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The first time Alex sees him, he falls head over heels.
Fucking literally.
He’s out for a run as the sun is setting, pushing himself through an ache in his side as he rounds a corner. Fallen leaves from the trees planted along the street crunch underneath his feet, broken fragments of red and orange and yellow sprinkled along the sidewalk. As the light fades from the sky, it reflects off the trees and the color that still adorns them, the last vestiges of fall clinging to the branches.
It’s probably getting close to the time that Alex should turn around and head back toward home, but home has a desk of scattered paperwork for the case he’s working on, a thousand emails that he doesn’t know how to fucking respond to, an empty, cold bed that he might get a few restless hours of sleep in.
So maybe he can go a little longer.
He approaches a t-shaped intersection, hitting the button to activate the crossing signal and jogging in place while he waits. Rolling his neck, Alex looks up and—
His foot scuffs against the sidewalk and it lurches him forward, nearly sending him to an early grave. For a moment, he can envision the story they'll spin, the way his obituary will gloss over an unexpected accident to maintain a single shred of his fucking dignity.
The only saving he gets comes in the form of a lamp post that catches his momentum and keeps him from eating a mouthful of concrete as his knees smash into the ground.
A gasp is punched from his lungs, but his gaze immediately leaps back upward toward the row of brownstones across the street. They all blend in together—rustic brown brick faded from years of wear and exposure to New York City smog.
But in the middle, nestled amongst a sea of muddled reds and dying window box plants, there is a large bay window.
Inside, it’s framed by deep maroon curtains, held apart and letting light into the space, giving the world a cropped peek at the story within. There is a single lamp in one corner, tall and simple and illuminating the room in a warm, rose-golden glow that Alex can feel despite the chill in the air around him.
And curled into a plush chair by the window, with a book in his hands and his bottom lip caught between his teeth, is a man.
The man is all long limbs folded together, broad shoulders that would probably swallow Alex completely, a thick coral sweater that stretches across his chest, a halo of blonde hair twisting around his ears and sweeping across his forehead.
Alex stands up and watches him turn a page with a furrow in his brow, his focus on reading sharp and intense. It makes Alex forget about the sting in his knees as he wonders what could be twisting his features like that.
Maybe the man is almost to the climax of the story, the big, unexpected turn of events approaching with rapid speed. Maybe he's concerned about the plot, wondering if he should push through something he isn't enjoying.
All Alex knows for sure is that he is fucking beautiful.
Maybe something more than beautiful, effervescent or ethereal, something that shouldn't exist in a mortal world and be perceived by someone like Alex.
Alex's feet refuse to move him, even when the indicator switches to let him cross the street and go closer. It feels wrong to push further into this bubble of radiant tranquility, as if Alex's mere existence within that realm would tarnish its wonder.
He takes a breath, and his lungs pull in air the same way they always have, expanding to fill his chest and provide oxygen to his body. But something shakes loose in his chest as he exhales, a remnant of a dream or a fragment of a fantasy, something familiar but untouchable, something that Alex yearns for but cannot have.
And then the man looks up.
As if he felt Alex's gaze and steadfast enchantment, blue eyes lift and find Alex's, still watching him, unable to look away.
The man’s mouth drops open as he blinks, head tilting in curiosity, an unspoken question in his stare. There's something soft around the edges of his expression as the moment pauses, stretching between them. The world continues to spin, hypothetically, but for them, it holds still.
A dog barks from somewhere inside, loud and sudden and jarring, breaking their connection.
The man turns to address a beagle who sits at his feet, glancing back up with words poised on his lips that Alex won't hear. Reeling from psychological whiplash, Alex realizes that he's been staring into a complete stranger's window for so long that his watch declares his workout is finished.
And oh.
Fuck.
God, he's been looking in someone's window like a goddamn deranged weirdo. The NYPD has made people spend twenty-four hours in the slammer for acts less invasive than what Alex is doing right now.
Alex nearly trips over his feet as he runs back in the other direction, refusing to look over his shoulder no matter how much he fucking wants to.
At home, Alex jumps into the shower before the water is heated, shivering as his body acclimates to the temperature before the space finally starts to fill with steam. He takes a deep breath and presses his forehead into the sky blue tiles, trying to calm his racing heart. The scorching water feels like a brand on his skin, a sharp contrast to the pleasant heat lingering beneath his sternum as he plays the evening over in his mind.
