So instead, he reached for the light switch and turned it off.
Darkness wrapped around the room. Safer that way. And Jude ducked under the covers, heart hammering, praying toevery indifferent god in the sky that Warren wouldn’t notice how hard he was.
“Okay…” Warren drawled, amused.
Then the bed dipped.
The mattress gave under his weight, and the heat of Warren’s body as he climbed in and settled beside Jude was too much. He was too close. A whole presence sinking into the space, stealing the air from Jude’s lungs. Everything was too big. Too loud. His heartbeat. His skin. The way the sheet barely separated their arms. All he needed was for Warren to start snoring. Then maybe he could breathe again. Maybe he couldcope.
But Warren didn’t.
Instead, his voice came through the dark. Calm. Gentle. “Where did you get it?”
The question broke the silence like a whisper through fog.
Jude stared up at the ceiling. The dark made it easier not to lie, but harder to speak. He could feel Warren beside him. Close but not touching. Warm and solid. Steady in a way Jude hadn’t felt next to another human being in years.
“London,” Jude said. Dry. Distant. Too heavy to hold properly. “A long time ago.”
“It’s… striking. And it…” Warren paused, but it wasn’t an empty silence. It was a calculated one. As if he was waiting to see what Jude would give him.
Jude didn’t rush to fill it.
Part of him wanted to know what Warren thought.Strikingcould mean anything. Ugly. Brutal. Beautiful. Unforgettable. All those same words he thought about himself.
“What does it mean?” Warren asked instead.
“That once, I was stupid. Reckless. And troubled.”
Warren shifted beside him. “Only once?”
Jude turned his head, and their faces were close. Not touching, but close enough to feel Warren’s minty breath sprinkling his cheek. “More than once.”
“We all do stupid things in our youth.”
“Yeah?” Jude tucked his arm under his head, propping himself up. “What stupid things did you do?”
Warren rolled onto his side, facing him, propping himself up on one arm too. “Stole a pack of fags from the corner shop when I was thirteen. Got caught. Mum hit me so hard, I still have the scar.” He reached under the covers, found Jude’s hand, and guided it to his temple. “Right there. Feel it?”
The scar was small but real, above the curve of his ear, a shallow dip in the skin. The contact was too intimate. Too intentional. But Warren didn’t pull away. His breathing deepened, a quiet shift, moreawarenessthan comfort.
Still, when Warren let go of his hand, Jude kept his fingers there.
Tracing. Soft. Hesitant.
“Yeah, I feel it,” he whispered through the dark.
Because he felt it all. Every single thing.
It was stupid. Dangerous. The air charged. Jude looked into Warren’s eyes. Dark in the low light, but unwavering. Curious. Waiting. The dip in the mattress between them felt too narrow. Jude was too aware of everything. Warren’s heat beneath the duvet, the faint scent of skin and soap, the stretch of muscle under fabric. Thesafetyof him.
It terrified him.
Because he hadn’t felt safe in so long, it felt like a setup.
The calm before the crash.
“That tells me your history taught you something.” Jude pulled his hand back. Into the safe zone of his side of the bed.
