Seymour Glass sat on the edge of a sun-bleached dock, his bare feet skimming the surface of the lake. The air smelled of pine and warmed wood, and cicadas droned lazily in the trees. Beside him, the man he loved sat cross-legged, flicking pebbles into the water as if trying to disturb its quiet. Seymour watched the ripples with a detached sort of reverence, then turned his gaze to the man at his side.

He was handsome in an unassuming way—dark hair a little too long, the ghost of a summer tan fading on his arms. Seymour found himself tracing the lines of his face in his mind, the familiar sharpness of his cheekbones, the soft bow of his mouth. He reached out, brushing his fingers against his wrist, and the other man turned to him, smiling—small, private.

“Deep in thought?” the man asked.

Seymour tilted his head. “Always.”

His lover huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “What’s it about this time? The meaning of life? Death? Or just why ducks fly south in the winter?”

Seymour smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Something like that.” He looked back at the lake, watching the wind stir its surface. “Mostly, I was thinking about how lucky I am.”

The other man blinked at him, as if caught off guard, before he reached for Seymour’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You’re allowed to be happy, you know,” he murmured. “Not just in theory. In practice.”

Seymour looked down at their joined hands, and a strange ache pressed against his ribs—not sadness, not entirely. More like longing. The kind of longing that sat deep in his bones, something ancient and unnameable.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m trying.”