He's not sure why he's feeling so off-kilter from seeing someone on a run. There are millions of people in New York City—Alex has seen his fair share on the street, in their cars, inside of open windows.
But this one feels different.
Alex can't stop thinking about it.
That night, he stares up at his ceiling and spends hours pondering the breathtaking person inside the window. The man has a name, a birthday, a favorite book, a morning routine, a million things that he is and does and wants.
Alex falls asleep wishing he knew them all.
Alex doesn't consciously plan to go back.
He's out for his evening run two days later, loving the cool air that dances across the exposed skin of his arms. He'll have to start wearing thermal clothes soon, as the autumn fades into winter.
But for now, the weather is mild and wonderful and Alex's favorite.
His chest is heaving as he rounds a corner, not really planning his direction. He's distracted, going through case details from work in his head over and over and over again. There has to be something he's missing, an overlooked detail that Alex needs to find for them to win. It's heavy on his shoulders, the responsibility to figure it the fuck out.
The consequences might be too great if he doesn’t—disappointment and failure and everything else that he fears.
As he turns to his right, Alex glances up and stops short, finding himself outside of a familiar bay window.
The man is there, one knee curled up toward his chest and his book splayed open on his muscular thigh. He's dressed a bit more formally today—khaki slacks and a light blue button-up shirt—but it's clear that he's wound down for the night. His socked feet are propped on the seat in front of him, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, the top open just enough to reveal the tiniest sliver of his pale chest.
Alex's breath catches when he fixates on that exposed skin, the dip in his collarbone. His throat feels dry as he lets his eyes wander to strong forearms, to long fingers wrapped around the side of his book.
He should leave before the man feels his presence and looks up. But Alex’s shoulders aren't rigid around his ears anymore as he watches, some of that earlier tension melting away.
Just one more look, one more breath. That's all—Alex won't linger.
A few seconds pass as he takes a photo in his mind of the scene, serenity and beauty and something so beguiling that Alex wishes he could bottle it up and keep it forever.
It would offer him solace in times of stress, a balm to his aching soul.
Warmth settles and spreads in his chest as Alex steps back, like he's taken the tiniest bit of that peace with him without dimming the light radiating from within. Or maybe it's just something akin to hope flaring to life, an assurance that burns bright, knowing that something this beautiful exists on the inside of an unassuming New York City bay window.
Tucked away. Tranquil. Safe.
As Alex turns and runs back toward his apartment, he smiles.
It becomes a part of his routine.
Alex runs almost every evening anyway, and it’s easy enough to change his route to something more consistent, to point his feet in the direction that they need to go. The man is there reading almost every time, his cheeks rosy and his smile soft, and it gives Alex a sense of comfort to have such steadfast company on his runs.
Even if the man doesn’t notice him—and Alex never stays long enough for a repeat of their first encounter.
Some nights, Alex lets himself imagine himself as part of the picture inside. He dreams that he’s there in that space, drinking wine and pressing tipsy kisses to the pronounced line of the man’s jaw, that he’s letting his lips indulge in the taste of that pale skin because he can, because he’s allowed.
He thinks they would spend their nights wrapped up in each other, bathed in the cozy, golden glow that emanates out the window. Maybe the rest of the world would be on the outside looking in, while Alex gets to love someone with all that he has.
And he would love him, Alex thinks. So, so fucking much.
He doesn’t know how he knows, but that clarity resonates in his goddamn bones every time he lays eyes on his mystery man.
“Be honest with me. How weird is it?” Alex asks Nora over a pizza nearly two weeks later, picking at a piece of pepperoni with his thumb and forefinger. “I never stay. I just like going by and… I don’t know, making sure he still exists. That I didn't make him up in a sleep-deprived hallucination.”
Nora considers him for a long moment, a half-eaten slice suspended in mid-air. “I mean, his window’s open every time, right? Like the curtains aren’t drawn?”
“Never.”
“Then like, three point five out of ten on the weird scale. Maybe four.” Nora tilts her head, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah, probably four for you specifically.”
Alex hums. “Could be fucking worse.”
Nora snickers, flicking a parmesan packet at his chest. “With you? Oh, it could be so much fucking worse.”
So he keeps doing it.
