"I told you. I can't do the meet and greet; I have a magazine shoot," Jared sighs into his cellphone.

I duck under his arm, a bowl of quinoa fruit salad in one hand and my own phone in the other. "No, listen; the only option is to reschedule with a conference call Thursday morning... What, no, marketing has been all over me about scheduling the photoshoot for two months..."

Dani, Gen, JJ and Misha are seated around the breakfast table while Jared paces about, conversing frantically with his agent. I set the salad down next to a plate of English muffins with almond butter, turkey bacon and egg. They, like everything else Misha whipped up after my failed cooking escapade earlier this morning, look delicious.

"I want a smoothie," JJ squeals, brightening as I pass her a red berry shake that Misha's blended with coconut water and Greek yogurt.

Dani's plate is sparse but tasteful, featuring a slice of nut, banana and chia seed toast. I'm just glad she isn't fussing over the carbs.

"No, that Wednesday we have a whole panel lined up that I asked you to nail down as soon as possible... Q and A, yes, and signing..." Jared's voice rises over the clinking and clattering of cutlery as we pile our plates high and go to town.

My own phone is going off like it's possessed, vibrating against the tabletop, but I turn it on silent because, unlike Jared, I like preserving a well-defined line between family and work time.

"Find an opening in the schedule then... Mhmm... Okay, just keep me updated."

My mind is whirling with the events of this morning; I'm suddenly desperate to make it up to Misha, given that my romantic plan was horribly foiled. 

I place my phone on my lap under the table and discreetly open Snapchat. Smiling to myself, I snap a hasty shot of my jean leg with the caption I love you Mishka and send it to him before swiftly tucking my phone away.

Satisfied with my effort to remedy things, I force my attention back to the others, picking up the threads of conversation and making a concerted effort to join in.

I chuckle knowingly to myself when he pulls his phone out and opens the message, expression instantly softening into something tender and warm.

Gen chooses this precise moment to lean eagerly into Misha's side, making him lock his phone with lightening-quick reflexes.

"What are you smiling at," she smirks. "Can I see?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Misha laughs nervously, and I'm damning myself as his eyes lock with mine in a panicked moment.

"I don't believe you," Gen presses.

I bite my lip to quell my sniggers. The glare Misha's shooting me is downright murderous. It's really fucking hot.

Was it a good idea to send this message at the breakfast table surrounded by our friends and family? No.

But do I at least regret it?

Also no.

"Gen, leave him alone," Jared sighs, easing onto one of the too-small chairs to my left. "Vicki's probably sexting him or something. Way to make it awkward for the dude."

Even though I know better, jealousy rears swiftly inside me, livid and acid green.

"Jared," I bite out testily, inclining my head towards where JJ is eating obliviously, swinging her legs.

"Oh - uh - no," Misha amends hastily, face flushing to thermonuclear proportions. "She was just reminding me to Skype her and the kids later. Hey, did I tell you guys about the fans I encountered at the store the other day?"

And damned if I process a word of his story. It must be funny, because Gen nearly falls off of her chair in epileptic fits of laughter, but how am I suppose to focus on a word that comes out of Misha's beautiful mouth when he has such a beautiful mouth?

He tilts his head back on a dramatic pause to take a sip of his smoothie, which is distracting in all sorts of lovely ways. I watch his Adam's apple bob as his throat works around the milky drink, the white, residual film clinging to the hollow above his upper lip. His tongue darts out to sweep it clean, and the sight nearly proves to be my undoing.

It's physically painful to be so close to Mish and not be able to do anything. I know what I said this morning, but just looking at him gets me horny as hell and aching in a half dozen really awesome places. I want so desperately to launch a vigorous and suction-packed attack on his collarbone that I have to grab a wedge of toast and stuff it into my mouth, before I do something stupid. Also with my mouth.

***

"Your mother called," Dani offers crisply as we head back upstairs to our room after breakfast. I feel bad about the fact that Misha stayed behind yet again to clear up, but my wife doesn't seem bothered at all.

"Yeah?"

"Mhmm. I was hoping you could call her back; you know she and I don't get along."

"Sure thing," I sigh.

"Oh, and get Misha to drop JJ off at school if you can't; I have an important appointment." Dani makes a beeline for the walk-in closet just inside the bedroom door.

"What appointment?"

"Hair and nails, Jensen; I'm sure I told you."

I frown, bracing my forearms on the mahogany desk, tension coiling in my limbs.

"Dani, he already volunteered to do shopping and stop by the pharm-"

"Exactly. He can make it all one trip; it's more efficient that way."

Normally I'd let Dani get away with murder, but not today. This can't go on.

"Maybe-"

"Jensen, I really don't have time for this ri-"

"Stop."

Dani turns around slowly, indignation clear on her face, the coward in me already balking at her expression.

But I'm going to do this. I'm going to stand up to her, for once. For Misha. "Misha has a life. He's not hired help, Dani." I swallow uneasily. "Don't you think it's wrong to be taking advantage of him like this?"

