Fridays (m/m)

 The First Friday

The clock strikes 5 pm, and the sleek lobby of VegaTech begins to fill with people. Most of them stare a bit, as they walk by me on their way to a well-deserved weekend. I’m an easy target to stare at, from the huge electric wheelchair to my habit of decorating it with pride flags. One of the men walking by gives me that furtive, out-of-the-corner-of-his-eye-once-over-look that I can clock as a certain kind of interest from a mile away. He’s cute enough, and usually, I’m always up to a flirt with a devotee, but today I ignore him. My sister Vanessa is now officially an hour late. That might not be a big deal for some people, but for me it’s a deal the size of the Louisiana Purchase.

Next to me, Steve is pacing. He’s a good guy and a great caregiver, but after a 12 hour shift stretching into a 13th hour, he’s just as annoyed as I am. His wife and kids are waiting back home, but I absolutely must not be left alone ever, for fear something could go wrong with my vent, and Steve will stick by my side until Vanessa is here to take his place. Among many other duties she has, it’s her job to take me to my weekly therapy appointment. I already missed it last week, and I’m still pissed off about it.

Steve points towards the elevators.

“Isn’t that dude over there on Nessy’s team?”

He’s right. A guy in cargo shorts and a dark blue VegaTech polo shirt, one of Vanessa’s fellow engineers, fresh out of the elevator, spots me hanging out by the reception desk and jogs over.

“Sorry, Toby! Nessy is still upstairs, the new manager just gave us a new deadline.”

Oh, yes, same as last week. Three months ago, the kind older gentleman who understood my sister’s time constraints as one of my carers was replaced by a jerk straight from company headquarters. Ever since my usually dependable sister has become flaky. I understand her worries, and of course, her cushy position at VegaTech is what keeps us afloat, but I also need to be at my appointment, or I’ll risk losing the very little function I have left as a c1/c2 quad.

That’s it. VegaTech likes to brag about their track record with inclusivity. It’s time to see what that’s worth. Using the sip-and-puff control, I turn my power chair around and make my way over to the reception desk.

“Hi, Kristy. Can you tell Mr. Gerber that Toby Burnett is here to see him?”

Steve hovers over my shoulder as Kristy, the receptionist, makes a call. She knows me, of course, as I do her. Nessy is much older than I am and has worked at VegaTech for a decade. Kristy has known me since the early days of my sister turning into my guardian, after the accident that killed our parents and my independence.

Finally, she waves me to the elevator, with directions to an office on the top floor.

“Vanessa will be so mad, Tobes,” Steve whispers as he hovers over my shoulder, but I’m too angry to care.

I chew on my lower lip during the long elevator ride, annoyed beyond reason that the doors actually are the perfect size to maneuver through. Some serious thought went into making this building perfectly accessible, and it riles me up even more that the same thoughtfulness doesn’t extend to considering Nessy’s duties as my carer.

We get out on a long white hallway, without any pesky corners, and I set out for the door at the end of it, the one next to the plaque “Trent Gerber, Manager”.

Steve follows right behind me.

“Open the door, please,” I say, stopping my chair in front of it.

Steve looks at me as disapprovingly as I’ve ever seen him, but he does as I’ve told him to without hesitation. He mumbles something under his breath that sounds like “really should have knocked first”, but I’m too distracted by the sight in front of me.

My sister’s manager from hell is leaning over a large scale model of a complicated looking machine on a table by the window. The navy VegaTech polo shirt that looks a little goofy on my sister and her colleagues hugs tight pecs and thick arms. His jawline would make a Hemsworth jealous, and he has an expression of such serenity on his face that I feel a twinge of regret for barging into his office like this.

Then he notices me, and I can tell how his shields go up. He crosses his arms and looks at me, his face blank but his eyes narrowed.

Trent Gerber is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and he immediately proves that he’s also a cold hateful bastard as the first thing he says to me is -

---

“You're older than I thought.”

My own voice sounds so weird in my ears, but that’s quintessentially me. Hi, I’m Trent Gerber and I’m way in over my head in all conversations at all times. At least I remembered to cross my arms, or I’d have broken the model by now. I become twitchy when I have to speak to people, but my coach says crossed arms aren’t as bad as people say, body-language wise, so I keep them like that whenever someone enters my office.

The young man in front of me raises an eyebrow. There’s not much else he can do, probably, considering his head is tied to a wheelchair headrest with rainbow colored velcro. He certainly can’t cross his arms, which are stick-thin and rest on lambskin armrests. But, man, that arrogant eyebrow raise is devastating and takes me right back to when I had zero friends in middle school.

“What did you expect? A toddler?” he says. His forehead is furrowed, underneath the velcro.

I don’t know what I expected to be honest. The reception desk called me about so-and-so, someone’s little brother, being in the building for a meeting. I’m fairly certain names were mentioned, but I had been busy with a delta configuration at the time and didn’t pay much attention. Only when he wheeled into my office, I realized that younger brothers' surprise visits to their sisters’ manager are probably not common occurrences.

I’m terrible at guessing ages, but he reminds me somewhat of my little cousin Ash, who is a college freshman. They have the same floppy blond hair, although Toby has a sharper face and limbs. That was his name! Toby Burnett!

“What kind of name is Toby?” I ask, and cringe inside right away, because I had no intention to say that out loud.

Toby’s cheeks flush pink, which is never a good sign in my experience, and I feel like an asshole, for just the moment it takes him to get another breath pumped into his lungs.

“Listen, if you weren’t such a shit manager, you would know about me, ok? My sister has a giant picture of me on her desk.”

I only have a vague recollection of his sister and an even vaguer recollection of her desk. She might be one of the engineers working on the VegaTech flagship project, but I’m not sure. I wish I was working on that project myself, but HQ had insisted on my promotion to a management position instead.

Toby glares at me with narrowed eyes. He’s right, I am a shit manager, but I’m one hell of an engineer, and something has been bugging me since Toby first opened his mouth.

“Your voice is messed up.”

He clenches his jaw, like a vise tightening.

“Yeah, I fucking know. I should be at speech therapy right now. But you have my sister working late, and I need her to take me because I can’t get there myself.”

I ignore him.

There’s an odd pattern to his speech. He’s on a VegaVent Pro, which should have smoother speech support, but his breathing is out of sync. Not by much, maybe a few milliseconds every other breath, but it’s noticeable to me. It’s been a while since I worked in that department, but I doubt they’d change a fundamental feature like that. He obviously doesn’t realize, we all are deaf to our own voices, but maybe his aide can tell me more, so I turn to him.

“How long has his synchronization been off?” I ask, pointing at the VegaVent.

“What the fuck? He’s not a child. You can ask him yourself!” the man says. His voice is loud which I don’t care for, but HQ was adamant that I’m not allowed to wear any ear covers in the office.

I choose to ignore him, too. Uncrossing my arms, I kneel down next to Toby’s chair to inspect the vent. I have always liked machines better than people, and I owe my career to being good with machines. Although, of course, my career has in turn led me to this excruciating office.