Some days, Alex stops to catch his breath at the corner and lets himself gaze inside for a while. From across the street, the bay window almost looks fabricated; the hues of the room inside contrast with the bland face of the building, making it seem out of place. The man is there, reading or cuddling with his dog or talking on the phone, living his life entirely unaware that he’s changed something in the world outside of his window.
Some days, Alex doesn’t let himself stop at all out of fear of making it too weird. There’s a line, and he may already be flirting with it too much. On those evenings, he slows his pace as he moves past the window, glances in at the man curled up and content in the corner, and keeps going.
One evening when he jogs up, the man isn’t in his usual spot. Instead, he’s standing further inside the apartment with another man. His guest is pouring glasses of wine and talking with hand gestures and an animated expression, and Alex stops to stretch across the street as he watches.
Alex’s man listens and sips his wine, his expression fond as he appraises his friend. And for a long moment, Alex wonders if there’s more there. The two are clearly comfortable and familiar, like they’ve had years to perfect the ease of their dynamic.
But then the guest reaches out as if to brush blonde locks away from those eyes that Alex adores, and the hand is immediately swatted away with a pronounced eye roll.
So, probably just good friends.
The friend glances over his shoulder suddenly, and then four eyes are looking directly at Alex as he lifts his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow.
Shit.
Alex feels stuck, cool air clinging to his damp abdomen as he awaits their reactions.
The friend grins with wide eyes, and Alex’s man smiles crookedly as he says something, the index finger of the hand holding his wine glass lifting as if in a small wave. Alex’s cheeks heat, and he’s thankful for the excuse of exercise to justify it.
But he drops his shirt and waves back before turning and running away as fast as he fucking can.
“I should stop,” he tells Nora the next day, putting his phone on speaker as he sets it on the counter to stir his pasta. “It’s too much. I don’t know why I can’t just… I definitely need to stop, right?”
“Maybe,” Nora replies, sounding bored through the phone. “But I also think having to bail you out of jail would be a formative experience for me.”
Alex snorts. “Well, I’d hate to fucking stunt your development into your final form.”
“What’s my final form?”
“Demon? Sorcerer? Leader of the free world and the surrounding planets?” Alex smiles, despite himself. “Your options are both endless and terrifying.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m not already all of those things.”
“Yeah, that’s my bad,” Alex placates, hesitating. “So, you still think it’s fine?”
“I’m not sure I would say fine,” Nora says, and Alex can perfectly envision her smirking. “But I’m invested and entertained.”
“I’m going stay committed to just… running by and not stopping at all,” Alex asserts, moving his pot and turning off the stove. “I can’t get fucking caught like that again.”
“Right.” Nora makes a noncommittal noise. “I’ll start saving up for your bail.”
A week before Christmas, the cold on Alex's run is piercing.
A snowstorm is forecasted to move in sometime in the next twenty-four hours, and the temperature has dropped rapidly as the day progressed. Now, it's biting into Alex's nose and seeping through his clothing while he pushes himself around a turn. All of the trees are devoid of color now, lifeless and gray and reflecting the gloom in Alex's mind.
His mom called earlier to ask about his flight home in a few days, annoyed when Alex couldn't tell her what impact the weather would have. Alex didn't respond the way she wanted, and it led to a frigid, perfunctory conversation that ended in clipped goodbyes.
Since then, his phone has rung at least six times, rotating through June, Leo, and even Oscar, once.
It's made his chest feel weird and achy, his stomach twisted into knots. He hasn’t eaten in hours, but he’s been restless and nauseous and feeling like he needs to scream.
So he's running harder than he normally would, the freezing air burning where it enters his lungs, heading in the only direction that he knows.
Because he just.
Alex needs to see him.
Just for a second.
He needs to comprehend that beauty survives in this world, held within gentle hands and caught in the curl of a smile. He needs to glance inside that home and breathe in air that has been touched by that steady flame in the dark. He needs to let himself dream, for only a moment, of a life where he knows what it feels like when it's lit inside him, too.
The sun is blocked by the incoming clouds, casting a shadow on the line of brownstones that almost makes the bricks look pink. A few of the doorways have multicolored lights or wreaths hanging on them as Alex passes by, but he slows his steps as he approaches the one he wants to see.
There aren't any wreaths or decorations here, but the curtains of the bay window are wide open, letting warm light wash over the sidewalk outside.
He hasn't stopped in a while, but today Alex lets his body pause. He's been running and running and running for so long, never knowing where he's going.
