Your, Mine, Ours: Fake It Till You Love it

The thick, salt-heavy fog of the Pacific rolled over the Presidio, swallowing the Golden Gate Bridge in a gray shroud that felt as suffocating as my own thoughts. Inside the high-ceilinged Victorian-turned-tech-fortress in Pacific Heights, the air was climate-controlled and sterile, but the ghosts of my past followed me through every corridor. ​“You should never feel ashamed of who you truly are, Calvin. Not as long as you aren’t doing something evil,” my mother’s voice hummed, a soft frequency in the hazy corners of my mind. ​“Well,” I countered in the dream, my younger self pacing a kitchen in Ontario that no longer existed, “it sounds like being gay is evil to everyone else.” ​“Loving someone isn’t evil, honey. If we are to judge homosexuality, we have to judge those who abandon their children, those who use religion as a weapon, and those xenophobic pricks at the border.” ​My mom loved me, but she loved him more. That was the sting that always jolted me awake. It was the reason I knew, with the cold precision of a ballistic calculation, that unconditional love was a fairy tale told to children to make them sleep through the night. ​“Calvin.” ​A small, soothing voice pulled me from the gray fog of my slumber. “Calvin, hey.” ​I blinked, my Tier 1 instincts overriding my exhaustion before my eyes even fully opened. My hand twitched against the sofa cushion, searching for a sidearm that wasn't there. I looked up to see Ashton staring at me. At twenty-eight, Ashton was the "best match" for Jake, a brilliant business mind with the empathetic radar of a world-class psychologist and a gift for technology that made him the backbone of their operations. ​“Ash? What’s wrong? Is it time to go?” ​“You look a little out of it,” Ash whispered, his brow furrowed. “Are you alright?” ​I nodded, wiping the grit of a shallow sleep from my face. At forty-two, I was a mosaic of scar tissue and redacted mission reports. To Ash, I was the reliable guy who kept the perimeter tight. He didn't see the ex-Navy SEAL and former JTF2 operator who viewed his own existence as a "sin" to be managed. He didn't see the man who treated his marriage like a tactical extraction, high stakes, low emotion, and always looking for the nearest exit. ​“Yeah, just a weird dream. I’m okay. Is it time to move?” ​Ashton didn't move. “Why haven’t you been sleeping, Cal? If you need time off, I can talk to Jake. I can get you a few days' rest.” ​“I’m fine, Ash,” I said, the lie tasting like copper. ​Before he could press further, the heavy double doors swung open. Two men entered, moving with the unearned confidence of those who owned the oxygen in the room. Jake, the CEO, went straight to Ash, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips. ​Behind him was Randy 'Marc' Marcus. ​At forty-three, Randy was a pillar of granite in a bespoke suit. A former DEVGRU operator, he carried himself with a terrifying, quiet authority. His eyes—cold, blue, and assessing—swept the room like he was clearing a kill zone. He didn't say a word to me at first. He just leaned down and kissed my forehead. The gesture was a confusing collision of warmth and ice. ​“Lunch was great,” Ash whispered to Jake, “but I’m worried about Cal. He didn’t eat.” ​I shot Ash a thanks-a-lot look. ​“Is that true, Calvin? Why didn’t you eat?” Randy’s voice was a low rumble, the tone he used when a subordinate missed a mark on the range. ​“I was busy, Marc,” I said, using the name I only used when we were "off-mission." “My priority is keeping Ashton safe, not stopping for a quick bite.” ​“You had a banana at 0500, Cal,” Marc reprimanded, stepping closer until I could smell the faint scent of cedar and expensive tobacco on him. “You’re a professional. You know a starved body is a slow body.” ​“I’m sorry, Cal,” Ashton added softly. “I’m just worried. You've been so quiet lately.” ​“It’s okay, Ash. I could never be mad at you,” I said, pulling the younger man into a brief, protective hug, a shield against the heavy pressure Randy was emitting. ​“You’re taking the next two days off,” Jake stated suddenly, his CEO voice leaving no room for argument. “Randy can manage until you get back on Thursday.” ​I flinched at the name. Randy. To the world, and even to Jake, he was Randall 'Randy' Marcus. But