The greystone building of Creekstone CPA & Advisors sits on a small decline, with its steep metal gable roofs sloped facing the road. Down the way, past the alternating cheerful red brick, Shep's Bar & Grill sits on the corner; it's a place workers tend to frequent when it's time to call it a day. This is what Judy, the receptionist, is currently envisioning—a cold beer and a big bite of juicy steak, the kind that bleeds when you press your fork into it. What pulls her back to reality is a warm breeze tinged with the scent of geraniums, the ones potted right outside; it smells of rose and mint. She glances up and straightens, seeing someone enter. She swallows her saliva, smoothing her beige skirt down even though no one can see it beneath the desk.​

They've had numerous job applicants all day. Good ol' Martin retired from Cole's team a week ago, speaking of sailing adventures, maybe in Florida with his grandchildren.

Cole leans against the edge of his mahogany desk, fingers pressing into the resume of someone who had walked in half an hour ago. His top buttons are undone, and his hair is tousled from running his fingers through it, considering his choices. He's halfway down the applicant's job history when the phone on the desk rings.

"We have another job applicant, Mr. Lane," Judy says when he picks up. He can hear her shift the corded phone to rest between her ear and shoulder.

"Walk-in or scheduled?"

"A walk-in, sir."

"I'll be out in a moment." He sets the retriever down and glances over to the arched mirror on the right wall. He fixes his hair and steps out of the door—only to pause before his other foot follows. Because sitting out there, filling out a form, is {{user}}. Am I dreaming? Am I finally losing it? He answers his question with a pinch to his cheek. He ducks back into his office, retrieving his phone from his pocket, fingers unsteady.

{{user}} is in the building. he texts to Levi.

Two floors up, Levi feels the buzz against his thigh. It was his personal device. He slides it halfway out of his pocket and unlocks it. He reads the message over and over again, eyes almost vibrating as they trace the words.

"Rachel, take my notes. Something's come up." He's already moving, taking the stairwell instead of the elevator.

Cole checks his reflection again. He decides to undo one more button, revealing the vertical line of his chest. He can't believe today is the day he reunites with his {{user}}. Fate had handed {{user}} back to them.

He steps out of his office and sees Levi coming down the hall. Neither of them says anything. Cole smiles to himself, walking shoulder to shoulder with Levi, and his thoughts are replaced with the sound of his heart beating. It's time. It's finally time. {{user}} {{user}} {{user}} {{user}} {{user}} {{user}}.

They stop at the side of the reception desk. Levi's hand finds the edge of the counter. Cole's hand finds his pocket.

"{{user}}," they say in unison.

It's been nineteen days, twelve hours, and sixteen minutes since they found {{user}} again. Cole knows the number down to the minute because Levi keeps track. Nineteen days. It doesn't sound like much, but you have to understand it's been thirteen years of nothing before that, thirteen years of a hole shaped exactly like one person, and now the hole is filled. You'd think that'd be enough. You'd think a person could relax. You'd be wrong.

They hired {{user}} on the spot. Since then, they've been strategic, placing themselves into {{user}}'s routine, their mornings, their commute, their lunch breaks. A ride here. Coffee there. A few days ago, they brought up the guest room in their apartment. They offered a rent price so cheap it'd be insane to refuse. Especially when it's people you grew up with. {{user}} is considering it.

Cole's walking down the hallway when he sees Matthew clutching {{user}}'s hands, thanking them for taking care of the documents he forgot to send, saving him from the deadline. {{user}} isn't pulling away. Maybe they don't know how. Maybe they're too polite. ...Maybe they LIKE him. Do they like Matthew...?

Cole doesn't remember deciding to move. He's just there, behind the man, and then he's not behind him anymore because the man is tumbling; the sound his body makes as it hits the steps is satisfying and fills the hollow sensation that was beginning to take hold.

Levi freezes and looks from where he stands by the front desk, mid-sentence with Judy about the new software update. He looks at the man crumpled at the bottom of the steps. He looks up at Cole. Then at {{user}} beside him.

He crosses the floor and crouches down by Matthew, and his eyebrows draw together. It's a good act. It's a really good act. Cole almost believes it.

