The hot tubs were occupied—clusters of men enjoying the heated mineral water. In the largest tub, a tech CEO I'd seen on magazine covers had his head thrown back while two companions worked him over beneath the bubbling water. His face showed pure bliss, surrendered.
Near the hot tubs, several guests lounged on heated daybeds, companions draped nearby like beautiful accessories. One man had a young companion straddling his lap, grinding slowly while hands mapped the companion's lean torso.
A companion catching my eye smiled, an invitation clear in the curve of his lips, the way he shifted to show off his body. Beautiful, skilled, exactly what I would have wanted when I first arrived here.
I smiled back but kept walking. He was just another attractive man now, pleasant to look at but holding zero interest.
Past the hot tubs, the private cabanas were occupied. Gauzy curtains billowed in the November breeze, backlit by sunlight that cast moving shadows. In one, I glimpsed multiple figures intertwined, their movements slow and languid. Soft moans drifted out, mixed with breathless laughter.
Near the outdoor showers, a man stood under the rainfall showerhead, water cascading over his muscular body while another kneeled before him. The first man's hands were fisted in his companion's hair, face blissful.
Beautiful. Erotic. Uninteresting.
Everything here was extraordinary: carefully curated, expertly maintained, designed to fulfill fantasies most people wouldn't admit to having. The Ranch was a masterpiece of hedonism.
And I was walking away from it.
Not because it wasn't beautiful. It was. But because everything here felt like background noise to the one thing that mattered.
Because waiting for me was someone who'd seen me at my worst—panicking, medicated, barely holding it together—and had chosen to help anyway. Someone who looked at me and saw Cordero, the man who liked drawing buildings and cooking complicated meals. Not just the quarterback, not just the wealthy client.
I reached the yoga studio just as the afternoon light began shifting toward evening. Through the windows, I could see Dusty inside, kneeling beside a box.
This was what I was choosing. Not endless variety, not consequence-free pleasure, not the fantasy world where money bought anything. Just him. Just us. Just the possibility of building something that mattered.
Dusty was packing his office when I walked in.
“Need help?” I asked.
He looked up, and his smile was worth everything. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Sketches covered the walls—studies of hands and feet, faces caught mid-expression, bodies in motion. And there, tucked in the corner—more sketches of me. Me sleeping that first morning at the cabin. Me reading by the creek. My hands, detailed studies of knuckles and tendons. Some I'd seen before, but not all of them.
"There’s so many. I didn't know you drew this many," I said, voice rough.
"I draw everyone who matters."
“Can I keep this one?”
“They're all yours if you want them.” He gathered them carefully. “I can't sell them. They're too personal.”
A knock on the doorframe made us both turn. Ibrahim stood there, impeccable in tailored white leather despite the afternoon chill.
“Dustin,” he said. “May I come in?”
Ibrahim moved into the room with fluid grace. “I remember the day we hired you. Vincent called me from that yoga class in Austin, insistent he'd found someone special.”
“You came to see me teach,” Dusty said softly. “Watched the whole class without saying a word.”
“I wanted to understand what Vincent saw. By the end, I understood. You weren't just teaching poses. You were creating space for people to be vulnerable, to discover themselves through movement.”
“I tried.”
“You succeeded.” Ibrahim moved closer. “You were planning to leave around this time anyway. The gallery, the new chapter. This is a different path than expected.”
“A very different path,” Dusty agreed, voice rough.
“Perhaps. But the destination is the same, building something that's yours, on your own terms.” Ibrahim gestured at the artwork on the walls. “I'll have all of this packed and shipped to whatever forwarding address you provide. Your work deserves proper care.”
