Marry him.

I don't know what reaction my mother was expecting from me, but it probably isn't the stale laugh I bark out.

She stares at me quizzically as I draw a hand over my twitching lips.

"What's so funny?"

I shake my head, the sharp dart of pain embedded in my heart twisting mercilessly.

"You really don't get it, do you?" My throat closes, pinches off the words. "This isn't a damn Disney movie, mom. There ain't no happy ending for Misha and I." A slow, throbbing ache crawls up along my jawline. "We came close as we could to having that and you ruined it."

Chutes of buttery early morning sunlight stream in through the windows, blazing through a swollen, murky mass of clouds. The kitchen, bathed in a warm, honeyed glow, feels suddenly suffocating, like a cold, forboding tomb.

"Did you ever at least consider it," mom presses. "Before you cheated, did you consider ending your marriage the right way and giving yourself a chance with this man?"

A stray ray of sun catches the sleek metal ring on my right hand. My gaze falls to the symbolic band that wraps around my finger and simultaneously my world, holding it together and reminding me that there was a time not long ago when Misha wanted to be with me, in spite of the crappy circumstances.

"Yeah...I thought about it. But he'd never leave Vicki for me. I know that now."

The ring taunts me, winking silver in the morning light. What am I going to do with you now, I think despairingly. Do I continue wearing it? Lock it away in a drawer to rediscover when I'm much older? Will I have gotten over everything it represents by then?

My thoughts are interrupted by the screeching sound carrying over the baby monitor. In an instant, I leap to my feet and bound out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the nursery.

Zeppelin is wailing profusely, tiny pink fist protruding from his periwinkle sleeper to wave in the air. Arrow shifts in the adjacent crib, mewling softy as her brother's cries awaken her.

"Shh," I urge in a whisper, swooping down to lift my little boy into my arms. I rock him gently, shushing his whimpers until they fade into hiccups.

Dani enters the room looking weary and disgruntled in her nightgown, wielding two bottles of milk. I pass Zeppelin to her, pressing my lips to her forehead in a chaste kiss.

"Good morning," I smile ruefully.

"Morning," she echoes, wrapping the fussy infant in a snug embrace. I watch as Zeppelin's tiny, rosebud mouth parts to latch on to the bottle. "But not for these little bundles of joy. They have their days and nights confused."

"Embrace the chaos," I quip with a sigh. "That's parenting in a nutshell, isn't it?"

"Mhmm," Dani murmurs, handing me the other bottle. "For Arrow. Then it's bath time."

I lift Arrow into my arms and cradle her in a semi-upright position, tilting the bottle at a careful angle to prevent choking. I have to take great care with these precious, fragile creatures. They're delicate as flowers, even if they're as noisy as truck engines.

After feeding the twins, I head into the adjacent bathroom and fill the tub with about three inches of warm water, testing the temperature on the heel of my palm.

I ease Arrow in feet first, supporting her neck and hands while Dani bathes her, and then we repeat with Zeppelin.

I've just set out fresh diapers, a container of warm water, a clean washcloth, and some wipes, when my mom comes in to take over for me.

I leave the babies in the women's care and head back into my study to reconnect with the world after a week of misery and pining.

Mack has messaged me on FaceBook to let me know she's coming over for Christmas. Jared and a few others dropped me a line to ask how I'm holding up with babies. Several friends congratulated me via Twitter...including Misha.

His composed, friendly felicitation makes my heart disintegrate in my chest. Congratulations, Danneel, Jensen and JJ! Love u guys! (Zeppelin and Arrow are bound to be bad-ass with names like that!) #twinning.

It's simple and innocent and my final undoing.

So that's it. Everything's back to normal. It's as though nothing ever happened between us.

I flip my laptop shut and lean back in my chair.

Is he really ready and willing to put us behind him so quickly?

The last of my hope fades away like embers drifting off into the night. So he doesn't bother to call, not so much as a text after he broke my heart, but he's going to reach out to me on Twitter with a public congratulations like everything's okay between us, normal.

I'm at a bar within the hour.

A man in torment, I hunch over my drink and try to continue existing.