"I'm not using him," Dani relays incredulously. "He wants to help out-"

"But he's doing things you and I should be doing," I blurt. "Babe, did you know JJ snuck into Misha's room the other night? She came to him because she had a nightmare. She came to him: not me, not you."

Dani stares at me, bitter remonstration curling her lips into a frown.

"What exactly are you implying? I'm still her mother, Jensen. I'm the one who gave birth to her. Nothing and no one can change that."

"I know, babe," I sigh wearily, "I know."

Another fact I know all too well is that stress is bad for the babies. And suddenly I wish I had never broached the subject. "I'm sorry, Dani, really. Forget I said anything."

"Look," she sighs. "I really don't care. I just...don't. You think I haven't been fair to Misha? Fine. We'll go out for dinner tomorrow, all of us; that way he can have a break. But I still think you're overreacting."

I know I'm treading on thin ice, and I grapple for a response that will keep it intact.

"Dani-"

"Jensen, I said I don't care. It's fine. I'll make a reservation at Moonshadows."

I wince at the prospect of spending the night at another high-end restaurant flocked by the country's elite. It's stifling, and I'm not even an A-class.

Not a lick of privacy for Brad Pitt, however, not once in his everloving life.

But the look on Dani's face brooks no argument.

"I'm sorry," I try pitifully, not even sure what I'm apologizing for anymore.

"It's fine. I'm staying at Olivia's tonight," she snaps, but there's no venom in her voice, only weary resignation. "We're having a girls' night with a few other friends, in the off-chance that you remember me mentioning it to you. So I'll see you tomorrow."

***

In the evening, I drive out to the nearest club. I just want to lose myself in a dark room with flashing lights and hot, sweaty bodies. I want to shut down and stop feeling for a little while.

The strong, sensual pulsing of the music beats through my skull, rattling the glass in my hands. Or maybe that's just my hands shaking. I anchor them around my drink with clawed fingers, but don't lift it to my lips.

The thrumming makes my temples ache, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the electronic beat that I can practically feel jerking the stool beneath me.

"Hey." A voice next to my ear rises above the powerful throbbing of the bass, making me whirl around in confusion.

Jared grins at me before sliding onto the stool next to mine, nursing his own drink in his freakishly large hands. I cast him a wary sidelong look.

"How'd you find me," I scowl.

"Followed the stench of a pathetic loser," he cajoles. I frown against an impending migraine, not sure if I'm capable of stringing more than a few words together coherently.

"Fuck right off," I manage.

"What's up with you?" He throws an arm around my shoulder with that twistedly cheerful voice he often uses to stun and confuse his victims. "Assholia flaring up again?"

"I'm going to fucking gut you, Jared," I retort flatly, staring with listless eyes at the glass in my hands. "I just want to be left alone right now."

"That's what Misha said to me a few minutes ago," Jared sighs. "I came here with him b-"

"Can we not talk about him right now," I cut in, the barest hint of a plea in my voice.

Jared rolls his eyes at me over his pint.

"Don't tell me you're still hung up about Destiel, because I will rough you up. Moose ships it like FedEx."

"The fuck?" I bark a dry, humourless laugh.

"Call me crazy, but I think the show has really messed with you and Misha."

"You are crazy. You need to be sent to a home."

"But I've been laying off the drugs just like you asked," Jared wallows, throwing his hand over his forehead with exaggerated melodrama. "Seriously. Seems to me like getting piss-drunk is just your fucked up way of running from your shit with each other."

"My life is shit," I confess. If I was a woman I could bitch and gossip about my day to all my girlfriends over the phone.

I'm a man, so I numb myself with drink.

The ice tinkling in the glass as I tip it, sliding across my lips, is a frisson of cold, and I console myself thinking sobriety's overrated anyway.

Yeah, I'm thirty-eight years old and still dumb as fuck. Jared should shoot me.

"Sure," he shrugs noncommittally. "We've all got our shit."

"Some shit stinks worse than other shit." I drop my eyes and focus on my drink in a vain attempt to look nonchalant.

"Quotes to live by, courtesy of the renowned Jensen Ackles." He cocks an eyebrow, and if I was sober I could think of a dozen flip answers to that.

I reply with a a hard clap to fuck-for-brains' shoulder. "Come on, you know I give good advice." I can barely hear him over the warm buzz of vodka and the thumping techno beat of this obscure clubmix in my veins.

Yeah, in retrospect, his advice was always shit.

"It's nothing. Just, sleep and I aren't buddies anymore." My brow pulls low, petulant.

And it's true that I've spent too many nights twisting and turning in a bed that feels too large, too empty, even though it isn't.

Before Jared can reply, Misha walks into my line of vision looking like sex on legs, and everything else becomes a fly on the wall in my narrowed tunnel vision.

Fuck, those jeans look phenomenal on him. I wonder if he knows he can make a man harder than diamond in two seconds flat.

I stumble to my feet as he approaches us, unknown bodies moving alongside him and rocking in beat with the thumping base.

Misha takes one look at me and knows.