Whoever services his vent is an idiot, I realize as soon as I’m close enough to check the calibration. “Look, it’s the —”

Toby’s voice rises in alarm. “What the hell is he doing back there? Don’t touch it! Steve, help!”

Before I can react, the aide, Steve, grabs my arm and pulls me back from the wheelchair.

I hate absolutely nothing more than being touched unexpectedly, and I’ve had a long week, with too many people and not enough time with machines.

I’m not proud of what happens next.

The Second Friday 

I’ve never had a walk of shame - one, because I lost the ability to walk when I was 10, and two, because I usually have no shame and the men I have sex with come to my house. 

But this? Rolling up to the reception desk of VegaTech at 4 pm on a Friday afternoon? 

Yes, that very much feels like a walk of shame, after the disaster of last week. 

“Hi, Kristy,” I say to the receptionist. “Toby Burnett for Trent Gerber. I… I do have an appointment.” 

She knows. I can tell from the little pause before she picks up the phone, and the double glance at my caregiver. At least my carer isn’t someone she - or VegaTech security - does have to worry about. This time. 

Poor Steve still isn’t totally over the reaction he got from his honest attempt to defend me, and Trent Gerber probably isn’t too keen on seeing Steve again, so I took the initiative and switched the carer schedule around a bit. I have Caro with me today, who is 5’3’’, wears dungarees and is about as threatening as a newborn kitten. 

Kristy gives us directions to a conference room and waves us to the elevator, in which Caro makes pleasant small talk with one of Nessy’s friends, but I just listen in. Nerves… 

I have to roll through an open floor office space on the way to our meeting, and people are whispering. Roll of shame? I try to convince myself that I don’t care. At least my sister won’t be present, and that’s a small mercy to be thankful for. 

Caro opens the door to the conference room, and Trent is there, with some woman from HR and… my sister. She glares at me. 

Fuck. 

I do my best to look very cute and very disabled for what comes next, which really isn’t hard because I am in fact very cute and very disabled, but the conversation is mostly between Nessy and the HR lady, who seems overworked to the extreme. 

I zone out in record time, because Trent Gerber is still so hot. He’s in a white button down today, with the sleeves rolled up over veiny lower arms. I want to bite his arms and then lick each of his fingers, if only he’d let me, and that is as unlikely as me getting up from my wheelchair. 

Trent hates this meeting. Now that I know what I’m looking for, it’s so obvious. His shields are up. Too many people, probably. 

“Excuse me,” I interrupt, smiling my best ‘I am just a poor, innocent cripple’ smile. “Could I have a moment alone with Trent?” 

My sister, who knows me much better than is healthy, narrows her eyes at me, but the HR lady tries to exchange eye contact with Trent, fails at that, then gathers her papers and nods. 

“Of course,” she says, pulling Nessy with her. “We’ll be right outside.”

They leave. Caro and I exchange a look, much more successfully, and she leaves with them. 

Finally alone with Trent and his biteable forearms.  I give him a moment to decompress in silence, before I speak. 

“I’m sorry,” I say. It seems appropriate, and it’s true. 

He tilts his head. 

“Why are you sorry?” 

I stare at him, but it doesn’t seem like he’s joking. 

“My caregiver assaulted you and caused you to -” 

“No,” Trent interrupts me. “He did nothing wrong. You two didn’t know that I wasn’t some random idiot. I tried to touch your vent, Toby. Your vent!" 

Trent's voice echoes with a mix of frustration and urgency, as if he's still processing what happened last week.

I pause, guilt bubbling up. God, I still can’t believe I missed it last week. The signs were there, and I was too wrapped up in my own frustration to notice. Yeah, Trent messed up by touching my vent, but the fallout? That meltdown? That was more on us than I’d thought.

"Okay, yeah, you touched my vent, but let’s not pretend like the rest of it was a walk in the park for you," I say, trying to keep it light but feeling a little sick thinking about it.

Trent’s eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

I quirk one eyebrow. "You had an autistic meltdown, man. It wasn’t pretty."

His face goes tight for a second, and I think maybe I shouldn’t have said it. But I’m not gonna dance around the truth either. He stares at me, trying to process it, and then his lips press into a thin line.

"I didn’t—" He stops, maybe realizing there’s no point pretending. He rubs a hand over his stupidly square jaw, looking away. "Okay, fine. I did. But your caregiver grabbed me. I don’t— I can’t handle that."

"Yeah, I get it. Steve didn’t know, though, and honestly, neither did I. But, uh… I probably should’ve." I pause, feeling weirdly guilty. "I’m sorry."

Trent blinks at me, like I’ve just said something shocking. “No. I missbehaved. It's all on me." 

"Call it even?" I offer. "You tried to fiddle with my vent, Steve overreacted, everything went sideways. We all messed up. No hard feelings?"

He hesitates, but then nods, his shoulders finally relaxing a bit. "Even."

We sit there for a second in silence, and it’s awkward, but not the bad kind of awkward. More like the kind where you’re trying to figure out what comes next. 

"Also," I add, "maybe next time, just ask before you go messing with my life support, yeah?"

Trent winces. "I wasn’t ‘messing’ with it. I was assessing."

I snort. "Assessing, fiddling—same thing. Just ask next time."

Another silence. I’m trying to decide if this is the part where I make some awkward small talk or if we should just leave it at that when he clears his throat.

"Your ventilator," he says, suddenly serious again. "It wasn’t working right. I noticed the sync was off."

I blink at him. "What?"

He nods, his eyes narrowing with that same hyper-focused intensity he had last Friday. "Yes. It’s a VegaVent Pro, right? The timing’s off by a few milliseconds. It’s subtle, but it’s there."

I stare at him. I’ve been using this vent for years, and no one’s mentioned anything like that before. But Trent doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to just make stuff up for the hell of it.

"And you’re telling me this now because…?" I prompt.

"Because you should get it checked. Whoever calibrated it last didn’t do it properly. It might explain why your speech is out of sync sometimes."

I narrow my eyes at him. "So you’re saying my vent is screwing up my speech?"

He shrugs, not backing down. "It’s possible."

I don’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. "And you didn’t think to mention this last week when you were, you know, touching my vent?"

He looks genuinely puzzled for a second, like he’s not sure why I’d even ask that. "That's what I'm trying to tell you right now. That I was trying to. Before your caregiver grabbed me."

I stare at him, and yeah, I feel bad for him again. "Right. Well, next time lead with that, maybe."

"Next time I won’t touch your vent without asking first," he says. He’s so earnest, and absurdly handsome, and I need to get out of here. 

"Alright, Trent. I’ll get my vent checked, just in case. But for now, we’re good." I give him a slow blink, my version of a nod. "We good?"

"Actually" he says, and there’s something in his voice that tells me he means it. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.” 

