"Hard to believe it's only two weeks away."

Giving Ben Hickman a noncommittal nod, Bret stared out at the sprawling metropolis just beyond--and below--his eleventh-story office window. The merger had been hard-won--lots of compromising, deal-making, budget-setting--but it was worth it. Dynamic Technologies and Tracer Microsystems. When he'd heard that Mark Sanford was putting Tracer Microsystems up for bid, Bret had jumped at the opportunity. Tracer was still small enough to mold, but large enough to hold a decent--and rather impressive--clientele list. One year later, he was the CEO of Tracer-Dynamic, one of New York's newest, and most promising, high-end technology firms.

With the merger came the need for more office space, however. The new building was completed, leaving the last of the inspections to go before the official move could be made. Now here he was: sitting in an office piled high with boxes stacked on more boxes, only the most crucial files on his desk. The only personal item left on his desk was one he would wait until the last minute to pack.

It was a photograph of four men: himself and his boys, as he liked to call them. Friends, lovers, whatever; he honestly wasn't sure what to call them, but after six years with them as a group, he wouldn't give them up for the world. They were why he did this, why he wore the suit and tie, why he hashed out business deals, fraternized with colleagues. They were, simply put, family. His family.

A loud thump jolted Bret out of a comfortable daydream. Turning his chair around, he practically glared at Nathan Parrish. The man seemed a bit tentative about saying a word at that point. Ben stood beside Bret, trying desperately to hold back a bout of laughter.

"Yes, what is it?" Bret asked, attempting to sound a little more genial and failing miserably at it. He really didn't want to be here. His mind was elsewhere, watching the rise and fall of a young man's chest with every nervous breath; hearing the soft, almost inaudible whimper from another.

"Geneva has the last of the inspection reports," Parrish said.

Bret nodded and stood. "Very good. Tell her to leave them on the front desk, will you? I'll take them home and go over them there."

"No happy hour drink, eh?" Ben asked, poking a bony elbow in Bret's ribs.

"No, thanks. I have..." Bret trailed off, fighting the urge to lick his lips at the mere thought of what did wait for him. "I have plenty to drink at home," he said finally. Ben lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Well, suit yourself," Ben said. "But don't say I didn't invite you."

Bret waved him out of the office. "I'll see you all tomorrow morning. Have a good evening." He picked up his briefcase, slipped on his coat, and turned off his office light before closing the door.

"Night, Silvia," he called as he picked up the manila envelope from the receptionist's desk. He heard Silvia say something, but was already halfway out the door--too far away to respond.

It was nearly six before he saw the iron gate of his estate. He pulled up to the keypad and punched in the security code, then waited as the gate slid slowly open. Fall was in full swing in New York, the ground littered with leaves. Red, gold, orange, yellow, and brown; some of his favorite colors. They