Damn you, Misha, I think, throwing back a burning shot.

It also crosses my mind that I drink too much, but it's laughable how much I care. I've declined every party and elite social event I've been invited to in the past week, I've barely manage to stomach anything but coffee and scrambled eggs, and I'm in dire need of a shave. And still there's nothing left in my bag of fucks to give.

I rake my fingers through the thick layer of stubble riddling my jaw, but it only reminds me of stroking Misha's face, of the skiff of dark beard stubble sprinkling his chin and jaw, tickling the pads of my fingers.

My thoughts venture higher, to the perfect fullness of his voluptuous, rubescent lips. I remember how those lips curved into that characteristic, utterly infectious grin of his, how it would lacquer his cherubic face when he looked at me: pearly teeth pulling absentmindedly at his bottom lip in a devastatingly beautiful way, eyes sparkling with boisterous mischief and laughter.

There's something about that man, so mesmerizingly delicate and masculine, something about the way the light hits him...

Goddamn, he's beautiful.

Even his voice is beautiful, strumming my nerve endings like a finely tuned instrument. Every throaty syllable uttered in that delectable baritone makes me want to close the space between us and french the fucking shit out of him. His husky voice is the perfect blend of gravel roughness and warm, whiskey smoothness, dangerously sultry.

Then there's that wild, unkempt hair of his: dark as sin, the perfect sweep of loose, lazy curls, coiling soft and dark around my questing fingers. And those vivid, electrifying blue eyes and the feverish glow of his sun-kissed skin.

And that perfect ass, with all the right muscle tone, the way it encased me like a warm, tailor-made glove, more uniquely right than anything else I've ever experienced in my life. I wanted to stay inside it forever, love on him even longer than that.

I prop my chin on the heel of my hand, caught up in delirious, desirous, dreamy languor.

That man has the body of an athletic archangel, a mighty marvel, the culmination of celestial creativity. A true Adonis.

By comparison, everyone around him has the splendour of a vile, soggy dishrag.

Misha is magnetic, eclectic, mischievous, charitable, charismatic, lustrous, fascinating, seductive, scandalous, irksomely handsome, fucking sonnet-worthy.

And, damn, he knew how to keep a man happy, had no qualms about serving himself up to me whenever the notion struck either of us. I can hardly believe we offered ourselves to each other that way, lost ourselves together in nights of passion and ecstasy and borderline insanity, making sweet, wild, exhausting love, and now he's discarding our relationship like yesterday's trash.

I've heard it said before that you don't really love someone until you don't want to love them anymore and you still do. Until they've dragged you through hell and you still do. Until there's no reason to keep loving them, no personal gain or benefit - just pain - and you still do. So the pain reminds me. The pain reminds me that my love for him is real and genuine and true; in spite of it, I love him more than I did before I lost him.

I get drunk, too drunk to drive myself back home. Even if this predicament had occurred to me sober, it wouldn't have changed my actions. I needed to drink.

I'm both too ashamed and too passive to call someone for a ride, so I end up wandering aimlessly around the streets of California, until I stumble on the doorstep of a quaint, idyllic little chapel.

Feeling like a soulless body simulating life, laden with drink and drowsy with physical and emotional exhaustion, I trudge inside. The ceiling and floor are a deep, brown wood, accented by a burgundy carpet and golden holiday trimmings.

I don't know what possesses me to do it, but I collapse in a pew at the back and lean my forehead on the cool, wooden seat in front of me.

What am I doing here? It's not like anyone or anything in this place can help me now.

I didn't just fall for Misha. I derailed off a cliff and catapulted head over heels into the canyon below. I'm past saving.

I suck at the brittle air, scented with crinkled scripture pages and wooden upholstery, lungs squeezing laboriously inside my chest. This pain is too much, feels powerful enough to rock the world on its axis.

The tension and bitter loss clutch at my mind and body, emulated by the fingers raking through my hair.

Panic sets in; every shallow breath is like swallowing flames. Nobody will ever know. With each heartbeat, the knife of pain cuts deeper, slicing and twisting through my helplessly prone flesh.