---

“Actually,” I say, and the second the word is out of my mouth, my pulse picks up. It’s like I’m on a tightrope, and one wrong word is going to send me spiraling down into the abyss. But the conversation has been going surprisingly well—better than I expected. Toby hasn’t stormed out, yelled at me, or done anything that would indicate this is a total disaster. So, I take the plunge. "There’s something I wanted to ask you."

He looks at me, one eyebrow lifting slightly, waiting.

And now I have to explain. My chest tightens a bit, but I force myself to stay calm. I’ve rehearsed this in my head 547 times since last week, but now that the moment’s here, it’s… harder than I thought.

“I’m failing,” I blurt out. Toby’s eyes widen slightly, and I cringe internally. Great start, Trent.

“I mean, not technically failing,” I try again, backpedaling. “But as a manager. I’m… not good at it. People are…” I pause, searching for the right words. “People are like puzzles, but I don’t have the pieces. I like them. I think they like me, too, but I’m—"

“Terrible at talking to them?” Toby offers, with a wry smile.

I nod, grateful he’s cut to the chase. “Yes. Exactly. Talking, understanding, managing… All of it. It’s like everyone speaks a different language, and I’m the only one without a translator.”

I glance down at the floor, my anxiety creeping back up. But Toby doesn’t say anything, just waits for me to go on. 

“When you… during my, uh…” I swallow, hating the word, but knowing there’s no other way to describe it. “During my meltdown, you handled everything.”

Toby’s face remains neutral, but I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He’s waiting for me to explain where this is going. My heart pounds harder. I haven’t asked for help like this before. I don’t usually need it. But this—this I can’t fix on my own.

“You delegated to Steve, to your sister, to my PA, and the…” I pause again, swallowing. "The EMTs. Everyone listened to you. I don’t… I can’t do that. But I need to. And I was thinking…” I pause, feeling my stomach twist. Here it goes. “Maybe you could help me.”

Toby’s brow furrows. “Help you? With… managing people?”

“Yes,” I say, relieved he got the point so quickly. “Exactly. You seem to… know how to handle people. And I don’t. I thought maybe…” I take a breath. “Maybe you could be a relationship manager. Like…” I pause, suddenly realizing he might not get the reference. “Like Jen from The IT Crowd.”

Toby just stares at me, completely blank.

“Never seen it,” he says flatly.

Of course. I wince internally. “Okay, uh, it’s this show. Jen’s the only one in the IT department who doesn’t understand computers, but she’s really good with people. She keeps everything running smoothly.”

“So, you want me to be your people-Jen?” Toby asks. Both his eyebrows are level. I decide that’s a good sign. 

“Yes, exactly.” I shift in my chair, feeling the nerves crawling up my spine again. “You… you have a way of reading people, Toby, and then get them to do stuff. I don’t know how, but you do. And I could really use that. My department… it’s not running smoothly. People are frustrated. And I think you could help me figure out how to fix it.”

Toby’s quiet for a moment, and my heart starts to hammer in my chest. I’ve probably overstepped. He’s going to say no. He’s going to think this is the dumbest idea ever, and—

“You want me to notice things,” Toby says, interrupting my mental spiral.

I blink, not quite sure how to respond. “Yes?”

He chuckles, a dry, almost amused sound. “Well, you picked the right guy, I guess. I noticed a lot coming in here today.”

My pulse slows a bit. “Yeah?”

Toby looks around the room, thinking for a second before turning back to me. “First off, your receptionist, Kristy? She’s polite, sure, but she’s checked out. Half the time she’s looking at her phone when people walk by. Doesn’t even make eye contact.”

I blink. I hadn’t noticed that. “She is?”

Toby nods. “Yup. And the guy in the elevator with us, one of the developers? He was talking to Caro about how none of his PTO requests get approved. Said he’s been trying to get in touch with someone in management for weeks. And my sister's department? Horribly overworked.”

I feel a twinge of anxiety. This is the first I’ve heard about it. “No one told me…”

Toby blinks. Slowly. “Yeah, because no one’s talking to you. You’ve got a communication bottleneck somewhere. People aren’t connecting with you, Trent. And from the look of it, your team’s morale is circling the drain.”

I feel like I’ve just been hit with a tidal wave of information. How did I miss all this? I lean back in my chair, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize.”

“That’s because you’re good at machines,” Toby says, matter-of-factly. “Not people. But that’s okay. You’re not supposed to be good at everything.”

I look up at him, surprised at the blunt honesty in his tone. He doesn’t say it like an insult, just a fact. “And you are?”

“I don’t know,” Toby says. “But I’m better than you.”

I should feel insulted, but strangely, I don’t. 

Toby narrows his eyes, considering. “So you want me to help you… figure out what’s going on with your team, and then take over communication. Like a Trent-Team translator. That it?”

I nod. “Yes. Exactly. So… you’ll do it?”

He stares at me for a moment longer, like he’s weighing something. He stares at my forearms for bits. Then he gives the slow blink again.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m in.”

The Fifth Friday 

Four weeks later, and I still can't believe it. I have a job. Like, a real job. With a contract and benefits. Benefits! It’s kind of insane when I think about it too much, so I try not to. Because, honestly, a month ago, the idea that I’d ever have a job, much less one like this, was laughable. 

But here I am.

I’ve been working from home mostly, and I’ve gotten into a rhythm. Trent set me up with everything I needed—VPN access, Slack, the whole deal. It’s still weird to say I’m “working.” Even weirder to say I’m “working with Trent Gerber.” The Trent who spent hours in video calls, sometimes just watching me while I pointed out who was frustrated, who was bored, and who probably hadn’t read a single email he sent.

But you know what? The team’s starting to get used to me. 

The first couple of days - ok, the first few weeks - were awkward, sure. No one knew how to talk to me, not really. I’d ping someone on Slack, and I could almost feel the hesitation in their typing. Like, oh god, what do I say to this guy in a wheelchair? But after I stepped in to help a few of them untangle the communication bottlenecks, things started to shift. I’m not just “Toby, the guy with the ventilator” anymore—I’m “Toby, the guy who gets shit done.”

Yesterday, Trent and I actually had a discussion about how to handle PTO requests. Trent, bless him, didn’t realize how backed up things had gotten. It was a simple enough fix, but that’s the thing—*I* fixed it. Me. And Trent actually listened, which still throws me off a little. He’s in charge, but he doesn’t act like he’s above asking for help when he needs it.

And then there’s Fridays. Fridays are different. 

On Fridays, I come to the office. 

Which means I have to sit through a couple of hours of pretending I’m not aware of how ridiculously hot Trent is. I want to do unholy things to him, and one of my favorite booty calls allowed me to call him Trent in bed a few times, but it's really not the same.

I want the real Trent.

I roll into the lobby, Caro trailing behind me, and give a little blink to Kristy at the desk. She nods at me like I work here. I love it.

Once we’re upstairs, it doesn’t take long to spot Trent. He’s by the glass-walled conference room, leaning over some schematic, talking to one of the engineers. He’s in that shirt, of course. The way the fabric stretches over his shoulders is so unfair it should be illegal. 

I make a point of not staring. Much.

