Chapter 13: No Going Back
The conference room air was a recycled chill, smelling of weak coffee and worn carpet. A Colombian official was droning on about inter-agency coordination, his words flattening into a hum in Matthew’s ears. He stared at the dense PowerPoint slide, but the flowcharts blurred. All he could see was the way Brandon’s shoulders had looked, outlined by the bar’s dim light the night before, the raw confession hanging between them.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Matthew shifted in his stiff chair, the memory a live wire under his skin. He snuck a glance across the aisle. Brandon sat perfectly still, a monument of attention in his dark suit, jaw set, eyes fixed on the speaker. Only the rapid tap of his pen against his notepad betrayed any current beneath the calm surface. Matthew watched the movement of his hand, the same hand that had, months ago, touched him with a shocking, hungry certainty. He looked away, heat creeping up his neck. This was insane. He was with Conrad. They were trying again. And yet, the phantom weight of Brandon’s gaze from last night was a physical thing, a hand resting between his shoulder blades.
The day became an exercise in sustained distraction. During a coffee break, their shoulders brushed at the urn. “You surviving?” Brandon muttered, not looking at him.
“Barely. You?”
“Same.”
That was it. Two words, and Matthew’s whole afternoon was derailed. The strategic dialogue on transnational crime frameworks became a soundtrack to a single, looping fantasy: the hotel room door closing, the silence that wasn’t really silence, the decisive click of the lock.
When the final session adjourned, the flood of diplomats toward the exits felt like a reprieve. Matthew lingered, pretending to check a message on his phone. He felt a presence beside him.
“Walk back?” Brandon’s voice was low, casual.
“Yeah.”
They didn’t speak in the elevator. The silence was thick, pressurized. It wasn’t the awkward silence of the bar; this was a conscious, chosen thing, heavy with what they were both agreeing to do. Matthew fumbled with his key card, the green light flashing. The door sighed shut behind them, sealing them in the quiet, sun-warmed room.
For a long moment, they just stood there, the vast sprawl of Panama City glittering beyond the window. The conference badges were still clipped to their lapels, absurd formalities.
Brandon reached over, his fingers careful, and unclipped Matthew’s. He let it fall to the desk with a soft plastic tap. Then he did the same to his own. The act felt more intimate than a kiss.
“Last night…” Brandon started, then stopped. He shook his head, dispelling the words. Instead, he stepped forward and cradled Matthew’s face in his hands. His thumbs stroked the arches of Matthew’s cheekbones. “I just need to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That it was real.”
This time, there was no frantic rush, no whiskey-fueled urgency. It was slow, almost solemn. Matthew worked open the buttons of Brandon’s shirt, revealing the familiar, dense patch of chest hair, the scars—one long, thin one along a rib, another, knotted and pale, on his shoulder. He mapped them with his lips. Brandon, in turn, pushed Matthew’s shirt off, his hands roaming his back with a new kind of attention, learning the topography of his spine, the slight bow of his shoulders.
They fell onto the bed, a tangle of intent. It was exploratory. A silent conversation conducted with hands and mouths and hitched breaths. Brandon kissed the inside of Matthew’s wrist, a spot so tender it made Matthew gasp. Matthew traced the shell of Brandon’s ear with his tongue, feeling the agent shiver. They took their time, as if committing each other to memory—the taste of salt on skin, the specific sound of a groan swallowed against a throat, the way the fading gold light from the window gilded the sweat on Brandon’s back.
Afterwards, they lay in the wrecked sheets. The sun had dipped, painting the room in deep blues and the orange glow of streetlights. Matthew lay with his head on Brandon’s bare chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart gradually slow. He traced idle patterns through the dark hair, over the firm muscle.
“This one,” Matthew said, his finger hovering over the knotty scar on Brandon’s shoulder. “How?”
Brandon was quiet for so long Matthew thought he wouldn’t answer. “Juárez. 2010. A raid gone sideways. Wasn’t a bullet. Rebar. Fell through a rotten floor in a warehouse.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s just a scar.”
But it wasn’t. It was a story. A piece of a life Matthew knew only in shadows. He let his hand rest over it. “Tell me about your kids.”