Everything we were is simply...gone without a trace. I claw at my hair, wrenching fistfuls until my eyes gloss over, lashes damp with the weight of impending tears. He'll never be mine.

Cold anguish coils around my heart and squeezes, unrelenting. The worst part is...he doesn't care...he's okay with this. My fingers squeeze, hands cramping. He's happy.

But I'll carry these feelings to my grave. Repression. Bitterness. Angst. Longing. Aching. Heartbreak. Desolation-

"You okay, son?"

My head snaps up and I draw a hand over my mouth, steeling myself.

Before me stands an elderly man with salt-and-pepper hair, regarding me with a warm yet inquisitive smile. "Can I help you?"

I snort inwardly. If he knew about me, what I've done, he wouldn't think I'm worthy of being in his line of sight. I may not be willing to jump on anything with a dick, but I'm not exactly a godly, heterosexual man, either.

"Just wanna be left alone," I mumble, dropping my head in resolute defeat. The alcohol is beginning to slur my words, impair my judgement, but my grief makes rational thought impossible anyway.

"Are you sure-"

"I don't need your help," I insist, voice stretched taught. "I don't...I don't do church, man."

The man lowers himself next to me and leans forward on his forearms against the pew in front of us.

"I see," he murmurs thoughtfully. Then, after a beat, "I'm Wren."

"And I'm out of here," I smile tightly, ignoring his outstretched hand and rising to my feet.

I don't need this holier-than-thou fuck telling me to get on the moral high road. I don't need any of this right now. I should've gone home; it was stupid for a sinful, snot-nosed streak of vomit like me to walk into a place like this.

"Wait," he implores. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Actually - no," I huff, wheeling around in indignation. Before I can check myself, the alcohol yanks the confession from my mouth: "I'm gay. I'm gay, oh holy pastor Wren. What do you think about that?"

I don't know why I'm admitting this, or why it feels so liberating. Maybe because he clearly doesn't recognize me, doesn't know who I am. In this moment I'm just another stranger, and that status is oddly refreshing. Freed from the shackles of fame and pressure, I feel like an exonerated prisoner stepping out of his cell for the first time in years.

To this man I'm not famous, not living my life in disguise. I don't have to pretend my marriage is perfect and I don't have to project a happy man to the world. I'm just me.

"Gay," I repeat, testing the word on my tongue. It tastes exhilarating and bitter. "You know, sodomy? Indulging in the forbidden passion?"

Wren gazes evenly at me, head tilted slightly, but doesn't say anything. "I'm in love with another man. I'm a horrible person. Go on, tell me I'm going to hell." My nostrils flare and I feel anxiety rising in my throat. "Say it. Say you think I'm disgusting. Say you hate me."

"Why would I hate you?"

I blink.

"I'm sorry, let me try this again," I reply tightly, squeezing my eyes shut. "I like cock, pastor. Dick. Penis. What part of this is confusing to you?"

To his credit, Wren barely flinches. It irritates me, for some reason.

I understand on some level that I'm the one who stepped into his church uninvited, and he's done nothing wrong, but I'm uncensored sober, and in my current state I won't hesitate to lay into the prick if he tells me I'm going to hell for loving Misha.

"I still don't get it," Wren concedes. "Why would I-"

"Because you're a pastor, damnit!" My brow furrows as I glare pointedly around at the warmly-lit sanctuary, brightened by festive decorations.

"Oh," he muses, voice subdued and thoughtful. "Guess I missed that part of the job description."

Something about his calm demeanour has me righteously pissed. Silently, I dare him to tell me that I can just pray the gay away and everything will be okay. If he says anything - anything - I'll give him a damn good reason to say his fucking prayers.

"And I don't regret it," I continue, strained voice rising. "I don't regret any of it, okay? I don't feel guilty. And don't you dare tell me I'm wrong to love him. Because he's perfect." I suck in a breath, jabbing a vicious finger at him. "He's a fucking angel, a cosmic masterpiece, and if you tell me he's a fucked up, dirty sinner, I'll put your pious ass in the ground, amen. I don't care who you are, I will beat the motherfucking shit out of you-"

"Son, calm down," he urges, raising both hands in self-defence. "What exactly do you think I'm going to do to you?"