to me, in the dark, he was just Marc. ​“I don’t need time off, Jake. My job—” ​“Your health is the priority,” Marc interrupted, stepping into my space and pulling me into his arms. He held me firmly, his body a wall of solid muscle. “Randy’s right,” Jake added, oblivious to the primal current passing between us. “Now come on. Let’s head home.” ​The drive through the hilly streets of San Francisco was a silent tactical exercise. Once we crossed the threshold of the mansion, I did a quick sweep of the parameters with the security team. Habit. Even in a luxury villa attached to a sprawling estate, I was always looking for the exit. ​Jake and Ash headed to the main house, but Marc and I turned toward the left wing—our "villa." It was a masterpiece of modern glass and stone, but tonight, it felt like a museum. Empty. Just like my mind, and maybe even my heart and soul. ​“Calvin?” ​“Yeah?” ​“Come here.” ​I found him in the dining area. He had actually cooked—spaghetti and meatballs, one of my favorites. We ate in a strange, heavy silence, talking briefly about work before moving to the sofa. I sat down, the exhaustion finally hitting my bones. ​“What are we watching?” I asked, reaching for the remote. ​Marc didn't even look at the TV. He checked his watch—sharp, deliberate movements. “Nothing. You choose. I’m going out.” ​The exhaustion turned to lead in my stomach. “Out? Now? It’s nearly ten. The fog is soup out there.” ​“Yes, Calvin. I’ll be back in three hours.” ​He was dressed in dark denim, a black blazer, and sneakers. He looked effortlessly lethal and devastatingly handsome, the kind of man going out to see a "secret family" or a life I wasn't allowed to witness. ​“Okay,” I said, my throat tightening. “I’m going to bed.” ​I didn't wait for his response. I showered until the water ran cold and climbed into the oversized bed, trying to tell myself I didn't care where "Marc" went at night. I was dead to the world until 11:17 PM, when my phone shrieked on the nightstand. ​“Hello?” I rasped, sitting bolt upright, heart hammering. ​“Is this Mr. Calvin Miller?” a woman asked. ​“Depends. Who is this?” ​“Ariel Mendoza from San Francisco General Hospital. Mr. Jeffrey Marcus was in an accident. We couldn’t reach his son or his partner... you are listed as the secondary kin.” ​The world tilted. “What kind of accident?” I was already pulling on my tactical pants, the SEAL in me taking over. ​“He fell from a ladder. No fractures, but a severe knee injury and a possible concussion. He’s stable, but he needs a guardian present.” ​“I’m on my way.” ​I threw on a hoodie and grabbed my keys, sprinting to the front of the main house. Jake was already at the door, looking shaken. ​“Jake, Jeff had an accident. I’m heading to the hospital.” ​“What? Where’s Randy?” Jake asked, confused. ​“I don’t know,” I snapped, the bitterness finally overflowing. “He went out for a 'drive.' If anything happens, lock the gates. Use the safety tunnel. I’ll be back as fast as I can.” ​I floored it toward the hospital, calling Marc’s phone over and over. Voicemail. When I reached Jeff’s room, the old man looked smaller than I remembered. Jeff was sixty-one, a man who had been a father at nineteen and a witness to his son's coldness for too long. ​“Calvin? What are you doing here?” Jeff slurred, the painkillers clearly hitting him hard. ​“The hospital called, Jeff. They couldn’t get ahold of Marc... or Edith.” ​Jeff groaned, a pained, bitter sound. “I told them I was fine... my own son couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone...” ​“I’m sorry, Dad. He said he was going for a drive.” ​Jeff looked at me then, his eyes clearing for a brief, brutal second of lucidity. “Stop covering for him, Calvin. I don’t care why you two really got married, tvhe contracts, the convenience... I care about you. He needs to get his priorities straight before he loses the only person who actually gives a damn.” ​He drifted off before I could respond. I sat in the hard plastic chair, staring at my silent phone. Jeff was right. In the world of Tier 1 operators and high-stakes secrets, everyone had a priority list. This union was starting to feel like a golden cage. And as the fog pressed against the hospital windows, it was becoming painfully clear that I wasn't even on the list of Marc's priorities.