Caro opens the door to the conference room for me, and Trent looks up as I roll in. His face does that thing it’s been doing lately—where he starts out looking all serious and focused, but then when he sees me, there’s this brief flicker of relief. Like he’s glad I’m here to help him navigate the chaos. Which, honestly, is kind of a wild feeling. I never expected to be needed in a place like this.

"Morning, Toby," Trent says, giving me a small nod. His voice is always so level, but I’ve learned to read the small shifts in his body language. The way his arms uncross a little when I’m around, how he stands just a bit less rigid. He’s getting more comfortable with me, and weirdly, I am too. 

"Morning," I say, glancing at the schematic on the table. "What’s the crisis today?"

Trent exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a while. "More miscommunication. We’ve got some designs stuck in limbo because no one’s sure who’s supposed to approve the latest round of changes."

I give him a pointed look. "You mean you forgot to set up a proper chain of command."

He looks down, like a scolded puppy. "Something like that."

I chuckle, pulling up my chair. "Well, lucky for you, that’s why I’m here."

I catch Trent giving me a quick glance before turning back to the schematics. His eyes linger a bit, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s thinking about the design or if he’s just… noticing. Noticing me, the way I notice him, and it throws me for a second. But he clears his throat, breaking the moment.

"Yeah, lucky for me," he mutters.

We dive into work, and I have to admit, I like this routine. I’m good at reading people, and I can see the subtle shifts in the department already. People are coming to me with issues, problems they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up to Trent before. It’s all running smoother, and it’s not just because I’m good with people. It’s because Trent’s finally got someone to filter through the noise for him.

But damn if Fridays aren’t the hardest day of the week. Not because of the work. That part’s fine. It’s just the constant distraction of being in the same room with Trent. The way he moves, the way his mind works—hell, even the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s thinking too hard.

It’s all just a little too distracting for my own good.

I glance down at my stick-thin arms, resting on the lambskin pads of my chair, the ventilator quietly hissing beside me. My body is a constant reminder of how far removed I am from the world Trent moves in. It doesn’t bother me, believe me. I’ve got devotees on tap if I want sex. But I still catch myself thinking, What would it be like to suck Trent’s dick?

---

It’s been a month since Toby officially started, and everything is running smoother than it has since I got transfered here. It’s no surprise to me, really. From the first time I saw how he handled that chaos during my meltdown, I knew Toby had this natural ability to manage people. It’s like second nature to him, and now that I know more about his life, it makes perfect sense. 

He’s been managing his own care team since he was, what, thirteen? Fourteen? Now he’s twenty-one, and he’s spent years coordinating nurses, caregivers, doctors, therapists, probably his sister too. Managing a department full of engineers? That’s nothing compared to what he’s been doing since he was practically a kid. 

But what I didn’t expect—what I couldn’t have predicted—is how much I enjoy his company. 

It’s weird, because I don’t usually feel comfortable around people. Like, ever. I’m always on edge, always anticipating the next move, the next gesture, always trying to predict if someone’s going to touch me or cross a boundary without meaning to. I’m bad at catching the subtle cues, the little movements that other people seem to pick up on so easily. It’s exhausting, constantly being on high alert.

But with Toby? None of that applies.

There’s no unnecessary body language to decode, no sudden movements, no awkward social cues to try to pick apart. Toby’s physical expression is 80% eyebrows, and he says what he means. Always. It’s so simple. So… endlessly relaxing. 

I’m not waiting for him to touch me unexpectedly, or to invade my space. I don’t have to be hyperaware of every twitch or fidget. His presence is calm, still. It’s like all the noise in my head that usually comes with dealing with people is dialed down when I’m around him. 

We’re in the conference room, reviewing some team updates for a project I’ve been struggling to get moving. Toby’s leaning back in his chair, his eyebrows doing most of the work as he reads through the notes I’ve shared with him. His breathing is steady, mechanical, and after a month, I’ve gotten used to the soft rhythm of the ventilator beside him. It’s soothing.

He lifts an eyebrow, glancing up at me. "Trent, are you seriously telling me you’ve been holding off on this approval for two weeks because you were waiting on Mark?"

I blink, focusing back on the discussion. "He said he needed more information before he could move forward."

Toby rolls his eyes, and - see, that's what I mean. It’s enough to communicate the frustration he doesn’t bother to hide. "Mark’s waiting for you to approve his request. He’s been asking for it for days, but no one told you."

I stare at him for a second, running through the last week of messages in my head. Mark… hadn’t mentioned anything directly to me. Which means… "Right," I mutter, realizing my mistake. "Another communication issue."

Toby’s eyebrows do a little up-down dance. "Yep. Fix that, and you’ll probably save yourself half a dozen future headaches."

I nod, making a mental note. This is why I brought him in. He catches things like this—things I’m blind to. He spots the problems, and he just handles them. No fuss, no awkward conversation, just… clarity. 

I’ve never met anyone who makes communication look this easy. It’s like he’s got a user manual for how people work, while I’ve been trying to read a book with half the pages missing. With Toby, everything just makes sense.

"What’s next?" Toby asks, his voice pulling me back to the present.

I glance at my notes, rubbing the back of my neck. "PTO approvals. I’m not sure what to do about the backlog."

Toby raises an eyebrow—again. Seriously, I could write an entire dictionary on eyebrow expressions at this point. "You don’t need to handle every request yourself, Trent. Delegate. Isn’t that why you’ve got team leads?"

I pause, blinking at him. "Delegate?"

"Yes, delegate. You know, that thing where you let other people do their jobs?"

There’s that dry humor again. It’s subtle, and I’m starting to realize it’s one of the things I like about him. He never complicates things just to make a point. He just says what he means, and he doesn’t waste words.

"I guess I… hadn’t thought about it that way," I admit, feeling a little embarrassed.

Toby smiles at me. It feels so nice when he smiles at me. "You’re an engineer, Trent, not an octopus. You don’t have to have a hand in every single project."

HQ would certainly disagree, but I can’t help it—his tone, the way he delivers these brutally honest truths without making it feel like an attack, it makes me laugh. It’s short, just a chuckle, but it feels… good. Relaxed.

Toby glances at me, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You actually laughed. I was starting to think you didn’t know how."

I shake my head. "I do. It just doesn’t happen that often."

"Clearly," Toby says, deadpan.

I catch myself watching him for a moment too long, and quickly turn back to my notes.

"Alright," I say, clearing my throat. "We’ll get the PTO thing sorted out. Anything else I should be worrying about?"

Toby gives me that slow blink again. "Not yet. But don’t worry. I’ll let you know the second there’s a fire to put out."

He has very pretty eyes, and I idly wonder what his mouth feels like.

The Thirtyfourth Friday 

Six months. I’ve been working at VegaTech for six whole months, coming into the office every Friday like clockwork, and I can’t believe how normal it all feels. At first, it was weird—being part of an office culture, having people come to me for advice, managing a team—but now? I know the place inside out. People are used to me. They don’t flinch when I ping them on Slack anymore or when I roll through the hallways with Caro trailing behind me on Fridays.

