The city glowed faintly beyond the windows, its lights blurred by the evening haze. Ethan stepped into Joss's condo, the door clicking shut behind him like a sigh. He moved slowly, his ankle still tender, but the ache was no longer sharp. It had dulled into something manageable—like the rest of him.
Joss was in the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pot. The air smelled like ginger and sesame, warm and comforting. He turned when he heard Ethan, and smiled—not wide, not performative. Just soft. Just enough.
"You're back," he said.
Ethan nodded, setting his bag down. "Smells good."
"It's just porridge," Joss replied. "Thought you might want something light."
They ate at the small dining table, knees brushing beneath it. Ethan's fingers curled around the spoon, his movements slow, deliberate. Joss reached out once to wipe a grain of rice from his cheek with his thumb. Ethan didn't flinch.
After dinner, they curled up on the couch. The TV played something muted in the background, but neither of them paid attention. Joss pulled Ethan into his lap, arms wrapped around him, chin resting lightly on his shoulder.
Ethan leaned back into him, the rhythm of Joss's heartbeat steady against his spine.
They sat like that for a long time.
And then, quietly, Ethan spoke.
"My father used to be a good man."
Joss didn't move.
"He taught me how to ride a bike. How to fix a fan. He used to sing when he cooked." Ethan's voice was steady, but low. "Then the business failed. And something in him broke. He started drinking. Started borrowing. Started hitting."
Joss's arms tightened around him.
"I left when I could," Ethan continued. "But my mom and sister are still there. I send money every week. I see her sometimes—my mom. She smiles like everything's fine, but her eyes…" He swallowed. "Her eyes always look tired."
He paused.
The silence between them was thick, but not heavy.
"I didn't want to tell you," Ethan said. "Because I didn't want you to see that part of me. I didn't want you to think I'm… damaged. Or that loving me means inheriting all that mess."
Joss didn't speak. He just held him.
Ethan's confession lingered in the air like smoke—fragile, lingering, impossible to ignore. His body was still, but his fingers trembled slightly where they rested on Joss's arm. He hadn't meant to say all that. Not tonight. Not like this.
But it had come out, and now it was here—raw and unedited, like a wound finally shown.
Joss shifted slowly, deliberately, turning Ethan in his arms until they were face to face. His eyes searched Ethan's, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something steadier.
"I've wanted to ask," he said, voice low. "So many times. But I didn't want to push. I didn't want to make you feel exposed before you were ready."
He reached up and cupped Ethan's face, his thumbs brushing the corners of his eyes—gentle, reverent, like he was touching something sacred.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For trusting me."
Ethan's breath hitched. His eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with the ache of being seen. Fully. Finally.
"You're not a burden," Joss said. "You're someone I want to know. All of you. Even the parts you think are too heavy."
He leaned in, slowly, giving Ethan time to pull away if he needed to.
But Ethan didn't.
He closed the distance, lips meeting Joss's in a kiss that wasn't about hunger or heat—it was about recognition. About the quiet miracle of being held without flinching.
Ethan melted into it, his hands finding Joss's shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like he needed something to anchor him. Like he was afraid he might float away.
They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, breath mingling.
No words.
Just the sound of the city outside, the hum of the air conditioner, the steady rhythm of two hearts learning to beat in sync.
Eventually, Joss stood and reached for him—not with urgency, but with care. He lifted Ethan into his arms, carried him to the bedroom, and laid him down like he was something precious.
Ethan watched him in the dim light, chest rising and falling, eyes wide and unguarded.
Joss climbed in beside him, pulling the blanket over them, then wrapped his arms around Ethan again—this time with no hesitation, no restraint.
Their limbs tangled naturally, like they'd always known how to fit together.
Ethan's head rested against Joss's chest, listening to the heartbeat that had steadied him earlier. It was still there. Still strong. Still his.
"You're not a burden," Joss whispered again, voice thick with emotion. "You're a gift. Even your scars. Especially your scars."
Ethan didn't respond. He couldn't—not with words.
Instead, he closed his eyes, letting the warmth of Joss's body seep into his own, letting the safety of this moment wrap around him like a second skin.
And for the first time in years, he didn't feel like he was surviving.
He felt like he was home.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across the sheets, warm and golden. Ethan woke first, blinking slowly, his body still wrapped in Joss's arms.
He lay there for a moment, watching the way Joss's chest rose and fell, the way his lips parted slightly in sleep.
Then he reached for his phone.
He typed a message.
I'm okay. I'm safe.
He sent it to his mother.
Then he turned back to Joss, curled into him, and smiled.