Darling
Christian
As a younger man, I imagined my future with my wife by my side and my sights set firmly on British politics—with the ultimate goal of one day becoming prime minister. A life of value, of purpose. A life where my morals might mean something, and where I could make a difference.
But that vision has crumbled. My wife is gone. My political career lies in ruins. And my relationship with my son is barely breathing. What’s left is a slow decline into disillusionment and solitude.
Until I meet him.
Asher Fox is a rainbow breaking through a storm. A diamond gleaming from the dullest stone. Being with him feels as natural as breathing, as vital as living — and I haven’t wanted to live this fiercely in a very long time.
Now, when I’m offered the chance to reclaim the life I lost, I face a choice. Nothing has unfolded as I once imagined, and I never pictured a future with Asher. But maybe that’s exactly why I should hold onto him with both hands, and never let go.
Asher
I grew up in a world where love was conditional and God was always watching. Turns out, God didn’t like what He saw. The minute I realized I was gay, I knew I had two options: stay and suffocate, or leave and breathe. So I walked away.
Now, I make art, I make porn, and I make no apologies. I’ve built a life where I get to be exactly who I am, on my own terms. No guilt. No shame. No lies. Some people judge me for it— my family certainly would if they knew — but at least I’m free, at least I’m honest. But freedom doesn’t block out the part of me that wants more: a home, a family, a place where I get to live without conditions and be loved without shame.
And then I meet Christian. Mr. Buttoned-Up Politics himself. All brooding eyes and careful words, a man who looks like he’s never coloured outside the lines in his life. He’s calm where I’m chaos, steady where I’m fire, and he’s serious enough to make me want to see what he looks like when he unravels.
Falling for him? Easy. Getting him to believe he deserves me? Now that’s the real work of art.
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