Fighting off the dissonance , I’m running out of time .

The house didn’t look like itself tonight. Mostly because Bob was Todd’s plus-one at another frat house’s event.

All the usual noise and chaos had been polished into something softer, more deliberate—lights strung warm across the ceilings, music low enough to talk over but steady enough to hum through your bones, people dressed in suits and pressed shirts instead of whatever they’d rolled out of bed in. Glasses clinked, laughter rose and fell in waves, and the whole place carried that faint buzz of something just a little elevated from normal.

Todd moved through it like he belonged there—because he did.

He had a hand to shake every few steps, a name to call out, a shoulder to clap. Easy smiles, easy charm. Someone tried to drag him into a conversation near the bar, another called him over from across the room, and he handled it all without missing a beat, like it cost him nothing.

But he didn’t drift far.

Every couple of minutes, like clockwork, he was back at Bob’s side.

A hand settling at the small of Bob’s back as he leaned in slightly. “You good?” he asked under his breath, low enough it didn’t carry.

Bob glanced up at him, a little amused, a little soft. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Todd nodded once, satisfied, fingers pressing just slightly—there and gone before it could look like anything more than habit.

It happened again ten minutes later. And again. Never obvious. Never a show. Just enough that Bob never felt like he’d been left alone in a room that wasn’t quite his.

At first, Bob hovered a little closer to the edges—shoulders tucked in, drink in hand that wasn’t alcohol but looked like it belonged anyway, eyes tracking the movement of the room more than participating in it. But Todd kept orbiting back, kept anchoring him without making a thing of it, and slowly, almost without noticing, Bob started to settle.

He leaned into Todd when he stepped close. Let their shoulders brush. Let his hand linger a second longer when Todd passed him something.

By the time the night stretched further on, Bob wasn’t watching the room anymore.

He was watching Todd.

And Todd—somewhere in between conversations and responsibilities—started choosing him more deliberately.

Letting conversations end sooner. Letting someone else take over. Drifting back without being pulled.

At one point, Todd stepped up beside him again, close enough that their arms pressed from shoulder to elbow.

“C’mon,” he murmured, nudging lightly. “You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

Bob huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m not used to this many people knowing your name.”

Todd tipped his head, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll get used to it.”

Bob glanced up at him. “Not sure I want to.”

Todd’s grin softened—something quieter slipping in underneath it.

“Then don’t,” he said easily.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a moment anyone else would notice. But Bob did.

Across the room, a burst of louder laughter cut through the steady hum. A group of guys—less polished than the rest, ties loosened too far, voices carrying just a little too sharp—leaned over one of the high tables. One of them said something that earned a round of snickers, the kind that lingered a beat too long.

Todd’s eyes flicked that way without turning his head.

Just a glance. Enough to clock them. The tone. The way one of them looked over, not subtle about it, gaze dragging a little too long across where Todd stood close to Bob.

Todd didn’t react. Didn’t tense. Didn’t shift.

His attention came right back like it hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

Bob didn’t catch it—was mid-sentence about something small, something easy—and Todd let himself fall back into it without missing a beat, nodding along, asking a quiet follow-up question, brushing his thumb briefly against Bob’s wrist like it was nothing.

As the night stretched on, the room seemed to narrow.

Not physically—but in the way it mattered less.

People still moved around them. Music still played. Someone bumped into Todd’s shoulder and apologized, someone else called his name again.

But more and more, he stayed right where he was.

Close.

And Bob—without realizing it—stopped holding himself so carefully.

His shoulders loosened. His laugh came easier. He leaned in when Todd spoke instead of hovering just outside of it.

At some point, their hands found each other—brief at first, fingers brushing, then settling.

Neither of them made a thing of it. Neither of them pulled away.

And in the middle of a room full of people, with voices and music and movement all around them, they carved out something smaller. Quieter.

Their own little space. Like the rest of it didn’t quite reach them anymore.

By the time they step outside, it almost feels like surfacing.

The door shuts behind them and takes the noise with it—music muffled instantly, voices cut down to a dull blur—and the night air hits cool against warm skin. It’s quieter out here. Not silent, but softer. The kind of quiet that settles instead of presses.

Bob exhales like he didn’t realize he’d been holding it.

“Okay,” he says, a small, relieved laugh slipping out. “That’s… a lot of people.”

Todd huffs under his breath, the corner of his mouth lifting as he glances over at him. “You did so good considering.”

Bob bumps his shoulder lightly into Todd’s. “I stood there and held a drink.”

“Yeah,” Todd says, easy. “And you did it real well.”

Bob rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile sitting there, softer than before.

They start walking without really deciding to.