He wraps an arm around my waist and just like that, my head slips onto his shoulder as he carefully pries the glass from my fingers.

"I'll take him home," Misha sighs to Jared, digging my keys out of my pocket. "Drive his car back for him, will you?"

"Yeah, no problem," Jared calls to Misha's retreating figure, but he's already wading through the throng of people, his don't-fuck-with-me demeanour parting them like a hot knife through butter.

And I follow, of course I do.

Wherever that tight, toned ass leads, I'll follow.

"Can you get any more irresponsible," Misha mutters, pulling me along after him.

The sun has disappeared behind the horizon, and the air quivers with the sound of passing traffic and the smell of exhaust. "Your wife is about to have two of your children and you're out here drinking."

As my pounding headache recedes into a dull background ache, another sensation crowds in: guilt. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"Nah, man."

Misha's expression sobers me instantly.

"Maybe. Yes. I'm sorry," I shrug lamely.

This is fairly shit husband behaviour, and imagining Dani going into labour early while I'm out getting drunk is the worst kind of reality check. But I've fallen in love with my best friend right around the time my loving, unassuming wife is due to give birth to twins. This sort of shit can fuck a guy up. "Is...Dani okay? She's not in the hospital already, is she?"

Misha settles a hand on my shoulder in a comforting gesture, his face thrown into high relief in the warm glow of a lamppost as we stop by his car.

"No, she's not. You're lucky you can handle your drink," he sighs, "or else you'd be in the hospital, having your stomach pumped."

I swallow, captivated by his liquid blue eyes, and nod.

"Okay," he murmurs. "Come on, let's get you home."

Misha drives us back to the house while I stare glumly out at the cityscape through the window.

Even though the sun escaped the horizon hours ago, the streets of California are bustling with activity, lined with restaurants and patios on which people are dining and drinking from tall wine glasses.

I look around at the happy couples and wonder, how many of those men are are as happy on the inside as their outward appearances suggest?

How many truly love their wives, and how many are cheating?

How many affairs are with other men?

***

Back at home, I follow Misha to his room, trying desperately to lighten the tense atmosphere that has descended on us like a thick blanket.

"Hey Mish," I smile goofily, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt as he helps me over to the bed. "I'm gonna compose a sonnet about your ass, okay?"

Misha stills, one expressive brow lifted disbelievingly.

"Okay, Jensen."

I clear my throat, wracking my brain for some inspiration from my years in drama school. Don't fail me now, Shakespeare. "Your ass is like...like a..."

Misha's eyebrows arc theatrically and he folds his arms across his chest with an expression that clearly says this should be good.

I settle for Shakespeare's eighteenth sonnet. Modified.

"Shall I compare thy ass to a summer's day," I recite solemnly.

I pause for dramatic effect before stressing: "No. For a summer's day is not sexy as fuck."

Misha just stares at me, slack-jawed.

On the huge spectrum of emotions that could be associated with having someone recite an ode to your ass, he seems to have landed on concern.

Apparently, this is how intelligent I am after God only knows how many shots of vodka.

"There's more," I chuckle weakly. "Thou art-"

And then Misha's tackling me onto the bed, lips crashing against mine with a desperate sense of urgency. His mouth stifles my gasp with bruising pressure, until my eyes flutter instinctively shut and I melt into him. I devour his lips with equal hunger, every point of our bodies aligned in a searing, toe-curling kiss. I moan as he tilts his head for a deeper angle, fingers tangled in his ever-tousled hair and trembling with immediate, burning need.

Need so intense it's painful.

My heart twists as a vortex of sombre thoughts hits me with enough force to knock the wind out of me.

More than ever, I wish and ache that things could be different for Misha and I, that we could do this every night. But we'll never undress slowly after work, massage each other's feet, cook dinner together or order takeout, be a real couple.

I'm always waiting for him to leave me.

Not just because what we're doing is wrong and getting caught would cost us everything, but because he's too good for me. He's perfect, flawless, so heavenly I know I can't keep him forever, not all to myself...not a fucking chance.

I know this kind of thinking is pointless.

My time with Misha is so preciously finite; I should be cherishing every inch of him when we're together instead of moping around about what we can't be.

Misha breaks the kiss with a soft smack and we stare at each other, lips parted, breaths whispering through the air.

"What's gotten into you, Jensen?"

I don't tell him.

I don't tell him that I can see the end of us coming like an ominous sky teeming with rolling, black thunderclouds. I don't tell him about my nightmare because he probably knows already: it's been too perfect for too long.

But I'm not ready to let him go of him yet. I just can't fucking do it.

I'm so stupid, longing for what I can't have, so shortsighted for revelling in this moment of pure tranquility before the impending storm.

But I understand, conceptually, that we're not infallible. We're not forever. The delicate balance we've reached is far from sustainable, can be broken so easily and so fatally, but for now the proximity of his own beating heart is enough.

I cling to him shamelessly, greedily gulping in air. Misha tucks his head under my chin, holds me tightly, and says, "shhh, I'm here."