The performance in the department is through the roof, and it’s not like I’m patting myself on the back or anything, but… okay, maybe I am. Figuratively, of course. Patting anything, not a strength of mine. But, allow me to be proud, ok? We’ve turned things around. Trent’s finally delegating, people are communicating, and everything is running smoothly. But there’s one tiny, not-so-insignificant problem. 

I’m in love with Trent.

Not even in lust—though that was how it started, like it usually does. I’ve been in lust before, plenty of times, and made more than a few devotees very happy in the process. But this? This is different. This isn’t just about how hot he looks in those stupid button-downs or how his sleeves hug his arms. It’s not just about the way his voice makes my heart trip over itself whenever he says my name.

It’s something deeper. Something I haven’t felt before. 

Love.

That four-letter word that I thought only belonged to other people, not me. It’s unnerving. Terrifying, even. I’ve heard it all before: Don’t fall for the straights, don’t fall for the ones who can’t fall for you back. But I went ahead and did it anyway, like the world’s biggest idiot. Why not the man in the moon while I’m at it?

I mean, Trent isn’t just your run-of-the-mill straight guy. He’s thoughtful, kind in his awkward way, and genuinely listens to me. And for someone who’s spent his life managing machines instead of people, he’s surprisingly warm. He’s also just… comfortable to be around. And that’s what gets me, every time. The ease, the way I don’t have to decode anything with him. No games, no pretenses, just honesty. 

And that’s what makes this whole thing even worse. My gaydar is flawless, believe me, and he’s as straight as an arrow. Gay guys check me out, maybe not with all out attraction for most of them, but just that fleeting thought of wondering how it would be to fuck my face always shows. I’m a cute twink, what can I say. 

 And Trent? Either straight, or not interested in sex at all. And I went ahead and fell for him. 

I can feel my stupid heart doing its stupid flutter thing as I watch him from across the room, leaning over one of his latest project schematics. The guy’s in his usual Friday look—another one of those damn button-downs, rolled up at the sleeves—and I’m trying very hard to focus on work. But it’s hard. It’s always hard, lately.

And then, out of nowhere, Trent’s PA says something that makes the world tilt on its axis.

“You better wear that blue shirt to dinner with Harry tonight. It looks good on you.”

Harry? Who is Harry? There’s no Harry here at VegaTech, no client… I know Trent’s schedule by heart! 

I pull up his calendar with my eye gaze, and fuck, fuck, fuck. There’s a gigantic chunk blocked tonight. Private. 

Trent looks down at his blue shirt, the one that makes his eyes pop, the one I love the most on him, and he looks at his PA with a shy smile. 

“You think he’ll like it?”  He’s completely unaware of the internal meltdown happening in my head. “I’m taking him to that new Thai fusion place downtown.”

I stare at him. My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, as I’m trying to put two and two together, and all I’m getting is zero. My brain can’t compute. The PA disappears, leaving me alone with Trent and the crumbling ruins of my illusions. 

It was me.

Trent—straight-laced, no-nonsense, painfully hot Trent—is going on a date with a guy. And my fucked up, paralyzed body kept him from checking me out. How could I be so fucking stupid? Of course, there have to be men that can't get it up at all at the sight of me, no matter how many devotees think I'm the hottest guy imaginable. Like, I wouldn't want to fuck me, either, now that we're in brutally honest territory. I certainly have never checked out another quad... And yet, I somehow cling to that last shred of hope, that maybe I misunderstood, that maybe Trent isn't gay, that maybe, maybe I'm not totally repulsive to the man I love. I never thought I'd hope for Trent to be straight one day.

I manage to be quiet for exactly five minutes, and then Trent turns and looks at me, about to say something, and I can’t take it anymore. 

“You are gay?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

The words hang in the air between us, and suddenly, the room feels too small, too bright, and I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to feel about any of this.

---

“You are gay?”

The question just hangs there, suspended in the air between us like it’s the most surprising thing Toby could ever imagine. I blink at him, completely flabbergasted. 

Where is that coming from? Yes, I’m gay. I’ve never hidden it, but I’ve never made it a thing either. It just… is. But Toby looks like he just realized I’m an alien from another planet. I’m totally baffled by that turn in our conversation, but maybe I did something… gay? I often don’t understand why conversations take turns, so maybe I did give a gay signal by accident. I clear my throat, feeling intensely awkward under the weight of his stare.

 “Uh, yeah. I am.”

He’s still staring, like this is some revelation. Which makes no sense, because Toby’s been very open about being queer from day one. The rainbow flags on his chair, the way he talks about dating… It’s never been a question for him. But for some reason, this—me being gay—seems to have caught him off guard.

“Why does it matter?” I ask, genuinely confused.

Toby blinks, like he’s coming back to reality. “It doesn’t,” he says quickly, his voice just a little too high-pitched, like he’s lying to himself as much as he’s lying to me. “I mean, it doesn’t matter matter. Just… I didn’t know. That’s all.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, and I feel like I should say something to fill it, but my mind is blank. Toby’s usually the one who’s quick with a joke, or something to break the tension. Right now, though, he just looks… rattled? Oh no. 

“Well,” I say, fidgeting with the edge of the paper on the table, “I didn’t exactly send out a memo.”

Should I have? 

He smiles, but it’s forced. “Yeah, I guess not.” 

I feel my hands twitching, and I quickly cross them, squeezing my arms against my chest. The urge to stim is almost overwhelming, but I can’t afford to, not today. 

I thought Toby was different. I thought Toby would understand how hard it can be to be different, and yet to want to be seen as a sexual being. And it is hard, because I want to get off like everybody else, but for me that requires a long, tedious talk about touch and when and how and where it’s okay, and by the time I’m done, the guy is usually already out the door. 

It would be so easy with Toby, I think for the millionth time. It’s my favorite daydream, my hottest fantasy, and I barely even feel bad about it anymore. Toby would be soft and pliant and absolutely, 100 % still, and I’d be safe. We could kiss for as long as I wanted, and then I could guide his beautiful mouth to all the good places, and he would give me precise instructions on where to touch him, and there’d be no actual touching unless I make it happen. Sometimes all I want is to fuck his face.

And now, I find out that he thinks I’m a sexless freak that can’t possibly be gay. 

“I’ve been out forever,” I say defiantly. 

“Right. Forever,” Toby says, blinking slowly like he’s processing something way bigger than I’ve said. “Okay, cool, cool.”

I fidget again, not sure what to do with my hands, and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “So, um, what about you? Anyone you’re, uh… seeing?”

Toby gives me a look like I’ve just asked if he’s been to Mars. “Me?” He laughs, but it’s not his usual charming laugh. It’s short, sharp. “Nah. No one special.”

The way he says it makes something tighten in my chest, but I don’t know why. This whole conversation feels like it’s going off the rails, and I’m not sure how to get it back on track.