Side by side at first, just close enough that their arms brush every couple of steps. The buzz from the night lingers—not sharp, not overwhelming, just enough to make everything feel a little lighter, a little easier. Todd’s tie is already loosened slightly, jacket hanging open, and Bob’s sleeves are pushed just a bit up his forearms like he’d needed to breathe halfway through the night.

Inside had been constant—noise, expectation, people pulling at Todd from every direction.

Out here, it’s just the sound of their shoes on the pavement. The faint hum of traffic in the distance. The occasional passing car.

Just them.

Bob glances over after a few steps, something quieter settling into his expression. “You always like that in there?”

Todd looks back at him, brows pulling together just slightly. “Like what?”

“On,” Bob says, gesturing vaguely. “Everywhere at once. Everyone wanting something from you.”

Todd lets out a soft breath through his nose, gaze drifting ahead for a second. “Kinda comes with it.”

Bob studies him for a beat, then nudges his arm again. “You’re different out here.”

Todd’s mouth twitches. “Yeah?”

Bob nods. “Yeah.”

There’s no teasing in it. No edge. Just an observation.

Todd’s shoulders drop a fraction like something loosens without him having to think about it. “Good or bad?”

Bob doesn’t hesitate. “Good.”

That earns him a quieter smile. Not the one Todd wears inside—the one meant for rooms full of people—but something smaller. Realer.

Their hands brush again as they walk.

Once. Twice.

Then Todd’s fingers turn slightly, catching Bob’s without looking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. There’s no pause, no question—just a shift, and suddenly their hands are laced together, steady and easy between them.

Bob’s thumb presses once against the back of Todd’s hand, almost absentmindedly.

Todd glances down at it, then back at him.

Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

They keep walking like that—close, shoulders bumping now and then, hands linked, the distance between them gone in a way that feels effortless.

Whatever Todd is inside any frat house—the center of it, the one everyone’s watching—that version of him fades the further they get from the door.

Out here, he’s quieter.

Not smaller—just… softer.

More himself.

And Bob leans into it without even thinking.

They don’t rush anywhere.

The street stretches out easily in front of them, lit in warm pools from the lamps overhead, the air just cool enough to keep them close without thinking about it. Their hands stay linked, swinging slightly between them, and the conversation drifts the way it only does when there’s nowhere you need to be.

Bob’s still riding the tail end of the night, words coming a little easier than usual.

“I still can’t believe that one guy tried to explain your own event to you,” he says, glancing over, amused. “Like you weren’t standing right there.”

Todd huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, well. He meant well.”

“No, he didn’t,” Bob says immediately, and Todd’s grin widens.

“You’re right,” he concedes.

Bob bumps him lightly with his shoulder again, more comfortable now, less careful about it. “And the one who kept calling you ‘sir’?”

Todd groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Bob continues, a little teasing now, “you’ve got a presence.”

“Is that what that was?”

“Mm-hm.”

Todd shakes his head, smiling to himself, gaze dropping briefly to where their hands are still laced together. His thumb shifts, brushing over Bob’s knuckles without thinking, grounding in a way he doesn’t even notice.

“It’s not like that all the time,” he says after a second, quieter. “Just… nights like this.”

Bob hums, considering. “Still.”

There’s a small pause—not awkward, just a natural lull. Their steps stay in sync, the world around them quiet enough that it doesn’t interrupt.

Todd glances over at him.

Takes in the way Bob’s hair’s a little out of place now, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the way he’s still smiling like the night hasn’t quite worn off yet.

And it just… slips out.

“I love you.”

It’s not a big moment.

No stopping, no buildup, no shift in posture.

Just low. Certain. Like it belonged there.

Bob’s step falters.

Not enough to pull away—but enough that the rhythm breaks for a second. His breath catches, sharp and quiet, and his grip on Todd’s hand tightens just slightly as his brain tries to catch up with what he just heard.

Todd doesn’t take it back.

Doesn’t rush to fill the space.

He just watches him.

Bob blinks once. Twice.

And then it hits him all at once.

The smile that spreads across his face is immediate and completely unfiltered—wide, a little disbelieving, like something just cracked open inside him, and he doesn’t know what to do with it except let it happen.

“I—” he starts, then huffs a breath, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to steady himself.

His voice comes out softer the second time.

“I love you too.”

It’s quieter than Todd’s.

A little breathless. But just as real.

Todd’s expression shifts in a way it hadn’t all night.

For a split second, something in him flickers—surprise, maybe, or the weight of hearing it back when he hadn’t quite let himself expect it. His mouth parts like he might say something else, but nothing comes out.

Instead, his hand tightens around Bob’s.

And he just… looks at him.

Really looks.

That easy confidence he wears so naturally, slipping just enough to show something underneath it—something more vulnerable, more honest.

“Yeah?” he says finally, softer than before.

Bob’s smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it settles deeper.

“Yeah.”

They don’t make a big deal of it.

