, okay? Not tonight.”

He stood up, his movements weary, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He walked past Adamson without another look, without a goodnight, and disappeared down the hall toward their bedroom.

Adamson stood alone in the dark, the thrilling warmth from Liam’s touch now ice-cold. James knew. Maybe not everything, but he knew enough. The quiet was no longer a passive space; it was a battlefield, and the first shot had been fired. He had crossed a line, and there was no pretending otherwise. The point of no return wasn't in the speakeasy with Liam. It was here, in the living room, in the shattered silence his husband had left behind.