She slipped her arm around him, and the simple comfort of that breath, that tiny human warmth, felt like the first promise of brighter mornings to come.
Ethan didn't speak. Neither did Mia.
They just sat there, tangled in that half-sleep haze, where words were too sharp and silence could be soft.
But when the morning light fully claimed the room, golden and unfairly cheerful reality began its slow, inevitable return.
He eased out of her arms carefully, trying not to wake her fully, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. She stirred slightly, murmured something about coffee, then drifted back under.
Ethan stood barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, yawning into the open fridge while the kettle whistled behind him. Cold tiles bit into the soles of his feet. Everything about the moment should have been grounding, familiar, even comforting.
But all he could think about was Daniel's voice, low, careful, reverent.
Are you sure?
And the way his own voice had sounded in the dream: desperate, certain.
He groaned and let his forehead thump against the refrigerator door.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" he whispered.
The kettle clicked off. He poured water into two mugs, watching the instant coffee swirl like storm clouds sinking.
Mia's quiet footsteps padded in behind him. She slipped her arms around his waist from behind, warm cheek pressed to his back.
"Morning," she said softly.
He reached down and squeezed her hand, managing a small smile she couldn't see. "Morning."
"Did you sleep okay?" she asked, voice muffled against him.
He hesitated. "Yeah. Just... weird dreams."
"Stress dreams?" she asked, pulling back to grab her mug, hopping up on the counter.
"Yeah," he said too quickly. "Just the usual junk."
She nodded, sipping. "I've been having those too. Pressure's getting to everyone lately."
They talked, about her shift at the café, about a classmate's meltdown, about how the coffee tasted like regret. Ethan laughed when she made a face after a sip and said it tasted like "burnt earth and disappointment." It helped. A little.
But even as they shared toast and half-hearted jokes, there was something Ethan couldn't shake. Like a whisper at the back of his mind.
Why can't you stop thinking about him?
By the time he got to uni, the mood had shifted again. He was late, typical. His curls still damp, shirt only half tucked, and his bag barely zipped as he trotted into the art building.
Inside Daniel's studio, the lighting was different today, low, moody, slatted through partially drawn blinds. Charcoal dust lingered in the air. The scent of pencil lead, paint, and something smoky hung thick around the room. Someone was blasting low instrumental jazz in the back probably Ollie, who always claimed it helped his "creative flow."
And there was Daniel. At the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, shirt clinging to his frame like it didn't want to let go.
Ethan froze for half a beat. His gaze snagged on Daniel's hands, long fingers stained faintly from graphite, arms flexed as he adjusted an easel.
The dream slammed into his chest like a wave, the way those hands had felt, the way Daniel had whispered his name, the sweat-slick heat of it all.
"Ethan," Daniel said, calm as ever. "You're just in time."
"Right," Ethan said, too loud. "Yeah. Sorry. The... toaster was, uh, on fire."
Ollie snorted in the corner.
Daniel's lip twitched. "We've all been there."
Ethan shuffled to the model platform, cheeks burning, trying not to imagine what Daniel saw when he looked at him. Could he tell? Was it written on his face — the tension, the confusion, the want?
He sat down on the stool, and Daniel passed by him — close, close enough that Ethan could smell his cologne: sandalwood, clean cotton, maybe a hint of bergamot.
His breath caught.
Focus.
The room was quiet again except for the scratch of charcoal and the soft jazz still leaking from someone's phone speaker.
Daniel's voice occasionally cut through the quiet: "Light is falling off here... good, adjust the angle... don't overblend your shadows... Ethan, can you tilt your shoulder a bit more—yes, perfect."
Each time he spoke Ethan's name, Ethan flinched.
It was ridiculous. He was a professional. A student. A guy with a girlfriend.
And yet, the way Daniel said his name like he was still tasting it made Ethan's stomach flip.
Halfway through the session, Daniel moved closer to adjust the lighting near him.
"Stay still," Daniel said quietly, crouching next to the stand, his fingers adjusting the lamp, face inches from Ethan's knee.
Ethan tensed.
Daniel looked up, briefly and something flickered in his expression. Something sharp, aware. Their eyes locked for a moment too long.
Then Daniel stood abruptly, brushing his palms against his trousers, his voice returning to neutral. "That's better."
When the session ended, Ethan bolted for the hall, heart thudding.
He leaned against a cool wall, pressing his forehead against the plaster, trying to slow his breathing.
"You okay there?" came a voice not Daniel. Mia.
He turned. She was walking down the hallway with two takeaway coffees in her hand and an amused smile.
"Yeah. Just... hot in there," Ethan lied.
Mia handed him a cup and quirked a brow. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Ethan chuckled, too sharp. "More like got haunted by one."
They sat on the courtyard steps, sipping silently. Ethan watched the wind flick through the trees, dappled light shifting across the concrete like water.
Mia leaned her head against his shoulder.
"You've been distant," she said softly.
He didn't respond.
"You don't have to tell me everything," she added. "But if something's bothering you — like, really bothering you I'd rather hear it than feel it in the silence."
Ethan's throat tightened. He stared down into his coffee.
He wanted to tell her. About the dream. About Daniel. About the confusing, frustrating swirl of emotion that left him more breathless than anything else had in months.
But how do you say something you barely understand yourself?
"I think I'm just figuring things out," he said finally.
Mia nodded slowly. "Okay. I'm here."
And he knew she meant it.
But in that quiet, his mind drifted, to the way Daniel's eyes had lingered. To the space between them that crackled like the air before a storm. To the question that pulsed, silent and terrifying, behind every breath:
What happens if you stop pretending it's nothing?