But somehow, he always winds up here.
And right now, he just wants to fucking stop.
The man is in his usual spot, although today it looks like a puzzle book is resting in his lap instead. There's a yellow wooden pencil held between his fingers as he frowns down at the page, biting the inside of his cheek.
He is as beautiful as he has always been, a refuge for Alex's beaten and bruised heart without even knowing it. After a moment, the furrow between his brows eases as he writes something down. The corners of his lips curl upward, triumphant and proud.
Alex smiles.
Alex closes his eyes.
Alex takes a deep breath.
And when he lifts his gaze again, the man is looking at him.
Shit.
Panic seizes Alex’s chest, energy vibrating down to his toes as his heart rate spikes. He moves to leave, his feet getting in the way of his steps as he turns to go back in the other direction.
But he misjudges his path, forgetting where he was standing on the street relative to other objects.
And runs straight into a fucking lamp post.
Pain spears through the center of his forehead as he stumbles backward, his ass hitting the concrete as he cries out. He presses a hand to his head and curls in on himself, a bump already forming on his skin.
He hears a voice, faraway and muted, as if it's reaching Alex's ears through water. It sounds strange and tilted, something about it not quite right.
Fingertips touch his shoulder, and then hands are framing his face, covering Alex's own. The ringing in his ears subsides just enough, letting sound in.
“Are you alright, love? Can you hear me?”
Alex moves his hand and squints as he opens his eyes. He is there, expression absolutely terrified as he looks down at Alex from where he kneels on the sidewalk.
“Ow,” Alex mutters, wincing at the ache that continues to pulse in his head. “Someone should tell the city there's a fucking pole there. It's really in the way.”
The man laughs, a little breathy, stroking his palm over the side of Alex's face. “You're going to have quite the knot on your head.”
“Oh my God,” Alex says, his brain finally catching up. “You're fucking British.”
“Guilty, I'm afraid.”
“I can't believe I've been—” Alex blows out a breath, glancing up to take in his mystery man. “Jesus, you're even more beautiful up close.”
The man flushes, and Alex lets his eyes trace that color in a way he's never been able to before.
“Let's get you off the cold ground, hm?” he says, grabbing underneath Alex's elbows and hoisting him up.
Alex steadies himself with a hand on the man’s bicep. “And still so fucking hot, oh my God. How are your arms real? You could knock down a city block with these things.”
The man tilts his head. “Are you concussed?”
“No,” Alex says, then reconsiders. “Well, maybe. But I can’t control my mouth on a good day, so. I mean, like, talking a lot. I just talk a lot. I’m fine with my mouth. I’m great with my fucking mouth, actually—”
“If you can shut it?”
Alex’s eyes snap up, heat flaring in his cheeks, but oh.
The man’s mouth is twisted into a teasing smile. The warmth that Alex has always brushed the surface of through a window is now here, permeating the air and wrapping around Alex like an embrace. His heart stutters in his chest as he sways forward, needing to be as close to it as possible.
But his lips spread into a wicked grin. “Oh, I would keep my mouth wide open for you, sweetheart.”
“Henry,” the man says as his blush deepens, his voice soft and honeyed. “My name is Henry.”
“Henry,” Alex repeats, liking the way it sounds. “I'm Alex, and I feel like I should apologize for staring in your window.”
“Today?”
“Uh.” Alex should keep his mouth shut. He definitely shouldn’t open his lips and blurt, “And maybe a few other times.”
Henry glances to the side and back at Alex, pressing his lips together. “So… I’m not mad, then? You have been looking at me when you come by.”
Alex is going to bury himself in the New York City sewers. “You've noticed before?”
“I've seen you every time, I believe, but Pez insisted that I was making up our connection before he saw you that night a few weeks ago.”
“The man that was with you,” Alex realizes. “Shit, yeah. I'm sorry. I wish I had a good excuse, but I was just… transfixed by you, for some reason. I didn't even mean to—”
“Alex.” Henry stops him, a finger touching Alex's lips. “I left my drapes open on purpose after the first time. I was always looking for you.”
“Oh,” Alex breathes. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. So, you aren't weirded out? Or fucking pissed?”
“The opposite, actually. I'm…” Henry looks down, suddenly bashful. “I'm quite pleased. Although I am terribly sorry about your head, it finally gave me an excuse to talk to you. I'm glad for that.”
