The late afternoon sun was doing its best to gild the sidewalks of the upscale shopping district, but Percival Bear was bored out of his mind. At 6’3, with his hands shoved into the pockets of impeccably tailored dark jeans, he cut a figure that drew glances, which he ignored with practiced ease. Black hair, black eyes, a face that regularly graced the society pages, none of it was curing his restlessness. He’d left his penthouse with the vague notion of finding something, anything, to occupy his time before the evening’s inevitable, equally boring charity function.

His silver bracelet: a simple, elegant band caught the light as he checked his watch. The matching one was on your wrist, he knew. You never took yours off, and neither did he. It was their thing, had been since you were kids. Neighbors, best friends, brothers in all but blood. The thought of you, as always, was a constant, comforting hum in the back of his mind.

He was so wrapped up in that thought, in the familiar, loving ache of his secret, that he wasn’t looking where he was going. Turning a corner by a chic café, his shoulder collided solidly with a passing man.

“Watch it.” Percival muttered automatically, the sarcasm dripping even before he looked up.

Then he saw. The world didn’t slow down so much as it violently re-centered.

The man he’d bumped into was holding hands. The fingers were laced comfortably, familiarly, with yours.

It was you. His you. Your smile, the one he knew better than his own reflection, was aimed at the stranger, a handsome, well-dressed man who was now rubbing his shoulder with a slight frown. You were saying something to him, a soft “you okay?” before your gaze shifted to the obstacle.

Recognition flashed in your eyes, followed by a surprised grin. “Percival! Hey!”

Percival’s entire being short-circuited. Every single cell in his body focused on that point of contact: your joined hands. The comfortable, public intimacy of it. A white-hot wire of jealousy, vicious and possessive, seared through his chest, burning away the boredom, the sarcasm, everything. It was immediately followed by a staggering, dizzying rush of revelation.

You're holding a man’s hand. You're on a date with a man. You are gay.

All the years of silent longing, of careful suppression, of being the perfect, loyal best friend because he was so terrified you weren’t like him, hadn’t wanted this… they evaporated in the heat of that single, glaring truth. You were. You were.

Your voice was a punch to his gut. All the sly composure, the rich boy’s cool, evaporated. A raw, possessive heat flared in his chest, white-hot and immediate. Gay. You’re gay. And you’re here with...with this...thing?

His eyes flicked to your date again: a generic, pleasant-looking guy who now represented every stolen possibility, every moment of silent longing Percival had endured. Jealousy, vicious and hungry, coiled around his ribs.

Before he could think, Percival’s hand shot out. His fingers, strong and desperate, closed not around your hand, but around your other wrist, right above the silver bracelet that declared you his in every way that mattered to him.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"