By Linc

The town felt different when he wasn’t merely passing through. It didn’t vanish the moment he turned his back anymore. It waited.

Jack walked without a destination, hands in his jacket pockets, boots scuffing along the cracked sidewalk as late October settled into its bones. The maples along the main drag had mostly given up by now, their leaves reduced to wet scraps pressed into the pavement. The air smelled like cold metal and wood smoke. Winter wasn’t here yet, but it was close enough to make its intentions known.

He’d told Ethan he needed a day. Just one. Not to disappear – he’d been careful about that – but to think without the weight of unfinished sentences hanging between them. Ethan had nodded, the way he always did when Jack asked for something reasonable, and handed him the truck keys without commentary.

Jack wasn’t sure whether that made it easier or harder.

He passed the hardware store, the cafe that closed at three, the barber with a handwritten sign taped crooked in the window. He could picture himself fitting into this place if he stayed long enough. Or maybe that was the problem – he already did.

Not that long ago, he would have filled the silence with noise. Drinks. Screens. Distraction stacked on distraction until he didn’t have to listen to his own head. Now, with nothing pressing and nowhere he had to be, the thoughts came whether he invited them or not.

Owen wasn’t a problem. That realization came easier than Jack expected.

Neither was Ethan.

What unsettled him was how easily he’d slipped back into old patterns without noticing. How fast excitement had turned into avoidance. How quickly he’d let fear do the talking when no one else was raising their voice.

He stopped at the lakewalk on the canal and occupied a lonely bench facing the river. The water moved slower this time of year, dark and steady, flowing south toward places Jack would never see. He sat, elbows on his knees, and stared until the tightness in his chest eased into something manageable.

The belt crossed his mind without prompting. Or rather, the lack of it did.

For the first time in months, there was no weight there. No pressure. No constant, physical reminder of a choice he’d made and kept making. He was unsure of what he expected, but he felt… unmoored. Like he’d taken off a watch he didn’t realize he relied on to tell time.

That surprised him.

He wasn’t longing for denial. Not really. What he missed was the clarity. The way things lined up when expectations were spoken and held. The way he could stop negotiating with himself because someone else had already helped draw the boundary.

Jack stood, brushed his hands on his jeans, and started back toward town. The day wasn’t enough. He knew that now. But it was a start-long enough to recognize that running and choosing weren’t the same thing, even if they sometimes looked alike from the outside.

By the time the sun dipped low and shop lights flickered on, he’d made his decision.

He wasn’t done figuring himself out. But he wasn’t going to disappear while he did it, either.

Jack turned toward the truck, already thinking about what he’d say when he got back to the farm. Just the truth, spoken plain, the way Ethan seemed to prefer.

The truck rolled to a stop near the main shed, engine ticking as it cooled. Ethan was already there, sleeves rolled up, sorting through a stack of clipped paperwork with the kind of focus that suggested he’d been at it a while. He looked up when Jack crossed the yard, no surprise in his expression. Just acknowledgment.

“You good?” Ethan asked.

Jack nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

Ethan gave a short nod in return and went back to his notes.

They worked side by side for a while after that. Not shoulder to shoulder, but close enough to share tools, to fall into a rhythm that didn’t need explanation. By mid-afternoon, they’d settled the last of the heavy prep for the season’s end: equipment parked where it would overwinter cleanly, grain tallied and logged, contingencies noted in Ethan’s careful block handwriting.

“If you needed to take off,” Ethan said eventually, tucking the clipboard under his arm, “I can carry this through. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll hold.”

Jack swallowed. “I won’t disappear. Just… a couple weeks. In town.”

Ethan considered that, then nodded. “Bunkhouse stays yours for storage. No sense clearing it out.”

Relief came sharp and unexpected. Jack let it show.

Only then did he head back.

The bunkhouse smelled the same as it always had: clean wood, old dust, a trace of detergent. He retrieved the belt from where he’d left it on the shelf. Cleaning it took time. More than he’d expected. He worked carefully, methodically, rinsing, drying, polishing until the steel caught the light again without glare. When he was done, he set it aside, closed but unlocked, and stepped back.

Packing was easier. A duffel with a few changes of clothes. His laptop. Chargers. Not much else. He left most of his things where they were. There was no drama in it. Just intention.

They crossed paths again near dusk. Ethan was rinsing his hands at the outdoor sink when Jack approached, belt in hand.

“I need a lift into town tonight,” Jack said. “I’ll check in, just not sure when yet.”