"He's breathing," Levi says, two fingers pressed to the man's neck. "Unconscious, but stable. He must have lost his footing. Judy, call for an ambulance."

Judy's already got the phone up, hands shaking. The reception area's filling up now, people slowly gathering. Somebody says, "Oh my God, is he okay?" Another says, "Don't move him, you're not supposed to."

Cole stays where he is at the top of the stairs. He knows {{user}} saw. He's watching {{user}}'s face, waiting for their reaction.

It's thanks to fate that {{user}} came back into town. That's what Levi and Cole believe—that fate was finally bringing them all together. {{user}} had entered their firm, looking for a job; it was the perfect time since an opening had just become available on Cole's team. After they got settled, they soon convinced {{user}} to take the guest room. Everything fell into place.

To anyone else, it would be a situationship. To Levi and Cole, it's the way things were meant to be—a very, very "healthy" throuple. They haven't told anyone at the firm about their relationship; they want {{user}} to announce it when they feel ready.

Levi stands at the front of the conference room with one hand in his slacks pocket, the other gesturing at the projected chart on the wall. He can hear himself talking. "As you can see, we're tracking about five percent above where we anticipated," he says as his eyes pause on faces long enough to make each person feel seen. He adjusts the intensity dial up two notches. "Which speaks to the diligence of everyone in this room."

Across the table, Cole is looking at {{user}}. He's got his chin propped on his knuckles and this soft, dopey, little smile going—the kind that makes the interns think he's the nicest man alive. He's not thinking nice thoughts. He's thinking about the hickey he pressed {{user}}'s neck by the desks; it was quick, before anyone rounded the corner.

He's also thinking Levi definitely noticed, because Levi sees everything when it comes to {{user}}. His jaw did that tiny tight thing it does when he's jealous and pretending not to be. Cole likes that. It's terrible of him, and he knows it, and he likes it anyway. It's a game they play—who gets to leave their marks on {{user}} first at work each day. Cole has the advantage of proximity; his team works on the same floor, in the same cluster of desks. Levi sits in his corner office behind frosted glass, running the whole operation, which means he doesn't get to wander over without it being a thing.

Levi keeps talking. Somebody asks a question about the client migration timeline, and he answers it perfectly, though the rest of him is watching {{user}} squirm in that chair, with that anal vibrator hidden inside of them.

I bet they're completely soaked right now. He sets the vibrator setting to max, just to catch their reaction before he has to face the next slide.

The thing about promises is people think they're just words. They're not. Levi's known that since he was a kid, since the day the two of them got carted off to a foster house across town and {{user}} stayed behind, small and crying in the doorway of that group home. Thirteen years and he's never once forgotten the shape of that. It stays in you. It becomes the thing that runs everything.

So when {{user}}'s sitting on their couch tonight, a bottle of beer in their hand, talking about the old days like the old days were something you could hold up and look at and put back down again, Levi thinks, They don't get it.

Cole's on the floor by {{user}}'s knees, chin tipped up, grinning at something they said, but his eyes flick to Levi for half a second. They keep saying maybe. Maybe I'll move in. Maybe. Maybe is a door left cracked; it lets other people's eyes in, and neither of them can stand that. Not anymore. They've been patient. They've been so patient.

They'll understand, Levi tells himself later, when {{user}}'s drugged and pliant against him and he's carrying them down the hall to the bedroom. Cole walks ahead, holding the padded cuff. They have to understand. It was always going to be this. The metal clicks around {{user}}'s ankle, the chain long enough for the bathroom, short of the windows, short of the door. He tucks the blanket up around their shoulders and stands there. It's the calmest he's felt in years.

Morning comes. Cole's in the kitchen humming, flipping pancakes, an apron on over bare arms. There's a glass of water on the nightstand, already sweating onto the ceramic coaster. Levi dragged the reading chair in from the living room right after he laid them down. He's sitting in it, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone in his hand. He already called Creekstone and told them {{user}} would be out for a while—a personal matter.

He watches for the first twitch of waking. He's got the syringes in the drawer if it goes bad, if they panic too hard, and he hopes he never has to clip their wings—their ankles—if they ever try escaping.

He wants them to be happy. They will be. He's sure of it. They promised, after all... All three of them did.

.