“Well, that’s…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Toby says, and then his eyes dart toward the door. “Anyway, I should, uh, get going. You’ve got your big thing with Harry, and all.”

“Right, yeah,” I say. My arms are twitching even harder. I’m dreading dinner. I’ve had nightmares about it for days now. “I’ve got that tonight.”

Toby blinks, but it’s quick and jerky, and his usual cool is completely gone. “Okay, well, have fun,” he says, his voice tight. “Catch you later, Trent.”

He’s already halfway out the door before I can respond. “Yeah, catch you later…”

The door swings shut behind him, the automatic opener I had installed for him working like a charm, and I’m left standing there, staring at the empty space where Toby was just sitting. I let out a long breath, feeling like I missed something huge, but I can’t quite figure out what. 

That was awkward. Like, really awkward. And I don’t know why. Toby’s always so easy to talk to, but this time… I’m hurt. Since day one, I’ve never felt different with Toby around. He’s my good luck charm, he’s the one that makes me feel complete, that makes me function. I live for his soft, breathy laugh, for his gorgeous mouth, his pretty eyes. 

Maybe… he’s just stressed? I mean, things at work have been crazy lately, with so many projects going on. Or maybe he’s tired. It’s not like he has the easiest schedule, balancing his job with all his other responsibilities and needs. Maybe he was just surprised and needs a moment to get used to the idea of a guy on the spectrum being into guys. He wouldn’t be the first. 

I look back down at the notes on the table, trying to focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to the way Toby looked before he left. 

Toby wouldn’t—he’s so… normal. Charming, funny, confident. He’d never be interested in someone like me. I’m a mess. Always have been. 

And tonight, I’ll have dinner with my dad, and he’ll spend our entire evening reminding me that his only son won’t ever measure up to him, the great Harry Qentin Gerber, the founder and CEO of VegaTeach, known to his friends and family as HQ. 

I wanted to ask Toby for tips on how to deal with my dad, I remember, right before he asked if I was gay.

Well, it’s too late for that now. 

The Last Friday 

All week, I’ve been trying to get Trent out of my head. I’ve tried everything—texting the usual suspects, hitting up the guys I know who love a good time. There was the one guy, Sam, who’s really good with my earlobes, and I thought for a second—just a second—that he’d help me forget about Trent. But nope. Not even that worked. I kept picturing Trent’s stupid, handsome face and his rolled-up sleeves and hearing his stupid, calm voice mentioning Harry like it was nothing.

Harry. His boyfriend.

I still can’t believe it. Trent’s gay. He’s gay—and yet somehow it feels like the universe is playing a joke on me. I should be thrilled, right? The guy I’ve been falling for all this time isn’t straight. But instead, all I feel is this pit in my stomach, a mix of humiliation and disappointment that I can’t shake, no matter how many hot guys I try to lose myself in. I haven’t felt this low since high school, when my catheter leaked in the middle of English class and I had to sit there, praying no one would notice the growing wet patch under me. That was dejection, pure and raw. This? This feels eerily similar.

It’s stupid. Completely irrational. I know my body isn’t for everyone. I’m a realist. I’ve been with enough guys to know the difference between lust and… something else. The devotees always make it clear what they’re here for, and I’m fine with that. But Trent? Trent’s different. And I can’t help but wonder, if I wasn’t me—if I wasn’t trapped in this body that needs a ventilator to breathe and a team of caregivers just to get through the day—if I was someone else… would I have had a chance?

It’s not a useful line of thought, but it’s where my mind keeps going. It’s like I’m stuck in this loop of what if and I can’t get out.

And now, it’s Friday again. My stomach twists at the thought of going to the office and seeing Trent. I’ve been dreading it all week, trying to come up with some excuse to stay home, to avoid the awkwardness that’s sure to come. But I can’t. I have a duty to the company, to the team. And, whether I like it or not, I have a duty to Trent. I’ve helped him get this far, and I’m not about to let my personal shit mess things up.

I roll into the lobby of VegaTech, feeling heavier than usual, like every puff to make my wheels turn takes more effort than it should. Caro’s with me, as usual, but even her chirpy, positive energy isn’t enough to lift my mood today. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a knowing glance as we head toward the elevator.

By the time we get to the top floor, my jaw is tight, and it has nothing to do with my disability. It’s that knot of nerves that’s been sitting there since last Friday. I take a deep breath, or rather, I let the ventilator do it for me, and roll toward Trent’s office.

When I get there, he’s already waiting by the conference room, glancing at something on his tablet. He looks up when I roll in, and there it is—that same calm, neutral expression he always has. It’s maddening, really, how he doesn’t seem to have a clue about what’s going on in my head. I try to swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to act normal, to pretend that everything’s fine, that I’m not spiraling because of a stupid crush.

"Hey," Trent says, nodding at me as I come in. “Morning, Toby.”

I manage a small nod in return, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “Morning.”

We dive into work like we always do—discussing project updates, going over the team's performance—but my mind keeps wandering. Every time Trent says something, I can’t help but hear that voice in my head reminding me he’s got a boyfriend. That he’s going home to someone who isn’t me. And it stings in a way I didn’t expect.

"Are you okay?" Trent’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I look up, realizing I’ve been zoning out. He’s watching me, his brow furrowed in that slightly confused way he gets when he’s trying to figure someone out.

I blink, trying to act casual. “Yeah. Fine.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue. We move on to the next topic, but I’m barely paying attention. My mind is stuck on last week, on the fact that Trent is off-limits in every possible way, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the disappointment.

At the end of the meeting, I’m exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, even physically. It’s like every Friday I have to brace myself for seeing him, for pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not. As I roll toward the door, Trent calls after me.

“Toby?”

I stop, my heart skipping a beat. I glance back, wondering what else he could possibly want to talk about.

“Thanks for… everything this week,” he says, his tone sincere. “I couldn’t have done it without you…. But I need to let you go.”

---

“Thanks for… everything,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, though it wavers at the edges. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I’ve been dreading this conversation for days. My mind’s been spinning ever since that dinner with my dad, when he really tore into me. 

Toby nods slightly, still not seeing where this is going. And I wish I could stop now, just leave it at that. But I can’t. HQ was very clear.

"But I need to let you go."

Standing here, watching Toby’s reaction—how his entire expression tightens, how his brow furrows —I feel my stomach drop. I’m not good with people’s facial expressions, but I’m an expert at reading Toby, and that is confusion, shock and disbelief. In that order. 

There’s a beat of silence. It stretches out painfully long, and I can practically see the gears turning in Toby’s mind, piecing things together. His eyes narrow, flicking up to meet mine, incredulous.

“Wait… what?” His voice is sharp, laced with disbelief. “You’re firing me?”

I freeze. My mouth opens, then closes again, the words stuck in my throat. I’d rehearsed this, but now it feels impossible to get them out. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this. But… my dad had been livid when he found out things were going so well because Toby—not me—was handling all the management.

“Toby, I—" I start, but my voice falters. I remember the words, clear as day.

