I guess he's in his mid-thirties. Where in rural Minnesota did he grow up? Does he have as many siblings as I did? More? Is he the black sheep too? What does he do for fun? How old are his kids?
The questions swirl in my head, refusing to leave me alone.
Vince is old-school handsome. Textbook handsome. The kind of good looks you see on a screen but never expect to encounter in real life. When you do, it throws you off. He doesn't feel real, like he's something I'm not supposed to touch.
And then he touched my leg.
These thoughts are going nowhere good.
My alarm jolts me out of my head. One minute has passed.
A laugh escapes my lips, short and breathless, as I push myself up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cool beneath my bare feet, a welcome contrast to the warmth still clinging to my skin. Vince. Of course. My first thought of the day is Vince, and the realization sends a mix of annoyance and excitement coursing through me. I haven't felt this way about anyone since I was a teenager, back when I was still figuring myself out, when every crush felt like the end of the world and the beginning of everything all at once.
Back then, thoughts of other men had consumed my inner dialogue, a constant undercurrent in the quiet moments between classes, during sleepless nights when the snow outside muffled all sound. Men were always on my mind from the moment I hit puberty, no exceptions. There had never been a doubt in my mind that I was gay, even in a place like Fairbanks where being different could feel like a death sentence.
Now, Vince made me feel seventeen all over again, that same stomach-flipping anticipation, that same desperate need to be seen. The difference was that I no longer had raging hormones or guilt holding me back. I'm a grown man, twenty-seven years old, with life experiences and scars to prove it. I can do this. I can focus on other things, like not getting fired on my first day.
I push myself up from the bed, the mattress springs groaning in protest. My routine was predictable, maybe even boring to an outsider, but it's the key to my success, the foundation I've built my life upon. If I didn't stick to it, I risked slipping back into the darkness that had consumed me for years, that had turned me into a shut-in afraid of his own shadow. Sleep deprivation was one of my biggest triggers, so I make sure to get my eight hours every night, no exceptions.
I stumble into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water from the tap and chugging it down, the cool liquid a shock to my system. The coffee machine gurgles to life, filling the small apartment with its rich, earthy scent. While it brews, I change into my running clothes, the familiar stretch of fabric against my skin a comfort in this unfamiliar life. Exercise is non-negotiable for me, not just for my physical health but for my mental health too. It's the one thing that keeps the demons at bay, that allows me to breathe when the walls feel like they're closing in. A few times a week, I add weights at the apartment gym, the rhythmic clank of iron a counterpoint to the chaos in my mind.
After my run, the cool morning air still clinging to my skin, I eat breakfast—oatmeal with berries, always the same—and watch the news, my mind processing the day's events while my body recovers. My evenings are just as structured, though I've been dating again since moving to LA, trying to put myself out there, to find a connection that goes beyond physical attraction.
Dating isn't going great.
Most of the guys I met seem annoyed by my unwillingness to compromise on my routines. They don't understand that these aren't just preferences; they're survival strategies. I don't sacrifice my workouts, my job commitments, or my evening wind-downs. Most of all, I don't sacrifice my sleep. That seems to be an issue for a lot of people here, this city that never sleeps, where being spontaneous is valued above all else.
Apparently, sticking to boundaries meant I was "too high maintenance." The words echo in my mind, a familiar refrain that stings every time. I wonder if Vince would think that, if he'd find my need for structure and routine as off-putting as everyone else seems to. The thought sends a pang through my chest, sharp and unexpected.
No one in this city seems to get it, not really. The way I had to structure my days like a fortress against the darkness that had once swallowed me whole. They didn't care that my rigid routines weren't about being difficult or "high maintenance"—they were about survival. At least I wasn't crumbling like I used to when things fell apart. Rejection still stung, but it no longer sent me spiraling back into that frozen place where I'd spent years of my life.
I'd packed up everything I owned and driven thousands of miles from Fairbanks to Los Angeles for a reason.
To start over, yes, but also to find someone who understood that two people could build something together without one of them losing themselves in the process. There had to be at least one person in this sprawling city who got it, who wanted a partner to complement the life they already loved, not someone to complete them or fix what wasn't broken.
I don't need a savior riding in on some white horse. I'm not a damsel in distress waiting for rescue. I want someone who can be the cherry on top of an already pretty decent sundae.
The younger version of me, the one still thawing out from years of Alaskan winters, would have contorted himself into whatever shape someone else wanted. Would have abandoned his morning runs, his evening wind-downs, his carefully constructed boundaries just to keep someone from leaving. But that Andrew is buried under layers of new experiences, replaced by someone who knows his worth—or is at least learning to.
Opportunities are everywhere here, buried under layers of superficiality and judgment, but they're there if you were willing to get your hands dirty digging for them.
Chapter 4
Andrew, Not Andy
Andrew
"Hi,Andy."
My fingers freeze mid-shuffle, the script pages clutched between my thumb and forefinger like a captured bird. The name lands like a punch to the gut, just like yesterday, taking me back to middle school hallways where older boys would corner me behind the gymnasium. I hate it. Hate how it makes me feel like I'm twelve instead of twenty-seven, like I'm still that scrawny kid from Fairbanks trying to find his place in a world that doesn't understand him.
Vince isn't late this time, at least.
I'd arrived at the studio fifteen minutes early, my stomach churning with a mixture of anticipation and dread, and we're maybe five minutes out from taping when he shows up. The sight of him instantly erases my irritation, like a magic trick I can't explain. Whatever I'd been annoyed about, I forget the moment he walks into the room.
He looks just as good as he had yesterday, if not better. The same tailored pants, the same artfully messy hair, but today there's something different about him—a weariness around his eyes that makes him seem more real, more approachable. If I could stun people by simply existing the way Vince does, my life would be a lot easier. That's for damn sure.
"It's Andrew, not Andy," I say, sitting up straighter and forcing my gaze back to the script. The words come out sharper than I intend, a little more defensive than I want to sound. I try hard not to smile, not to let him see how much his presence affects me.
