Aiden doesn’t usually talk this much, he bottles his feelings up. Hearing him push through it tells me how worried he really is. He exhales, softer this time. “I think it’d be good for him. Having someone there. A friend. Someone we can both trust.”
I don’t answer right away. Just go back to the squat rack bolts, turning them one by one.
All I can picture is Gabe holed up in his apartment, moving through his days like a ghost. Gabe, who was always so lovely. Quiet. Gentle. The thought of someone dimming that…
I try to calm my racing thoughts. Aiden’s eyes meet mine, pleading. He wants a friend for his brother. Someone safe.
But the thing is… I’ve always been drawn to Gabe.
Even when I was younger, before I knew what to call it, my eyes always found him. It wasn’t just that he was tall or handsome—though he is. It was the little things. The way he’d make tea for his mom without being asked, place the newspaper by the armchair for his dad. The way he’d leave Aiden’s favorite snack out on the counter for when we came back from practice.
The way he’d ask me about school and actually listen, like my answers mattered. How he’d sit and talk about books with me. He’s the reason I got into reading, initially for the excuse to sit and talk with him.
As I got older, that pull didn’t fade. It changed. My eyes lingered too long, my thoughts strayed in ways I had no business letting them. For years, I’d wondered if he could ever look at me a different way, ever be interested in me. It was absurd; he never saw me like that, I was his little brother’s best friend. And now here Aiden is, asking me to step closer to the one person I’ve been trying not to want for so long.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to steady myself. “You’re serious about this?”
“Yeah.” His voice is stoic, but his eyes give him away—raw worry shining through.
On paper, it makes sense—walking distance to the gym, a way to stop bleeding money while we get Anchor Strength off the ground. That part’s easy.
The hard part is thinking of Gabe, of someone hurting him, of leaving him hiding from the world. I shouldn’t want to step in. But really, I do. Gabe’s private, though. Always has been, and ifhe’s become even more... What if moving in makes things worse for him?
I scrub both hands over my face.
Practical. Protective.
All tangled, all pointing the same direction. I try to shake the feeling, but it stays—quiet and constant, like a thread I’ve never been able to cut. A steady flame in a storm.
Why does the thought of sharing space with him feel less like a choice and more like the inevitable? The longer I think about it, the more inescapable it feels. Like no matter how far I’ve gone, some part of me has always been angled back toward him. I rub my hand over the back of my neck, fingers grazing the tip of my tattoo again.
I glance at Aiden, still watching me, still waiting. I’m realizing how absurd it is that I’ve known Gabe for almost twenty years, and I don’t have his number. I clear my throat. “Text me his number?”
Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe. He nods and pulls out his phone.
I pick at the label on my cup, heart rate climbing. Moving in with Gabe isn’t just a place to stay. It’s walking into his quiet. His world.
And I want to.
3
GABE
I’m slammed into the wall, hard. My skull rattles, ribs screaming, breath knocked out before I can drag more in.
Kyle’s face fills my vision—eyes a cold ice blue, teeth bared, spit flying. He’s too close, too loud.
“You’re pathetic.” His voice cracks the air. The word ricochets, multiplies, bouncing from wall to wall until the whole room hisses it back at me.
Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.
He leans closer, breath sour with stale alcohol, wet against my cheek. His hand clamps onto my thigh, hard, forcing my legs apart. Fingers bite into muscle until I can’t breathe. Revulsion spikes in my gut, hot and nauseating. My stomach twists. I try to push, beg—but my body won’t move, won’t respond. I’m paralyzed. My arms are too heavy. My skin crawls.
I open my mouth to say “stop,” but nothing comes. My throat burns, raw with silence. No matter how I strain, no matter how I force it, the sound dies before it leaves me.
The bed swallows me. I’m flat on my back, his weight pressing down. Nails drag down my chest as bile sears my throat. Sharp, hot lines split my skin, pain sizzles like fire. I claw at his wrists, but my hands slide through as if he isn’t flesh but smoke—thick, choking, suffocating. I can’t breathe. The harder I fight, the heavier he becomes.
“Stop being so fucking difficult,” he spits, dragging me closer. His breath sticks to my skin, rancid and suffocating. His weight crushes me, stealing every inch of space. I want to vanish, to crawl out of myself, but I’m trapped under him. Trapped inside myself.