Ethan dried his hands on a rag, then reached out and took the belt with a nod.

“Toss your stuff in back and food’s ready if you’d like to eat first.”

They ate without hurry, the quiet comfort of a routine that had already learned how to bend.

When they were done, Ethan drove him into town as the light thinned and the road darkened. The fields gave way to streetlamps, then storefronts, then narrower streets where houses leaned closer together. Neither of them talked much. There was nothing left that needed smoothing over.

Ethan pulled up in front of a low brick building a few blocks off the main drag. It had once been something else, maybe offices or a clinic, before being cut up into rentals. A hand-painted sign in the window advertised weekly rooms. Cash only.

Jack got out, duffel in hand.

The truck rolled away, taillights shrinking until they folded into the rest of town. Jack stood there a moment longer, then went inside.

The room was small but clean. A bed, a desk, a lamp, a window that looked out over an alley and a strip of sky. It smelled faintly of bleach and old carpet. Temporary in every sense of the word.

Jack set his bag down and sat on the edge of the bed. The stillness here was different. Not the wide, breathing quiet of the farm, but something narrower. Contained.

This was space to decide who he was, and what came next, without running or clinging.

Jack settled into the rhythm of town without announcing it to anyone.

Mornings started early out of habit. He picked up short-term work where he could: unloading deliveries for the co-op, fixing a fence for a woman who paid him in cash and coffee, helping a guy move a freezer that probably should have been emptied first. None of it was glamorous. All of it was enough.

He learned which cafe watered down their drip and which one didnt. Which bus drivers ran late. Which hours the library stayed quiet. He let the days stack without naming them.

Owen stayed present without pressing.

A message the next morning. Simple.

“Glad you made it back safe. No rush, but if youre still around later this week, coffee?”

Jack stared at the phone longer than necessary before replying.

“Yeah. I’m taking some space to sort things out. But coffee sounds good. End of the week?”

“Works for me,” Owen replied. “No expectations.”

Jack appreciated that more than Owen probably knew. Owen seemed to build his life the same way he spoke – leaving room for things to settle.

They met on Friday at a place that smelled like espresso and cinnamon and had mismatched chairs that had survived at least three decades of bad decisions. Owen looked the same as he had the night at the bar. Relaxed. Curious. A little awkward in a way that felt earned.

They talked about work first. Or rather, Owen talked and Jack listened. Server outages. Bad clients. The luxury of choosing when to stop for the day. Jack talked about town jobs and weather and the way October changed how everything sounded. They did not talk about the belt.

Not at first.

When it did come up, it was gentle.

“So,” Owen said eventually, stirring his cup even though there was nothing left to mix. “How are you doing with all that?”

Jack considered the question carefully. “Better. I think I needed to see who I was without it for a minute.”

Owen nodded. “And?”

“And it turns out I’m still me,” Jack said. “Just louder inside.”

Owen smiled at that. Not amused. Understanding.

They parted with a wave and a plan to do it again.

Over the next week, it happened naturally. A movie night. A walk after dark when the air had teeth to it. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch with knees slowly migrating closer like gravity doing the work.

Halloween crept up without ceremony.

Owen mentioned it offhand one night, scrolling through a folder on his computer. “I’ve got some stuff saved. Dumb, probably.”

Jack leaned over his shoulder. Watched for a moment. Bright colors. Exaggerated movement. Something theatrical and absurd and very deliberate.

Clowns.

Jack blinked. Then laughed.

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s a thing,” Owen said, defensive but smiling. “Not the only thing.”

They watched longer than Jack expected. Long enough for humor to give way to awareness. Long enough for the room to feel warmer.

When they ended up in the bedroom, it happened without planning. Clothing set aside. Touch finding its way forward on its own momentum.

And then Jack felt it shift.

The pleasure was there, but it rang hollow. Familiar. Too easy.

Owen noticed immediately. “Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

Jack hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. I think I just figured something out.”

“Oh?”

Jack sat up, took a breath, then lay back down, placing his arms behind him.

Not restrained. Just set aside.

“I want this to be about you,” he said. “If you are alright with that.”

Owen studied him for a moment, then smiled, slower this time. “Yeah. I am.”

Something settled in Jack then. The noise fell away.

His arms were not taken from him. They were simply not the point.

They fell asleep tangled together, and when morning came, Jack felt ready to return to living and routine.

To be continued

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Metal would like to thank the author, Linc, for this story, which originated on LockedMEN