Chapter 1

1: Christmas

Colby finished arranging lights—gold and white and twinkling—across a bookshelf. Felt Jason’s height and weight and action-hero presence arriving beside him. Turned and put an arm around his other half’s waist, fitting their bodies together. “I like the color. It’s a warm sort of gold. If that makes sense.”

“It does.” Jason dropped a kiss above Colby’s right eyebrow, casual and affectionate and therefore miraculous. “What do you think of the stairs?”

Colby looked. The holiday garland wreathed its way up the bannister, green leaves and holly and small shimmering lights; two decorative reindeer, sculpted in metal and flowing lines, held a conversation on the lowest step, off to one side. Jason had set them out, humming carols under his breath. Colby’s laptop had been playing some nineteen-fifties holiday classics, though it’d stopped a bit ago. He’d been listening to the rain.

Cinnamon and pine and roasted chestnut scents wafted. Coffee and freshly-baked sugar cookies waited in the kitchen. They hadn’t got a tree yet, though that’d been the plan for the afternoon; small old-fashioned lanterns glowed and glass jars of pinecones perched on shelves and a delicate spray of bronze snowflakes cavorted around the window. The front door wore a holiday-steampunk wreath, full of small gears and toy-workshop tools in bronze and dark green and crimson and deep gold.

The front door. Theirfront door. Their home, here in London. Himself and Jason, because Jason’s workout equipment and fantasy roleplaying game manuals and massive shoulders had moved in. Himself and Jason, because they’d fallen in love on set and off, through characters and love scenes and afternoons spent running lines and shared book recommendations. Because Jason had stayed with him when he’d been injured, and Colby had told that enormous kind heart a few secrets he’d never shared with anyone, and he and Jason had each other, now.

Like the holidays, he thought. Every day.

He leaned against Jason, secure in the knowledge of happiness. “I love it.”

“I love you.” Jason touched a finger to Colby’s cheek; Colby promptly kissed the fingertip. Jason went on, “Not sure you want to go out and get a tree in this? I know you love rain, but this feels like a weather wizard’s working out frustrations.”

“Welcome to England in December. Laurie wants to know my mince pie recipe, so we can find and practice that instead, and acquire a tree when there isn’t a deluge. It’s been at least two years since I’ve made those.” Sir Laurence Taylor apparently liked to cook, especially sweets, and cheerfully texted at random times to send pictures or ask questions. Colby occasionally looked at the name of that venerable acting legend popping up on his phone, and then had to sit down and remind himself that this was real.

He’d worked with other actors, with big names, before. Sir Laurence was the sort of name that the otherbig names murmured about, with awe.

They’d been lucky to have him on Steadfastat all, much less in the significant role of Colby’s on-screen father. And somehow he’d decided that Colby needed a friend, or at least perhaps they both needed someone to talk to about Shakespeare and sticky toffee pudding.

“Not sure I’ve ever had a real mince pie.” Jason had become sidetracked by traditional holiday foods. “It’s got…raisins?”

“And currants, and apples, and mixed peel, and in my version brandy and a bourbon cream sauce. I’m absolutely going to need a new suit fitting before our premiere. Speaking of, did you see Jill’s text?”

“About meeting up whenever we’re back in LA to see my family? Yeah. I’ll check with Mom tonight and we can figure out the timing.” Jason’s hands snuck beneath Colby’s jumper, under violet knit, resting over bared skin. “You feel nice.”

“I’ve put on weight.”

“Nice,” Jason repeated, with some emphasis; Colby knew perfectly well that those big soulful brown eyes worried. Jason had never liked how thin he’d been, back when he’d kept forgetting to eat and hadn’t bothered cooking much and hid cold weary bones under layers of shirts and scarves and armor.

“You want me to make lunch? Something with stuffed peppers and sweet potatoes, maybe? Something easy.”

“I do love it when you cook for us.” He did. Jason was in fact an excellent cook, having grown up with a mother and grandmother who held very loud Italian opinions about sauces and risotto and garlic. Jason had, before Colby, got out of the habit of making anything, living alone and single in Los Angeles and not going to the trouble; but he’d always liked cooking for partners, he’d said, if someone wanted him to, and the hint of bashful embarrassed hope had gone straight to Colby’s heart and woven gold into all the cracks.