Now, though, rather than stop and walk among the graves as he usually did, he turned the corner and walked past Commander’s Palace, toward Guy’s house.

He was stopping by unannounced to drop off Guy’s Christmas gift, since his boyfriend was taking a trip with his brother for the holiday. Truman was disappointed that he wouldn’t get to spend their first Christmas together—and even more disappointed because the announcement had come too late for him to make other plans—but hoped to send Guy off with a smile thanks to the gift he’d spent practically his whole paycheck on. And maybe from the quickie he had planned too.

He’d only been to Guy’s house once in the eleven months they’d been dating, but he knew which one it was. A gorgeous gray-and-white Queen Anne with a wraparound porch on the lower level and a step-out balcony through French doors off the master bedroom. The trees were lush and the hedgerow perfectly manicured behind the wrought iron fence.

Guy liked his things just so. And Truman was honored to pass muster.

He crossed the street, nerves singing in his stomach. Nearly a year together and he still got butterflies before he saw Guy. He smiled, picturing the way Guy’s severe face softened into a smile when Truman amused him. The way he let his guard down when they curled up together on Truman’s couch or in Truman’s bed, becoming a younger, gentler version of himself.

Truman knew that was the smile he’d see when Guy opened his front door to see Truman standing there with his perfectly wrapped gift.

Soft music issued from an open window to the left of the door, and white lights twinkled from inside. Guy had always been so vague about certain aspects of his life, and Truman only hesitated for a moment before he let himself peek inside. You could tell so much about someone by their décor, their taste in art, their holiday decorations. He wanted to see the tree that he hadn’t been invited to help decorate, the ornaments that, Guy had let slip, he’d collected over the years. Truman made a bet with himself that the tree would be as cleanly and modernly arrayed as Guy himself.

The room was gray and white and navy, appointed with club chairs, a mid-century-modern couch, and an enormous Christmas tree. The white fairy lights that adorned it were evenly spaced around its branches; expensive-looking glass ornaments were hung with an engineer’s precision. Truman smiled fondly at the effort that must have gone into the tree and pictured Guy—austere, detail-oriented Guy—listening to Christmas carols by himself while sipping hot cocoa laced with his favorite whiskey and measuring the space between ornaments.