Ethan sat alone in the quiet after Mia had gone, the echo of her voice still lingering in the corners of his room like the scent of her shampoo soft, familiar, safe.
"I'm here," she'd said. And she meant it. That was the hardest part.
Because even in the comfort of her presence, his mind had wandered not to the past they'd shared, but to the weight of Daniel's gaze across the studio. The intensity. The stillness. The way it carved through him like light slicing between blinds in the morning.
Now, with the door closed behind her and silence settling like dust, Ethan felt suspended in a moment he couldn't name.
What happens if you stop pretending it's nothing?
That question haunted Ethan long after Mia's gentle presence had faded into the background of his apartment. The softness of her touch still lingered the warmth of someone who cared, who didn't demand answers he wasn't ready to give. But when she left, with a quiet kiss to his temple and a whispered, "Take care of yourself," he was left alone with the silence. And Daniel.
Not physically, of course. But in his head.
Daniel's eyes, the press of his voice in the dream, the way his fingers had curled at the hem of Ethan's shirt like he was desperate not to let go it all clung to Ethan like static.
He paced his living room like a man being chased by thoughts he didn't want to name. Outside, the city hummed. Seagulls cawed distantly over the rooftops. The low drone of traffic filtered through the half-cracked window. Portsmouth moved on, unbothered.
But inside Ethan, something had shifted. Not just confusion. Not just curiosity. Hunger.
He sat on the edge of his sofa, elbows on knees, running a hand over his face. A long breath. Then another.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Daniel.
"You left your phone charger in the studio. Figured you might need it."
Just that. Casual. Professional. Like nothing had passed between them except art and instruction.
Ethan stared at the screen, his thumb hovering. He typed a reply, deleted it. Typed again.
"I'll swing by. Thanks."
Send.
It was barely five minutes before he was pulling on his jacket, ignoring the nerves twisting low in his gut. The walk to the studio felt longer than usual every footstep like it carried a secret. A heartbeat.
The hall was quiet when he arrived. Just the soft tick of a distant clock. And then the creak of a door.
Daniel stood at the far end of the room, flipping through a sketchbook. He didn't look up at first.
Ethan hesitated in the doorway, fingers curled around the edge of the frame.
"Hey," he said softly.
Daniel glanced up. "Hey."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Daniel closed the sketchbook and nodded toward the chair beside him. "You came."
"You said I forgot something," Ethan replied, trying to keep his voice light.
Daniel gave a small smile, half amused. "You forget a lot lately."
"Yeah, well. I've got a lot in my head."
Daniel leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "I gathered."
The silence stretched, not awkward, but taut.
Ethan took a step closer, then another. The room felt too warm, or maybe he just was.
Daniel tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but with quiet concern.
"Are you okay?" he asked carefully.
Ethan blinked, caught off guard. "Define okay," he said, trying to keep his voice light, but the nervousness clung to his words like a shadow.
Daniel's brow lifted in that way he had when he was trying to read between the lines. "You've been... off. Since the other night."
So he'd noticed. Ethan's throat suddenly felt tight, like it was closing up on the truth he was trying to avoid.
He looked down at his hands fingers twisting the fabric of his sleeve. "I had a dream," he said slowly, "about you."
Daniel didn't flinch. Didn't smile, didn't laugh it off. Just held his gaze steady. "I figured."
"You... did?" Ethan's voice cracked with disbelief.
"You wouldn't meet my eyes for two days," Daniel said. "That's usually a sign."
A bitter laugh escaped Ethan's lips, awkward and self-deprecating. "Great. I'm that obvious."
Daniel's expression softened, warmth creeping into his features. "No. You're just honest. Even when you're trying not to be."
They fell into a silence, heavier than the last. The air between them thick with things unsaid.
Ethan finally lifted his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't just the dream. It was how I felt after. It stayed with me."
Daniel's jaw clenched subtly, a small tension Ethan hadn't noticed before. "You don't have to say more," he said quietly.
"I want to," Ethan insisted.
Daniel exhaled slowly, as if steeling himself. "Okay."
"I don't know what it means," Ethan admitted, "I've always liked girls Mia, others but with you... it's different. It's not just attraction. It feels like... something else. Like gravity pulling me in."
Daniel's eyes dropped to his hands, tracing a pattern on the desk. "That's... complicated."
"Yeah," Ethan said, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't plan any of this. The dream it caught me off guard. And how I felt after... it felt real. Too real."
Daniel's gaze lifted, sharp but patient. "And now?"
Ethan shrugged, unsure. "I don't know. I don't have answers. But I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."
The silence between them stretched again, full of tension and possibility.
Daniel took a slow step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're young, Ethan. You're still figuring things out. That's okay."
Ethan swallowed. "I'm not looking for answers right now. I just want to know if you feel it too."
Daniel's gaze remained steady but unreadable, his face carefully neutral. After a long moment, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, nothing more.
A breath passed between them, thick with unspoken words.
"But that doesn't mean anything changes," Daniel said, his tone clipped and businesslike.
Ethan met his eyes, voice firm. "I'm not asking for changes. I just want it to be real."
Daniel's hand brushed against Ethan's briefly, a quick, controlled touch that felt more like a professional gesture than an emotional one.
Ethan didn't pull away.
Outside, a gull cried. The city moved on.
But here, in the quiet of the studio, between paint and paper and questions still unanswered, something shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just real.