Jules laughed, the sound bright and infectious. “For some reason, I think that might be a stretch for you. I’m surprised you don’t have your phone out to see what’s going on and how long the power will be out.”
Keaton was too. But he was starting to like these quiet moments in the dark with Jules. Everything felt easier when the world around them faded away.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Jules suggested. “I talk a lot about myself, but I still don’t know much more about you than I did when I moved in.”
Keaton knew he changed the subject whenever Jules tried to get him to talk about himself. He wasn’t trying to be cagey. There just wasn’t much to tell. As his friends liked pointing out, he was boring. His entire life was work and home, aside from when he went to Brew & Barrel with Luke on Thursdays, but he wasn’t sure that counted as an exception.
“What do you want to know?” Keaton asked when he couldn’t come up with anything to share that Jules wouldn’t already know about him. “You can ask me anything and I’ll answer.”
“Nothing’s off-limits?”
“Nothing,” he confirmed, even though his stomach twisted, wondering why Jules looked so giddy about this offer.
Jules curled their feet onto the cushion, getting more comfortable. They grabbed the throw blanket that had appeared last week and draped it over their legs. Keaton scraped a hand through his hair, his breaths shallow and quick.
“What’s your type?” Jules finally asked. Their voice was quiet enough that Keaton wasn’t sure he’d heard them right. They nibbled their bottom lip.
Clarity slammed into Keaton like a physical force. This was the closest either of them came to acknowledging the fact that Juleshad been brave enough to take a chance, and Keaton had blown them off like the gesture meant nothing.
Or like he wasn’t interested.
Back then, he’d been more intrigued than anything, but now he was definitely interested. He just didn’t know how to take a step that had the potential to blow up the tentative friendship they were building.
“I’m not sure I really have a type,” he finally admitted. It could’ve been seen as a cop-out, but it was the truth. He thought about the men he’d dated in the past and couldn’t find a common thread they all shared. He’d never been the type to simply look at someone and want to take them to bed. For him, it had always been about the connection he felt, even if just a physical one for the night.
Keaton felt a wave of calm wash over him as he shared tidbits about his past relationships. The dimness seemed to invite honesty. He admitted that while he’d dated, he’d never had someone he considered as a potentially permanent fixture in his life, the stories tumbling out with a newfound ease. There was a stark difference between those experiences and the connection he felt with Jules, a realization that both unnerved and thrilled him.
Jules listened intently, their gaze gentle and knowing, as if they could see directly into the core of Keaton’s growing desires. Each word Keaton uttered tethered them closer, weaving a fragile yet unbreakable bond in the flickering warmth of the room. As he spoke, he shifted on the couch, craving closeness in a way that was completely foreign to him.
The air between them crackled with an undeniable energy, as if the room itself was charged with the potential of what could be. Keaton’s pulse quickened. The space between them seemed to shrink, an invisible force drawing them together, as if it had always been meant to happen.
He could hear Jules’s breath growing as shallow as his own. Everything beyond the room faded into insignificance, leaving only the charged stillness around them. It was a moment suspended in time, where the world held its breath, waiting for the inevitable. Neither said anything. They simply stared in disbelief at what felt inevitable.
Keaton paused, caught in the gravity of the moment, and then their eyes met again. In that silent exchange, an understanding passed between them, a promise unspoken yet crystal clear. It was a moment beyond words, a surrender to the emotions that had been building between them.
With a heart brimming with hope and a touch of fear, Keaton finally leaned in to kiss Jules. The kiss was a gentle exploration, a tentative promise of new beginnings, yet it simmered with an intensity that set his heart racing. The world outside was forgotten, leaving only the sensation of Jules’s lips on his, a connection that felt destined and profoundly right.
His hand slid around to the back of Jules’s neck, gently massaging, holding them out of fear they’d pull away. Their lips parted, and Keaton took that as an invitation to deepen the kiss. He smiled against Jules’s lips when a quiet sigh escaped.
Just as he was about to push Jules back on the couch so he could slip a hand under the gauzy fabric of the shirt they wore, the lights flickered back on, the harsh glare abruptly groundingthem back in reality. They separated quickly, the moment between them broken.
Jules blinked rapidly, and Keaton wasn’t sure if it was shock or them trying to adjust to the light. And he wasn’t sticking around to find out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
He practically leaped off the couch, needing space to wrap his head around what he’d just done. His heart fractured when Jules called out his name. He didn’t turn around, couldn’t bear to see the hurt on their face.
EIGHT
Keaton’s kiss haunted Jules even in sleep. They jolted awake on Ollie’s too-narrow couch, heart racing as the memory crashed through their consciousness once more. For a disorienting moment, they couldn’t place where they were—only that it wasn’t home. Not their childhood bedroom with its fading posters, and not the apartment with Keaton.
Fleetwood Mac’s melancholy notes drifted from the record player, a gentle reminder that they’d fled here, seeking refuge from a moment that had shattered everything. The apartment they’d quickly settled into had felt cold and uncomfortable since that night, until finally, they had to escape.
Jules pressed their face deeper into the cushion, trying to outrun the memories that followed them even into sleep. Three days hadn’t dulled the ache in their chest. If anything, the pain had crystallized, becoming something sharp and defined that they carried everywhere. The scent wafting from the kitchen was either actual food or an impressively convincing candle. Either way, they were too comfortable to move, too safe to face whatwaited beyond these walls, where Keaton existed with his perfect composure and apparent regret.
They blinked against the warm morning light filtering through gauzy curtains, the sofa beneath them barely wide enough for their lanky frame. A throw blanket clung to their legs and one of Ollie’s cats was curled against their hip, purring like a tiny motorboat.
It was the kind of morning that should’ve felt downright luxurious for the lack of anything that needed to be accomplished. Instead, Jules’s chest ached.
Keaton had kissed them.
