The bus ride was quiet.
Ethan sat by the window, watching the familiar streets blur past—the corner shop with the faded awning, the rusted school gate, the alley where he used to wait for his sister after tuition. The city hadn't changed much. Not here. Not in this part. The buildings still leaned tiredly into each other, paint peeling, wires tangled like old secrets overhead.
Joss sat beside him, one hand resting lightly on Ethan's knee. His touch was steady, unspoken reassurance. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The silence between them had grown soft over time, like worn fabric—comfortable, lived-in.
Ethan's fingers curled slightly against his jeans. He hadn't been back in months. Not since the hospital. Not since the bruises had faded into something quieter. He wasn't sure what he expected to feel. Dread? Guilt? Maybe something like grief.
When the bus pulled up near the apartment block, Ethan hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. The concrete was chipped, the railing loose. A familiar crack ran along the third step, like a scar. He stared at it for a moment.
Joss didn't rush him. He just waited, gaze steady, presence grounding. His hand slipped into Ethan's, thumb brushing over the knuckle once, then still.
Ethan exhaled, then climbed.
His mother opened the door before he could knock. She was still in her apron, hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm. The smell of barley tea and fried shallots drifted out behind her.
"Ethan," she said, voice soft with surprise. Her eyes searched his face, lingering on the healed cut near his brow, the way he stood straighter now. Then her gaze shifted to Joss.
Ethan stepped forward, heart thudding. "Ma… this is Joss."
She looked at him for a long moment. Her expression didn't change much, but something in her shoulders eased. Then she smiled—small, cautious, but real.
"Come in," she said.
Inside, the apartment was exactly as Ethan remembered—tight, cluttered, but clean. The fan hummed overhead, stirring the scent of old books and laundry detergent. His sister peeked out from the bedroom, eyes wide. She was taller now. Her hair was dyed at the ends—blue fading into purple.
Joss greeted them both with quiet warmth. No performance. No charm. Just presence. He didn't try to impress. He didn't shrink either.
They sat around the small table, drinking barley tea. Ethan's mother asked about work, about his ankle, about whether he was eating enough. She didn't ask about the bruises. She didn't ask about the past. Her questions were gentle, practical, like she was stitching a thread back through the fabric of their connection.
Ethan answered softly, grateful for the normalcy. Joss chimed in once or twice, his voice low, respectful. He didn't dominate the space. He just filled it where needed.
When Ethan reached for Joss's hand under the table, and Joss laced their fingers together without hesitation, his mother's eyes flickered.
Not with judgment.
With understanding.
She didn't say anything. But her gaze lingered on their joined hands for a moment longer than necessary, then moved on.
Later, as they were leaving, she walked them to the door. The hallway was dim, the light above flickering like it always had. Ethan remembered how it used to buzz at night, casting shadows on the walls that made everything feel bigger than it was.
She touched Ethan's arm.
"You look better," she said. "Lighter."
Ethan swallowed. "I'm trying."
She nodded, then turned to Joss.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For taking care of my son."
Joss didn't answer right away. He looked at her, then at Ethan. His expression softened.
"He takes care of me too," he said.
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just full.
Then she nodded again, and stepped back.
Outside, the sky was soft with dusk. The air smelled faintly of rain, though the ground was dry. Ethan paused at the gate, looking back once. His mother was still standing there, framed by the doorway, watching.
He raised a hand.
She raised hers.
No words. Just that.
Then he turned to Joss, who was already waiting at the curb, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Ethan walked toward him, heart steady.
And he smiled.
Not the kind of smile that hides.
The kind that says: I'm here. I'm whole. I'm loved.