“It might be the concussion talking,” Alex starts, realizing that he's still clinging to Henry's shoulders. “But I'm really glad, too.”
Henry grins, flashing his perfect teeth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Alex shifts toward him on impulse, drawn toward a heightened dose of the same glow he's been feeling every time he came by that big, beautiful window.
It was never the place. It was the person.
But Alex knew that.
“Not to be incredibly forward, but I…” Henry swallows, licking his lips. “Would you like to come inside?”
Alex smirks. “We both hear the innuendo there, right? Or is my brain just perpetually fucking horny?”
Henry's eyes widen, barely perceptible, and then he barks a sharp laugh, his smile crooked and gleaming when he meets Alex's gaze. “There was an unintentional double meaning there, but… I'm not necessarily taking either meaning back.”
“Well, either way, I would love to.”
It's a ruse, apparently. Henry gets him inside, and instead of having his filthy way with Alex, he tends to Alex's forehead. There's an ice pack and painkillers, gentle touches and a few questions asked that, according to Google, are a part of concussion protocol for athletes.
Alex behaves himself, hands braced on Henry's waist as his savior fusses over his well-being. He gets an unfettered view of Henry's face and Henry is touching him, so Alex figures it's still a win.
Henry finds out that Alex hasn’t eaten, because apparently Alex completely loses his filter around this man, so he gets force-fed slightly charred grilled cheese and tomato soup that tastes too garlicky. Alex doesn’t complain, accepting the food and, despite the minor flaws, actually enjoying it.
After, they wind up curled on Henry's couch for nearly an hour, talking about everything and nothing—family drama, Henry's dog, the merit of contact sports at the price of player safety. Alex forgets that sex was ever hypothetically on the table as they sit there in the warmth that Alex always envied, the serenity that he always craved. Being surrounded by it is more than Alex ever imagined, like what home is supposed to feel like.
He doesn’t want to leave.
But the storm is still coming, and Alex has phone calls to return. So he can't let himself stay.
Not today.
Henry gives Alex his number on the way out, and Alex promises to call.
“If…” Alex posits, tucking his phone into his pocket at Henry's door. “...you let me kiss you goodnight?”
Henry hums. “Is that truly your big ultimatum? A kiss?”
“I'll call you either way,” Alex admits, his gaze dropping to Henry's lips. “But yeah. I would really like a fucking kiss right now.”
A palm slides around Alex's jaw, fingertips threading into the hair behind his ear. He thinks he stops breathing, the anticipation like a taut rubber band in his chest.
“Well,” Henry says, bumping their noses. “I suppose it's a good thing that I want that, too.”
Henry's kiss feels like what Alex is used to with him—warm, soft, a gentle caress. Alex makes a needy noise in the back of his throat as he hauls Henry closer, closer. It makes Alex have to crane his neck upward to meet Henry's lips, but he opens his mouth and lets Henry's tongue press inside.
It's not enough—Alex thought he was addicted before, but he already knows this is one thing he'll never be able to let go.
“Thank you,” Alex whispers when they pull away, smiling.
“You better call me,” Henry replies, giving Alex's lips another quick peck. “Once you're home safely, preferably.”
“You got it, baby.”
(Their first call connects before Alex's door is even unlocked.)
His name is Henry Fox.
His birthday is March 12, 1997—a year and two weeks before Alex’s.
His favorite book is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and Alex buys him a collector’s edition of the novel for their first birthday together. Henry cries when he opens it and reads it that evening while curled into his nook in the window, his mouth spread into a soft smile.
His morning routine starts by kissing Alex, messy and lazy brushes of their mouths with their legs tangled together. He stretches his long and lean back when he sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He washes his face and brushes his teeth in the en suite bathroom. He feeds David and steeps a cup of Earl Grey tea while he starts Alex’s coffee.
Neither of them leaves for the morning without kissing the other goodbye.
Alex knows Henry now.
Alex loves Henry now.
He gets to be a part of what Henry does, what Henry is, what Henry wants.
What Henry wants includes Alex in his space, always, both of them tucked into that same bay window while the world outside looks in. Maybe the people who pass by see the same thing that Alex saw when they glance inside—a flicker of warmth, a breath of hope, a light in the dark.
With his lips brushing Alex’s temple, Henry asks if they should start closing their curtains.
Alex smiles, shaking his head.
“No, I think it’s okay to let them look.”