Chapter 3 : Harvard Memories

Preston stared at the watch in his hand. Leo''s watch. *For all our tomorrows.*

The memory hit. Hard.

*Harvard Yard. Autumn. Leo on the library steps. Books piled around him. Copper hair in the sun. He looked up. Smiled. "Lost?"*

*"Just exploring."*

*Leo stood. Dusted off his jeans. "Leo Gallagher."*

*"Preston Harrington."*

*They shook hands. Electric.*

That was how it began.

*Coffee at Café Gato Rojo. Walks along the Charles. Late nights in Leo''s dorm room. Talking about everything. Politics. Philosophy. Books.*

*Leo didn''t care about the Harrington name. The family money. The expected future. He saw Preston. Just Preston.*

The shift was gradual. Then sudden.

*A touch that lingered. A glance held too long. The night they argued about Kant until dawn. Found themselves standing close in the small kitchen. The space between them charged.*

*Leo kissed him first. Soft. Tentative. In the gray morning light.*

*Preston had kissed girls before. Polite kisses. Society kisses. This was different. This was discovery.*

*Their first time. Leo''s dorm room. Narrow bed. Radiator hissing.*

*Trembling hands. Whispered questions. "Are you sure?"*

*In answer, Preston pulled him closer. Skin against skin. The world narrowed to this room. This bed. This man.*

*When Leo entered him, it was with such care. Preston felt tears. Not from pain. From being seen. Known. Accepted.*

*They moved together. Found a rhythm. The pleasure built. Crested. Preston shattered. Leo''s name on his lips.*

*Afterward, tangled in sheets. Sweat cooling. Leo traced patterns on his chest. "I''ve wanted this since the first time I saw you."*

*"Me too," Preston whispered. The truth freeing something inside.*

**Present.**

Preston blinked. Back in his study. Watch cold in his hand. Nine years. The ache fresh.

Upstairs, a door slammed. Serena.

He locked the watch away just as her footsteps sounded on the stairs.

"Preston?" Her voice was sharp. Tight.

"In here."

She appeared in the doorway. Still in her coat. Cheeks flushed from the cold. Or from anger. "I saw my father today."

"How is he?"

"Recovering. Sophie was there." Her gaze swept the room. Lingered on the desk. "What are you doing in here?"

"Working."

"At midnight?" She stepped into the room. Eyes narrowed. "You''ve been distant since Daddy got sick."

"I''ve been worried."

"About him? Or about Sophie?" She moved to the bookshelf. Fingers trailing along the spines. "I was thinking today. About our wedding."

Preston stilled.

"You seemed reluctant. Not nervous. Reluctant." She turned to face him. "I always thought it was cold feet. Now I wonder."

"Serena—"

"No. Let me finish." She took a step closer. "Nine years. Beautiful home. Successful life. But we''re strangers. Separate rooms. Separate lives. I''m tired of pretending."

The truth hovered between them. Preston felt the walls closing in. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth. Why did you marry me? The money? The connections? My father?"

He could have told her. *It''s not you. It''s me.* But the words stuck.

"I do care for you."

"Care." A bitter laugh. "Such a safe word. So empty."

She turned back to the bookshelf. Her eyes caught the loose panel. The one hiding Leo''s letters.

"What''s this?" She knelt.

"Serena, don''t—"

Too late. The panel came away in her hands. Letters. Dozens. Tied with faded blue ribbon. Leo''s handwriting on the top envelope.

She pulled them out. Held them like they might burn her. "What are these?"

"Private correspondence. Put them back."

"From who?" She scanned the envelope. "L.G. Who''s L.G.?"

"None of your business."

"None of my business?" Her voice rose. "I''m your wife! Who is this person you hide letters from?"

He reached for them. She stepped back. Eyes blazing with sudden understanding.

"It''s a woman. You''re having an affair." The pieces clicked. "The distance. Separate rooms. Secret letters. How long, Preston?"

He could have let her believe it. Simpler. More conventional.

But looking at Leo''s handwriting. The evidence of a love buried. Something broke.

"It''s not a woman," he said quietly.

She stared. "What?"

"The letters. They''re from a man. Leo Gallagher. Someone I knew at Harvard."

Silence.

Serena''s face changed. Confusion. Disbelief. Understanding. The letters slipped from her fingers. Scattered on the Persian rug.

"A man," she whispered. "You''re... you''re..."

"Gay." The word hung in the air. Naked. True. "I''m gay, Serena. And Leo was the love of my life."

She backed away until she hit the bookshelf. Gripped the shelves for support. For a moment, he thought she might collapse.

Then her expression hardened. Shock to fury.

"All these years," she said. Voice trembling. "All these years of marriage. Pretending. And you''re..."

"I tried to tell you. Before we married."

"Tried?" A harsh laugh. "You ''tried''? You married me. Vowed to love me. And all the while, you loved someone else. A man."

She looked at the letters on the floor. Then at him. Betrayal in her eyes. "How could you? How could you do this?"

"I didn''t want to hurt you."

"Didn''t want to hurt me?" She advanced. Finger jabbing the air. "You''ve humiliated me. Made our marriage a lie. Do you know what this means? What people will say?"

"People don''t have to know."

"They''ll know when I file for divorce." The words hung between them. Final.

Preston felt the ground shift beneath him. The tightrope fraying. "Serena, wait. We can talk."

"Talk?" She shook her head. Tears glittering in her eyes. "There''s nothing to talk about. You''ve been living a lie. I''ve been living it with you."

She turned. Walked out. Footsteps echoing in the hall. The front door slammed.

Alone. Preston sank into his chair. Head in his hands. Letters scattered around him.

He picked up the top envelope. Traced Leo''s handwriting with his thumb.

*My dearest Preston, I''m writing from the bus station. I don''t know where I''m going. Only that I have to leave. Your father came to see me today...*

He couldn''t read the rest. The pain was too fresh.

Outside, snow fell. Covering everything. Hiding the truth.

Inside, his life crumbled.

The tightrope had snapped.

He looked at the letters on the floor. At the watch in the locked drawer. At the empty room.

He was falling.

And for the first time in nine years, he didn''t try to catch himself.