‘You’re supposed to be running this. Not him. If you outsource these tasks, how the hell are you ever going to learn to lead? You can’t rely on other people to do what you should be doing.’

I’d tried explaining it to him, telling him that managing people like this wasn’t something I was ever going to be good at. That Toby filled in the gaps where I couldn’t. But HQ had just stared at me like I was making excuses. Like I wasn’t trying hard enough.

And then, in desperation, I said it. “I’m disabled.”

HQ’s laugh had been cold and dismissive. “You’re not disabled, Trent. You’re perfectly capable of running a company. You’re just using this cripple as a crutch. You’re an engineer, for God’s sake. You fix problems. Fix this.”

And now I’m standing here, with Toby staring at me, waiting for an explanation, and I can’t tell him all of that. I can’t tell him that HQ doesn’t see me. Doesn’t understand how hard this is for me. I can’t tell Toby that I need him—that without him, I’m not sure if I can keep this department from falling apart again.

Instead, I blurt out the worst possible thing.

“He said I can’t use a cripple as a crutch.”

The words are out before I can stop them. They hang in the air, heavy and brutal, just as they did when my dad said them. And the moment they leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Toby’s face goes still. The color drains from his cheeks, and for a split second, I see the hurt flash across his eyes before he shutters it away, locking it down behind that cool, sarcastic exterior he’s so good at.

“What?” His voice is soft, disbelieving, like he’s waiting for me to take it back, to correct myself. But I don’t. I can’t. “Who said that? – Harry?” 

Nobody calls my dad that, really, but it is his name, so I nod, still seeking safety in quoting my father. 

“Because I’m not disabled.” 

Toby stares at me, his mouth tight, his jaw clenched. And then, without a word, he turns his chair around and wheels away.

My heart lurches, and for a second, I think about calling after him. Apologizing. Explaining. Something. But I don’t. I just stand there, frozen, watching him go.

The sound of his wheelchair fades down the hall, leaving me alone in the conference room, the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on my chest like a boulder.

How did I mess this up so badly?

I close my eyes, replaying the last few minutes over and over again in my head, trying to figure out how I let it get to this point. The pain on Toby’s face, I felt that deep in my own gut, like being punched. If that’s how neurotypical people feel other's emotions all the time, I don’t know how we get anything done as a species. It feels like Toby’s pain and mine are potentiating, more and more, until his disappointment merges with my own, my dad’s, the albatross of all my failures tearing at my neck. 

“I’m not disabled.” The words echo in my mind, and I feel sick to my stomach. I drop into the nearest chair, my head in my hands. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can fix this.

Maybe if I’d just told him the truth from the start. Told him that I’m autistic. That my father who has built a career on mobility aids, on ventilators and devices to support the disabled community, the physically disabled community, would rather die than acknowledge that his only son is disabled in his own way, too. That the burden I carry, of one day taking over the whole company, not only this satellite office, is killing me.

That Toby is the highlight of my days, the one thing that keeps me sane, that I dream about kissing him in all the places he can feel and some he can’t. 

That I love him. 

But I didn’t.

And now Toby’s gone.

And All The Fridays For The Rest Of Time

It’s Friday, and I’m at home. Not at the office where I should be, not in the conference room with Trent, making everything work the way it used to. No, I’m here, lying in bed, wrapping up the last of my handover tasks.

A week has passed, and Trent and I haven’t spoken since that disastrous Friday. I’ve been trying not to think about it, about what he said, but it’s hard when everything around me reminds me of the mess he made of things. I’ve gone through the motions—wrapped up the last loose ends, sent final emails—but the sting of what happened is still fresh, raw beneath the surface. The thought of suing has crossed my mind so many times, but Nessy still works at VegaTech and I don't want to jeopardize her career. Hell, I haven't even told her what happened exactly. Trent's words cut too deep.

I’m on Zoom with Trent’s PA, finishing up the formalities. She’s been professional, polite, and more apologetic than she needs to be. The words keep echoing in my head—I’m not disabled, I can't use a cripple as a crutch. I try to push them aside, but they keep coming back, gnawing at the edges of my mind. They do not sound like Trent at all. That fucking Harry guy must have said those words. I can't believe Trent, the kind man I thought I knew, would date someone like that.

“We’ll send someone over to pick up your company equipment,” the PA says, her voice soft and careful, like she knows how much this hurts. “I’m so sorry, Toby. You were so good for the company. For Trent.”

Her words hit a nerve, but I keep my face neutral. “Yeah, well,” I say, trying to sound casual, “I guess Harry didn’t think so.”

The PA looks confused. “Harry?”

I nod. “Yeah, Trent’s boyfriend. I mean, I assume that’s why I’m being let go. He didn’t approve or something.”

The PA blinks, and then her mouth forms a small “O” of realization. “No, no,” she says, shaking her head. “Not Harry like that. Harry as in HQ. Harry Quentin Gerber. Trent’s dad. He’s the owner of the company. The big boss.”

For a second, the words don’t register. Trent’s dad? HQ? The man who sent me packing wasn’t some random boyfriend, but Trent’s father? My mind reels. It all starts to fall into place—the way Trent had struggled to explain, the way he’d frozen when I asked why I was being fired. He wasn’t firing me because his boyfriend was being an ableist dick to me. He fired me because his *dad who owns the company* was being an ableist dick to Trent.

The weight of it sinks in, but before I can fully process it, the doorbell rings. I hear footsteps in the hallway as one of my carers opens the door. Someone’s here to pick up the equipment already, I guess.

But then I hear more footsteps—familiar, careful ones. Tears shoot into my eyes, and I wish more than anything that I could turn my head to see who’s coming down the hallway. But I already know who it is. I know those footsteps.

It’s Trent.

The footsteps stop, and I hear the soft creak of my bedroom door. I want to look at him, to read his expression, to ask him a thousand questions. But I can’t. All I can do is lie here, waiting, feeling the tension rise between us as the silence stretches.

Finally, after an eternity, I hear him move closer. I don’t need to look to know he’s staring at me, trying to figure out what to say. My heart is pounding in my temples, but I can’t speak. I don’t trust myself to.

And then, quietly, like he’s afraid of the answer, Trent asks, “Can I kiss you?”

---

"Can I kiss you?"

The words still hang in the air as I step carefully into Toby’s sightline, fully aware that he can’t turn his head to see me. I’ve always known that about him—it’s one of the many things that makes him who he is—but today, it feels different. There’s something intimate in it. He’s laid bare in front of me, unable to move, unable to avoid this moment. Just like I’m laid bare, too, in front of him.

And God, he’s beautiful, from his impossibly skinny limbs to his beautiful face, Toby’s always been pretty, but now, standing here with my heart in my throat, I realize just how much I’ve missed him over the last week. Missed the sharp humor, the warmth, the way he somehow manages to make everything feel right. Without him, I’ve felt completely unmoored, like a piece of machinery missing its most important part—a motor without a governor, spinning out of control. I need him to keep me grounded. I think I’ve always needed him.