Seriously? I grit my teeth.

"You tell me, pastor. What's the protocol? Stoning?"

To my dismay, Wren drops his head, smiling ruefully. I frown, scrutinizing him warily. "What?"

"Nothing," he chuckles. "Just...your mention of stoning reminds me of the words of a very wise man."

I fix him with a dry glare and he meets my gaze unflinchingly. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

I cock an eyebrow, arms folded over my chest. "See, I can't stone you," the man goes on, soft smile playing on his lips. "God won't let me. On account of the fact that I'm just as-" he airquotes - "fucked up as you are. As everyone else."

Maybe it's the alcohol, but I'm not following.

"So..."

"So I don't...hate you."

"But you hate the idea of men being with men, right? It disgusts you, doesn't it?"

"No. I don't think it's a choice or a lifestyle; I think you were born this way. And you shouldn't try to fix something that isn't broken. Humans might; God doesn't."

I snort derisively, fists clenching at my sides.

"Then why do people like you think people like me are broken?"

"Fear," he replies effortlessly. "You don't confirm...and different is scary." He regards me as though it's as simple as that, and I'm left reeling.

I pass a hand over my face, lowering myself back onto the bench.

"I'm pretty sure you're not doing the holiness thing right."

"Look-" he waves a hand at me in a gesture that asks for my name, and I provide it warily. "Look, Jensen. If God thinks it's a problem for you to be gay, then that's between you and Him. I have no business judging you. I have my own sins to be preoccupied with, my own battles. Believe it or not, I'm not concerned with picking out all your flaws and throwing them in your face from the pulpit. I may be a pastor, but spiritually I'm just another beggar like everyone else, telling other beggars where I found bread. I won't turn you away or...stone you, because God didn't turn me away like that. He took me in and taught me not to condemn or hate you but to love you. I don't wanna be a hypocrite."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," I swallow thickly, rubbing my hands across my face.

"We're all sinners here," Wren insists. "If we don't welcome everyone, without exceptions, then this is no longer the house of God."

I purse my lips, tapping my foot against the wooden floorboards.  

"Next you're gonna tell me God doesn't hate me," I chuckle airily. My throat closes and my smile falters as I drop my gaze to my lap. I bite my lip, the heel of my shoe drumming anxiously against the floor.

Wren offers me a wry smile.

"Jensen, I don't think God fashioned your heart to love this man and then went oops, screwed this one up."

"Then why-" I seethe, hands balling into fists on my thighs. "Why aren't more of you people this accepting?"

"Because we're humans, and sometimes we're crap at representing the God we profess to serve."

He smiles lopsidedly. "Doesn't mean God is anything like His so-called followers. And, look, I know what you must think of me. I know the church has made people believe God doesn't love them and they're not welcome in His house, because of who they are."

He shakes his head wistfully. "We try, but sometimes we forget to check our attitudes at the door. Even if I were...more morally upright than you because I'm straight, God says to me, good for you, treat Jensen right anyway. It's not my divine mandate to condemn you. Because if He hated you, I'm confident he could deliver the memo himself, very effectively," Wren grins. "He doesn't need a bunch of old, bigoted hypocrites to do it for Him."

He leans in, a soft smile playing on his lips. "I get the impression your relationship with this man is a secret?"

"Nobody knows," I affirm immediately...right?

Misha and I are professional actors, for fuck's sake. We're smooth, subtle.

We're always careful, especially on stage.

Fucking sleuths.

Thanks to my job, I possess complete mastery over my features at all times and would never let my mushy, gooey feelings for that man show on my face.

For example, Misha writhing and groaning in the gripes of a feigned orgasm during our reenactment of When Harry Met Sally? Totally didn't let on that it gave me the boner of the century.

And I've certainly never acted on those sexual impulses, always making sure to keep my hands off his ass in public.

And we made sure never to tease each other sexually...

...instead keeping our behaviour strictly heterosexual at all times.

[There should be a GIF or video here. Update the app now to see it.]

I pass a hand over my face in resignation.

...fuck.