The bus hummed softly as it rolled through the city, the sun dipping low behind the skyline. Ethan sat beside Joss, his ankle wrapped and elevated, his body tired but his heart full.
Joss hadn't left his side since the woods.
Not once.
As the bus pulled into the university, students began to stir, gathering their bags, stretching, chatting. But Joss stayed focused—his arm already around Ethan, helping him up gently.
The hostel loomed ahead.
Three flights of stairs.
No lift.
Ethan hesitated.
"I'll be fine," he said, voice quiet. "I can manage."
Joss looked at him, brows furrowed. "You're not climbing stairs with that ankle."
Ethan sat on the edge of his hostel bed, his bag half-packed, his ankle throbbing beneath the bandage. The room felt too quiet, too small. He stared at the floor, fingers clenched around the strap of his backpack.
"I don't want to be a burden," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "You've done enough. I— I'm not used to being taken care of."
His words hung in the air like something fragile.
Joss didn't answer right away.
He walked over slowly, knelt in front of Ethan, and reached up to cup his face with both hands—thumbs brushing gently along his cheekbones, like he was afraid Ethan might flinch.
"You're not a burden," Joss said, voice steady but soft. "You're someone I care about. Deeply."
Ethan's eyes flicked up, uncertain.
Joss leaned in, close enough that Ethan could feel the warmth of his breath.
"You've been carrying everything alone for so long," he continued. "I see it in your eyes. In the way you hesitate before asking for help. In the way you brace yourself, like you expect people to leave."
Ethan's throat tightened.
Joss's thumbs moved slowly, tracing the curve of his jaw.
"Let me do this," he whispered. "Let me be here. Not because I have to. Because I want to."
Ethan blinked, and a single tear slipped down his cheek.
Joss caught it with his thumb, brushing it away like it was something sacred.
"You don't have to earn care," he said. "You just have to let it in."
Ethan's lips parted, but no words came.
He felt something unraveling inside him—something old and knotted and tired. The part of him that had learned to survive without softness. The part that had stopped believing anyone would stay.
Joss leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"Come home with me," he said. "Let me take care of you."
And for the first time in a long time, Ethan nodded.
Not because he believed he deserved it.
But because Joss made it feel possible.
They packed quickly—Joss doing most of the work, careful not to let Ethan lift anything. Then they hailed a cab, and Joss helped Ethan inside, settling him gently against his chest.
The ride was quiet.
Ethan lay on Joss's shoulder, eyes half-closed, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
He felt safe.
Held.
Like he had someone to lean on.
Joss's condominium was sleek and quiet, high above the city, with soft lighting and warm wood floors. He carried Ethan inside, set him down gently on the couch, then knelt in front of him.
"Let me help you shower," Joss said, voice low, steady.
Ethan hesitated, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. His gaze dropped to the tiled floor.
"I can—"
"You don't have to," Joss interrupted gently. "Just let me take care of you. No funny business. Just care."
Ethan nodded, barely.
Joss guided him into the bathroom, the light warm and golden. Steam began to rise as Joss adjusted the water, testing it with his hand, making sure it was just right—neither too hot nor too cold.
Then he turned to Ethan.
Slowly, reverently, he began to undress him.
His fingers moved with care, undoing buttons, sliding fabric down Ethan's arms, over his chest. He knelt to remove his pants, mindful of the bandaged ankle, his touch feather-light. Ethan stood still, breath shallow, heart thudding in his chest.
There was no rush.
No hunger.
Only tenderness.
Joss helped him into the shower, one arm wrapped around his waist, the other shielding his injured foot from the spray. He held Ethan close, letting the water run over his back and shoulders, warm and soothing.
He reached for the shampoo, lathered it between his palms, then began to massage Ethan's scalp—slow, circular motions that made Ethan close his eyes and lean into the touch.
"You're safe," Joss whispered, almost to himself.
He rinsed the suds away, then gently washed Ethan's body, his hands moving with reverence—over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest. Every touch was a promise: I see you. I'm here.
When it was done, Joss turned off the water and wrapped Ethan in a thick towel, pressing it to his skin, drying him with quiet devotion.
He carried him out of the bathroom, bridal-style, and laid him gently on the bed.
Then he sat beside him, plugged in the hairdryer, and began to dry Ethan's hair—his fingers combing through the damp strands, his eyes never leaving Ethan's face.
Ethan watched him.
Watched the way Joss's brows furrowed in concentration.
Watched the way his lips parted slightly when he leaned in to check the temperature of the air.
Watched the way his hands trembled, just a little, when he tucked a strand of hair behind Ethan's ear.
"You don't have to do all this," Ethan whispered.
Joss looked at him, eyes soft.
"I want to."
He set the dryer aside, leaned down, and kissed Ethan—soft, lingering, lips barely brushing his.
Ethan's breath caught.
But Joss pulled back, resting his forehead against Ethan's.
"Not tonight," he murmured. "You need rest. I just want to hold you."
He climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over them, and wrapped his arms around Ethan, drawing him close.
Ethan nestled into his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of Joss's breath, the warmth of his skin, the quiet strength of his embrace.
And in that silence, Ethan felt something shift.
Not lust.
Not longing.
But the ache of being cherished.
The next morning, Ethan woke to the scent of scrambled eggs and coffee.
He blinked, sat up slowly, and saw Joss in the kitchen—shirt loose, hair tousled, humming softly as he plated breakfast.
"Morning," Joss said, turning with a smile.
Ethan smiled back, heart warm.
After breakfast, Joss helped him dress, packed his bag, and drove him to campus.
He didn't just drop him off.
He walked him to the building.
Held his hand.
Kissed his forehead.
"Text me when you're done," he said.
Ethan nodded, cheeks flushed.
And as he watched Joss walk away, he realized something:
He wasn't just being cared for.
He was being loved.