I kneel down beside his bed, bringing my face level with his. Toby’s eyes meet mine, and I can see the uncertainty there, the tension in his body. But he doesn’t say a word. He’s waiting for me to speak, to make the first move. So, I do the only thing I can.

I lean in, and I kiss him.

The moment my lips touch his, it’s like everything falls into place. The world quiets, and all the noise, all the doubts, disappear. Toby can’t move his head, can’t turn away or lean into it, but that's exactly what makes this so wonderful. I’ve never felt this safe with anyone before. The kiss is soft, deliberate, and perfect. No surprises, no fear—just us. I’ve kissed people before, but nothing has ever felt like this. It’s a kiss that feels like home.

When I finally pull back, Toby’s staring at me, wide-eyed, and for the first time in forever, I’m not nervous. I know what I need to say, and for once, the words come easily.

“I quit,” I tell him, my voice steady. “I quit earlier today.”

Toby’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and I rush on before he can ask. “Because I am disabled. And I do need help. And if HQ can’t see that, that I’m not going to be able to do everything on my own, then… good riddance. I’m not staying somewhere that won’t let me be who I am. And I'm sorry I ever said all that to you, last week. My father's words, not mine, but... I'm sorry, Toby.”

I take a breath, my heart pounding. This next part is harder to say, but I need to. “I’m going to start my own company. I’ll build something from the ground up. No corporate expectations, no HQ breathing down my neck.”

I look into Toby’s eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or hesitation. “I need you with me, Toby. Do you want in? Start something together?”

Toby blinks, clearly taken aback by the offer. His lips twitch, just slightly, and then he asks, his voice quiet, “What does ‘together’ mean?”

For a moment, all I can do is smile. Because I know exactly what he’s asking. And I don’t hesitate. I lean in again, closing the gap between us, and kiss him once more.

This time, the kiss is deeper, filled with all the things I haven’t said. If our first kiss felt like home, this one feels like a bedroom. It’s my answer, plain and simple.

When I pull back, Toby’s eyes are soft, and I can see it—the understanding, the acceptance, the future stretching out in front of us. I brush my fingers gently along his cheek, and for the first time in days, I feel like everything is going to be okay.

“Together,” I say softly, my voice full of certainty. “Means whatever you want it to mean.”

---

It’s a Friday, a year later, and the workshop hums with energy. I sit in the corner, parked at one of the oversized desks that’s just far enough away from the buzzing machines and research stations. When we were looking for a space to call our own, Trent and I knew we had to prioritize room for R&D. It’s where Trent's heart lives —the messy, brilliant process of making things. The warehouse we found? Perfect. High ceilings, tons of light, and, most importantly, loads of space for my chair and for the couple of employees who also use wheelchairs.

I look around, taking it all in. Desks are scattered in one corner for the few administrative tasks we can’t avoid, but the real magic happens out here on the floor. Blueprints are spread across tables, prototypes gleam in various stages of progress, and the sound of Trent’s happy chatter fills the space as he bounces over toward me, hands stimming excitedly.

He’s always been a bundle of kinetic energy, and it took him a while to stop trying to mask it. To unlearn the need to hide. Watching him bloom over the past year—watching my boyfriend let go and truly be himself—has been the greatest joy of my life. Well, that and when Trent does that thing with his tongue, but that’s a different story.

“Guess what!” Trent exclaims, almost vibrating with excitement as he skids to a halt next to my chair, giving me a quick kiss that makes my heart do a little skip.

“What?” I ask, smirking. “Did you finally solve the problem with the pressure sensors?”

His face lights up, and he bounces again, snapping his fingers in a burst of pure joy. “Yes! Well, almost. But it’s close, Toby. It’s really close!”

I chuckle. “Of course it is. You’re a genius.”

Trent blushes, the tips of his ears going red. He always does that when I compliment him, like he still hasn’t gotten used to it. It’s adorable.

“We need to talk about your investor pitch, though,” he says, his excitement shifting to focus. He’s good like that—able to pivot from one thought to the next, always moving, always thinking. “Have you had a chance to go over the numbers? I think we’re ready, but you know how I am with people…”

I smile, nodding slowly. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.” I glance at the tablet in front of me, pulling up the slides I’ve been working on. It took a while for the investors to see me as the guy in charge, rather than just the guy in the chair, but once they heard me talk—once they realized that I was the one pulling the strings—they got the message.

Trent kneels down and leans in to look at the screen, resting his elbow on my chair’s armrest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I guess it is, now. We’ve been living together for almost six months, and it’s seamless. Easy. He’ll give me that little glance, the one that says he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and then we move as a team. It feels… right.

“Looks good,” he murmurs, nodding appreciatively at the presentation. “You really are amazing at this stuff.”

“Well, someone has to be the people person,” I quip, rolling my eyes dramatically. “And since it’s not you…”

Trent grins sheepishly, but there’s no shame in it. Not anymore. “Well, I’m the tech genius, you’re the face. I think we make a pretty good team.”

We do. And it shows. Half the team we worked with back at VegaTech followed us here to the new company. Some left because they wanted the freedom of a startup. Others… well, they didn’t exactly love HQ. Vanessa, my sister, stayed at VegaTech, though. She finally got the promotion she deserved, and I’m happy for her. We don’t talk as often as we used to, but we check in. After ten years of her being my carer and guardian, we both needed to learn how to have our own lives, and that’s okay. We’ve found our own rhythms now. Me with Trent, her with her career, both of us finally understanding that while family is important, so is space.

“So,” Trent says, pulling me back to the present. “Do you want to walk them through the financials, or should I just bring the prototype and let you handle the hard questions?”

I smirk, knowing full well how that meeting will go. “You’ll bring the prototype, charm them with your brilliant brain and hot bod, and then I’ll swoop in and close the deal.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, leaning in to kiss my temple, a casual gesture that feels so natural now I don’t even blink. But it still sends a warm shiver down my face.

We’re a team. In work, in life, in everything.

The door to the workshop opens, and a couple of our employees come in, one rolling and the others walking, chatting about the next project on deck. It’s a good feeling, knowing we’ve built something from the ground up—something that works for everyone, with accessibility at the core of our mission, not only as lip service but lived reality.

“Okay,” Trent says, clapping his hands together, his smile wide and bright. “Let’s get this investor thing nailed. Then maybe I’ll convince you to take the rest of the afternoon off so we can celebrate.”

“Celebrate how?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I'll think of something,” he says, leaning down to kiss me again, this time on the lips, soft and sweet. “And it won't involve clothes.”

I laugh against his mouth, feeling that familiar warmth spread through me. “Sounds like a plan.”

He pulls back, his eyes sparkling. "Together?”

“Together.”

The Happy End

One of my first ever stories, and now I see so much wrong with it, wow. Why did I introduce Vanessa as a character only to do absolutely nothing with her after the second chapter? God only knows, because I certainly don't! 

I hope you guys like it nevertheless. Next week, I’ll be back with a m/f romance.

See you then <3 

Cloudy