“For what?”
He looks down at the dog, then back at me.“He needs a backyard.Don’t you think?”
There’s something in the way he says it.Casual, like he’s still playing it cool.But underneath it—hope.A softness curling through his words.Not just about the dog.Something else.
His apartment is nice—too nice for someone who pretends he’s not putting roots down—but I barely register the décor before I’m asking the question that’s been simmering since we got in here.
“Why?”I ask.“Why now?”
He pauses at the door to his place, unlocks it, and pushes it open.
“Because it’s time,” he says quietly.
The moment the door swings open, the pup lumbers in and flops down like he owns the place.The leash falls away, and he sits with a goofy regality, tongue hanging and tail swaying once like a sleepy wave.
“I mean yeah, he’s huge,” he says, watching him trot across the room.“Otis needs a house—a home.Probably a cat to make some music with.”
I drop to my knees in front of the dog, heart pounding as the familiarity sinks in.I reach out, touch his fur.Soft, thick, and warm under my palm.
“Otis?”I ask, but the answer’s already crashing into me.I scratch behind his ears like I’ve imagined doing so many times.“My Otis?”
“He’s mine,” Roderick says, but his voice has that teasing lilt.“You’ve been trying to steal him from the beginning.I only let you name him because I was weak.”
And then it hits me.
Not just in thought, but in my entire fucking body.Like a chord finally resolving.
Of course.
Of course it’s him.He’s DeadStrings.
Who else could’ve been speaking to my soul in lyrics and silence and three a.m.confessions?Who else would’ve known what I needed before I even typed the words?
“Of course it’s you,” I whisper, not to him—more like to the universe, or maybe to myself.Like my body already knew and is now catching my brain up.
Roderick doesn’t say anything.He just watches me.His eyes soft, his jaw tight, his whole body holding back like he wants to move but won’t unless I do.
There’s a shift between us, electric and sudden, and fuck if it doesn’t feel like a climax waiting to happen.
I look at him from the floor, my hand still resting on the dog’s back.His chest rises and falls in this slow rhythm that says he’s waiting.Bracing.Daring to hope.
And I’m not sure if I want to kiss him or punch him or crawl into his lap and beg him to make me forget every second we spent apart.
Because it's him.
It’s always been him.
And now ...he’s right here.
In front of me.Real.Tangible.There’s no distance, or waiting for him to respond.No usernames to hide behind.It’s just him.Roderick Wilder.The boy who once broke my heart.The man who's been stitching us back together piece by anonymous piece.
“Last night ...”
My voice is too soft, barely grazing the tension thickening between us.“You were afraid to tell me who you were, right?”
He nods.Slow.Small.As if anything more would crack this moment wide open.His jaw tightens like he’s bracing for something inevitable, something that could rewrite everything between us.
“When ...how did you know it was me?”
