The bar had emptied, its pulse fading into quiet. Ethan moved through the silence like a final note—low, lingering, unforgettable. He wiped down the last table, the citrus scent of cleaner rising around him, sharp and clean against the warmth of his skin. His shirt clung to his back, damp from hours of motion, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine, the lean curve of his waist.
He stretched, arms lifting above his head, and the fabric pulled taut across his chest. Muscles shifted beneath skin—subtle, not showy. The kind of body sculpted by necessity, not vanity. His collarbones caught the low light, his forearms flexed with quiet strength, and a single bead of sweat slid from his temple down to his jaw.
He rolled his shoulders, slow and deliberate, like he was shaking off the weight of the night. His hair was tousled, damp at the roots, a few strands falling across his forehead. He reached behind the counter, grabbed his bag, and slung it over one shoulder with a casual flick—effortless, like everything he did.
Outside, the alley was dim—just one flickering streetlamp casting long shadows across the pavement. The city hummed low, like it was holding its breath.
He didn't notice the figures at first.
Three men stepped out from the shadows, blocking his path. One wore a leather jacket despite the heat, another had a scar running down his cheek, and the third—tall, lean, eyes too calm—spoke first.
"You're Ethan, right?"
Ethan's steps slowed. "Who's asking?"
The scarred one laughed. "Your father owes money. A lot. And guess what? You're easier to find."
Ethan's heart kicked against his ribs. He didn't flinch, but something in his chest tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't play dumb," the tall one said, stepping closer. "We know where you work. We know where you live."
Ethan's fists clenched. He wanted to run. Wanted to fight. Wanted to disappear. But he stood his ground.
"I'm not paying for his mistakes."
The man smirked. "Then you'll bleed for them."
The first punch came fast—Ethan dodged, barely. He swung back, catching one in the jaw. For a moment, adrenaline surged. He moved like he meant it. Like he could win.
But he couldn't.
Then—footsteps. Fast. Heavy.
A fist slammed into Ethan's ribs, and he dropped to one knee, gasping. The alley spun—shadows, fists, the taste of blood. He tried to stand, but another kick sent him sprawling against the wall.
His vision blurred.
The thugs closed in.
And then—
"Enough."
The voice didn't shout. It sliced.
Low. Controlled. Lethal.
The air shifted.
From the mouth of the alley, Joss stepped into view, his silhouette framed by the glow of a streetlamp. His presence didn't just fill the space—it owned it. Behind him, two men followed like shadows, their eyes sharp, their hands tucked into jackets that could hide anything.
The thugs froze.
One instinctively stepped back. Another's hand twitched toward his pocket, then thought better of it.
Joss didn't speak again right away. He just walked forward, slow and deliberate, the sound of his boots against pavement louder than the thugs' breathing.
He stopped beside Ethan—who was still on the ground, blood at the corner of his mouth, chest heaving.
Joss didn't look down.
He looked at the men.
"You know who I am."
His voice was quiet. But it carried.
"This is my street. My bar. My rules."
The scarred thug swallowed hard. "We—we didn't know he was—"
"He's under my roof." Joss's eyes narrowed. "You touched him. That's not a mistake. That's a declaration."
Silence.
Thick. Electric.
Joss took one step closer, and the tallest thug flinched.
"You want to talk terms?" Joss said. "Fine. But you don't touch him again. Ever."
The men nodded, stumbling over apologies. One dropped a crumpled note with a number. Another muttered something about misunderstanding.
Joss didn't respond.
He just stood there—still, unreadable, terrifying in his restraint.
They vanished into the dark.
Only then did Joss turn.
Ethan was still leaning against the wall, trying to breathe through the pain. His lip was split, his shirt torn, his pride bleeding just as much as his body.
Joss crouched beside him, slow and careful.
"You okay?"
Ethan nodded. It was automatic. It was a lie.
Joss didn't push. His voice softened, but his eyes stayed sharp.
"If you're worried they'll come to your place, you can stay at mine."
Ethan flinched—not from pain, but from instinct. "I don't know you."
Joss nodded. "Fair. Then let me do one thing. Let me clean you up. That's all."
A pause.
Ethan looked at him—really looked. The man who had stepped into the dark for him. Who hadn't asked for anything. Who hadn't touched him without permission.
And for the first time that night, Ethan felt something stronger than fear.
He felt safe.
He nodded.
They drove in silence. The city blurred past—neon signs, shuttered shops, the occasional motorbike weaving through traffic. Joss's car was sleek, quiet, the leather seats cool against Ethan's skin.
The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour convenience store buzzed faintly behind them. Joss had parked beneath a flickering lamp, the kind that made everything feel a little more cinematic, a little more unreal. He returned with a small plastic bag—antiseptic, cotton pads, a bottle of water, and a pack of strawberry milk he hadn't meant to grab but did anyway.
They sat in the car, windows fogging slightly from the humidity, the engine off, the world outside dim and distant.
Inside, it was quiet.
Joss opened the antiseptic, the sharp scent curling into the air. He tore the seal from the cotton pads, then turned to Ethan.
"Hold still."
Ethan nodded, his voice lost somewhere in the tension between pain and pride.
Joss leaned in.
Close.
Close enough to feel the warmth of Ethan's breath on his skin. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises, the way his lashes trembled—not from fear, but from restraint.
His fingers brushed Ethan's jaw, tilting his face gently. The wound on his cheek was shallow, but angry. Red. Raw. Joss dabbed it with the pad, careful, reverent, like he was tending to something sacred.
Ethan winced, but didn't pull away.
Joss's heart stuttered.
He could smell the sweat on Ethan's skin, the faint citrus of whatever soap he used, the metallic tang of blood. He wanted—God, he wanted—to trace the curve of that cheekbone, to kiss the bruise, to blow gently on the wound like you would for someone you loved.
But he didn't.
He just cleaned the blood.
Slowly. Tenderly.
Ethan's eyes flicked up, meeting his.
And something cracked.
It wasn't the pain. It wasn't the fear.
It was the care.
No one had looked at Ethan like this in years. Not since his father stopped trying. Not since his mother began carrying everything alone, her hands too full to hold him. Ethan had been surviving for so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen.
His throat tightened.
"I'm fine," he whispered.
But the tears came anyway.
Silent. Sudden.
One slipped down his cheek, catching the edge of the bruise. Joss froze. Then, slowly, he reached out and wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. His hand lingered, cupping Ethan's face like it was something fragile. Something worth holding.
"You don't have to be," he said.
Ethan closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Let himself lean into the touch. Just a little. Just enough to feel the warmth of another person. Just enough to remember what it felt like to be safe.
Joss didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just held him.
His thumb brushed the edge of Ethan's jaw, slow and absent, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Like his body had decided to be gentle before his mind could catch up.
Outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping across the windshield. Inside, the silence deepened.
Ethan opened his eyes again, and Joss was still there.
Still looking at him like he mattered.
"Why are you doing this?" Ethan asked, voice hoarse.
Joss didn't answer right away. He looked down at the cotton pad in his hand, now stained pink, then back at Ethan.
"Because someone should."
Ethan swallowed hard.
The ache in his chest wasn't from the bruises anymore.
It was from the possibility.
Not love.
Not yet.
But the beginning of something that could be.
Something that might.
Joss reached into the bag and handed Ethan the bottle of water. Then, without a word, he opened the strawberry milk and took a sip, grimacing slightly.
"Too sweet," he muttered.
Ethan let out a soft laugh, surprised by it. It hurt, but it felt good.
Joss glanced at him, and for the first time that night, he smiled.
Small. Real.
And in that quiet, bruised space between them, something began.