He felt Brandon’s chest rise and fall in a deep breath. “Sophie’s ten. Wants to be a marine biologist. Jake’s seven. He’s… he’s all action figures and loud noises.” A soft, pained laugh escaped him. “I miss their chaos. The house is too quiet now.”
“You see them much?”
“Every other weekend. It’s a schedule. It’s a negotiation. It’s fucking heartbreaking.” The words were stripped bare. “Their mom… she doesn’t know. About me. Thinks the job just ate our marriage. Maybe it did. Maybe I let it.”
Matthew stayed quiet, just kept tracing gentle lines.
“What about Conrad?” Brandon asked, the name rough in the dark. “You really think you can make it work? Long distance with… with this?”
“I don’t know.” It was the truest thing he’d said all day. “London was a mess. We were good at the parties, good at the appearance. Behind closed doors… it was like we were competing in some misery contest. He has a temper. I have a habit of retreating. It was toxic.”
“But you went back.”
“Habit.” Matthew sighed. “And because it’s safe. It’s a known quantity. The embassy world, it’s a small, incestuous fishbowl. Being with another diplomat… it’s neat. It makes sense.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Brandon said, his arm tightening around Matthew.
“No.” Matthew closed his eyes. “It really doesn’t.”
He thought of Arturo then, the electric, dangerous spark of their clandestine lunches, the way Arturo’s intelligence was a weapon and an aphrodisiac. He thought of Conrad’s predictable, sharp-edged passion. And now Brandon—solid, wounded, hidden Brandon, offering a raw honesty that threatened to undo him completely. He was juggling three distinct kinds of fire, and the realization, here in the calm dark, was terrifying.
He was playing a game where everyone, including himself, could get burned.
Brandon’s breathing evened out into sleep. Matthew lay awake, watching the headlights of cars far below sweep across the ceiling. He felt closer to this man in this anonymous hotel room than he had to anyone in a long, long time. It was a closeness built on a fault line, and he knew, with a sinking certainty, that when the ground finally moved, he would be the one buried in the rubble. His phone, silent on the nightstand, was a mute accusation. Conrad hadn’t called. Arturo hadn’t texted. For now, there was only the warm skin under his cheek, and the quiet, impending sense of disaster.
For now, there was only the warm skin under his cheek, and the quiet, impending sense of disaster. It was Brandon who moved first, his hand sliding from Matthew’s back to give his hip a soft pat. “We’re getting sticky,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“That tends to happen.”
“Shower?”
The suggestion was practical, but the look they exchanged was not. Matthew nodded, pushing himself up. The conditioned air chilled the sweat on his skin. They walked the short distance to the bathroom naked, the plush carpet underfoot, the city’s lights still painting faint stripes across the floor. Brandon turned the taps, and steam began to billow, fogging the mirror and softening the hard edges of the tile.
The hot water was a shock, then a relief. It sluiced over them, washing away the conference, the secrets, the complications, leaving only two bodies in a white-tiled space. Brandon smoothed Matthew’s wet hair back from his forehead, his touch surprisingly tender. “Look at you,” he said, almost to himself.
Matthew returned the gaze, watching water droplets catch in Brandon’s chest hair, tracing the paths they made over muscle and scar. This was different from the bed. Here, under the relentless spray, there was no hiding. He placed a hand on Brandon’s sternum, feeling the heartbeat, then leaned in to taste the water on his collarbone.
It was slow, deliberate exploration. The soap was cheap hotel issue, but the scent of aloe mingled with steam as Brandon worked up a lather in his palms. He started at Matthew’s shoulders, kneading the tension there, his strong hands moving down the knobs of his spine, over the curve of his ass. Matthew let his head fall forward, a low groan escaping him. It was a massage that became something else, a claiming.
He turned, grabbing the soap. His own hands trembled slightly as he smoothed them over Brandon’s broad chest, down the dense trail of hair below his navel. He catalogued the texture of skin, the ripple of abs, the powerful line of his thighs. Brandon watched him, his breathing deepening, his eyes dark and unguarded in a way Matthew had never seen. He was letting himself be seen.
The water poured over them, a constant, warming drumbeat. Brandon’s hands found Matthew’s hips, pulling him closer. Their erections pressed together, slick and hot. The contact was electric. Brandon ducked his head, his mouth finding Matthew’s neck, sucking gently at the pulse point there. Matthew gasped, his fingers tangling in Brandon’s wet hair.
Without a word, Brandon sank to his knees on the shower floor. The sight was profoundly arresting. Matthew looked down, water stinging his eyes, at this formidable man rendered vulnerable, his gaze unwavering. Brandon’s hands held Matthew’s thighs, steadying him, before he took him into his mouth. The heat was exquisite, the pressure perfect. Matthew’s head thumped back against the cool tile, a strangled curse lost in the steam.
It was not passive. Matthew’s hands stayed in Brandon’s hair, not forcing, just anchoring. He watched, mesmerized, as Brandon worked him with a focused intensity that mirrored everything else about him. The world narrowed to the sensation, to the rhythmic sound of water hitting tile and skin, to Brandon’s low, approving hum.
When Matthew pulled him up, his legs were weak. He pushed Brandon gently against the wall, trading places. He knelt, the water hitting his back, and took Brandon in return. He tasted clean skin and salt and something uniquely, essentially male. Brandon’s hand came to rest on the crown of his head, not pushing, just present, a quiet shudder rolling through him.
The climax, when it came for Brandon, was a silent, tense thing, a full-body tremor he tried to stifle. For Matthew, following shortly after under Brandon’s renewed attention, it was a bright, unraveling wave that left him breathless, forehead pressed against Brandon’s thigh.
The water began to cool. They helped each other up, movements sluggish, spent. Brandon turned off the taps. The sudden silence was loud, filled only with their dripping and ragged breaths. They stood there in the steam, clinging to each other, the heat of their bodies fighting the creeping chill.
Brandon reached for a towel, wrapping it around Matthew’s shoulders. He used another to roughly dry his own hair. The intimacy of the act—the tender, post-coital care—felt more dangerous than anything that had happened in the shower. Matthew caught Brandon’s wrist. “Stay. Just… stay tonight.”
Brandon met his eyes, and the conflict was back, the haunted look returning to eclipse the brief peace. “Matthew…”
Brandon exhaled hard through his nose, shoulders dropping. His thumb rubbed absent circles on Matthew’s wrist where he still held him. "Yeah. Okay."
The towel dropped. They moved to the bed like men walking through deep water, limbs heavy with exhaustion and something else—something that made the air between them thick with unspoken weight. Brandon stretched out on his back, one arm bent behind his head. The streetlight outside cut sharp angles across his chest, highlighting the scars, the dark hair, the slow rise and fall of his ribs.
Matthew lay beside him, close enough to feel Brandon’s body heat. He traced a finger down the center of his chest, following the trail of hair that disappeared under the sheet. Brandon caught his hand, laced their fingers together, and brought Matthew’s knuckles to his lips. A silent benediction.
"You good?" Brandon asked, voice rough.
"No." Matthew laughed softly, pressing his forehead against Brandon’s shoulder. "You?"
Brandon’s grip tightened briefly. "Fuck no."
The honesty hung between them, stark and unavoidable.
Sleep took Brandon first, his breathing evening out, his body going slack. Matthew watched the way his eyelashes cast faint shadows across his cheekbones in the dim light, the way his lips parted just slightly. The usual tension in his jaw was gone, leaving him looking younger, softer. Vulnerable.
Matthew kept his touch light, fingertips ghosting over the hard planes of Brandon’s stomach, up to the dip between his collarbones. He memorized the feel of him—the warmth, the faint prickle of stubble at his jaw, the steady thump of his pulse under his skin.
Three paths stretched out in front of him, each more treacherous than the last. Conrad, in Buenos Aires, texting about flights and weekends like they could stitch their relationship back together with sheer willpower. Arturo, in Mexico City, with his sharp tongue and sharper mind, always one step ahead, always testing the boundaries. And now Brandon—solid, conflicted Brandon, who carried his scars inside and out, who kissed like he was starving and looked at Matthew like he was something precious.
Matthew’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn’t reach for it.
Outside, Panama City pulsed with light and noise. Somewhere below, a car horn blared, laughter spilled from an open window, life moved on.
He didn’t know how to proceed.
But he knew, with a quiet certainty, that this was the last night things would stay simple.