Don’t stop walking.

But something between them shifts anyway—quiet, solid, undeniable—as they keep moving forward, side by side, hands still laced together like they’ve always been that way.

They don’t realize they’ve stopped until they’re not walking anymore.

It just… happens.

One second they’re moving, steps in sync, and the next they’re standing under a streetlight that casts everything in this soft, warm glow. The night stretches out around them, quiet and easy, and neither of them seems in any rush to break it.

Bob’s still smiling.

Todd’s still looking at him.

There’s a small pause—not awkward, not uncertain. Just… full.

Todd shifts a half step closer.

His free hand comes up without much thought, settling lightly at Bob’s side—not pulling, not demanding, just there. His thumb brushes once against the fabric of Bob’s shirt, grounding.

He leans in slowly.

Not sudden. Not overwhelming.

Giving Bob every chance to close the distance—or not.

Bob doesn’t pull back.

If anything, he leans in too, just a little, like it’s instinct more than decision. His fingers tighten around Todd’s hand, and the space between them narrows until it’s almost nothing.

Close enough to feel the warmth of Todd’s breath.

Close enough that if either of them moved even an inch—

Bob lets out a quiet, breathy laugh.

Not because it’s funny—just because it’s a lot all at once.

His free hand comes up, fingers brushing into Todd’s beard, then sliding along his jaw like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the moment except touch him. It’s soft, a little nervous, a little awed.

“Hi,” Bob murmurs, voice low and a little shaky.

Todd huffs out the faintest laugh, forehead nearly brushing Bob’s. “Hey.”

For a second, it feels like they’re going to do it anyway.

Like they might just ignore everything else and close that last bit of distance.

But then footsteps pass too close behind them—voices cutting through the quiet—and the moment breaks just enough.

Bob pulls back first, just a fraction, shaking his head with a soft, embarrassed smile.

Todd exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out with it, his hand dropping from Bob’s side but not going far.

“Timing,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Bob says, still smiling, still a little breathless. “Real bad timing.”

They don’t let go of each other, though.

Hands still linked. Shoulders still close.

The air between them still charged in that quiet, lingering way—like something paused instead of finished.

And as they start walking again, the space they leave between them is even smaller than before.

By the time they reach Bob’s building, the world has gone quiet again.

Not completely—there’s still the distant hum of traffic, the occasional car passing—but it’s softer here. The lights outside the apartment cast everything in that same warm glow, gentler than the streetlamps, and the moment they stop walking, it feels like something settles between them.

Neither of them moves right away.

Their hands are still laced together, hanging loosely between them now, and for a second, it’s like neither of them wants to be the one to let go first.

Bob glances toward the door, then back at Todd, that same soft smile still sitting on his face. “You should probably head back,” he says, though there’s no real urgency to it. “Big important frat president things in the morning.”

Todd huffs quietly. “Don’t remind me.”

Bob nudges him lightly with his shoulder. “Meetings. Responsibilities. People calling you ‘sir.’”

Todd groans under his breath. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

There’s a beat of quiet, comfort, and fullness.

“Text me when you get home,” Bob says after a second, voice softer now. Not a request—something closer to a habit already forming.

Todd nods easily. “Yeah. I will.”

Bob hesitates, then adds, a little gentler, “And you should get some sleep. Don’t stay up answering emails or whatever it is you do.”

Todd’s mouth twitches. “You don’t even know what I do.”

“I know enough.”

That earns a quiet laugh out of him.

Bob shifts his weight slightly, like he’s about to step back, about to turn toward the door—but he doesn’t.

“I was gonna say you could come up,” he admits, glancing down for a second before looking back at Todd. “But… you’ve got a lot tomorrow. You should probably actually sleep.”

There’s no distance in it. No hesitation. Just care.

Todd studies him for a second—something softer passing through his expression again, that same flicker from earlier.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Probably.”

But he doesn’t step back either.

Instead, he steps closer.

Just enough that the space between them disappears again, his free hand coming up to rest lightly at Bob’s side. Not pulling—just there, steady and warm.

Bob’s breath catches just slightly, but he doesn’t move away.

Todd leans in.

This time, he doesn’t stop short.

The kiss is soft.

Unhurried.

Not rushed, not searching—just… there. Intentional. Like he means it, like he’s not trying to prove anything, just feel it.

Bob melts into it almost immediately, hand slipping free from Todd’s to come up to his jaw, fingers brushing into his beard again, grounding himself there like it’s the easiest place to be.

It lingers.

Just long enough to feel solid.

Safe.

When they pull back, it’s slow—neither of them rushing to break it, foreheads almost brushing again as the distance returns in inches instead of steps.

Bob’s still close enough that his hand doesn’t fall away right away, thumb brushing absentmindedly along Todd’s beard.

Todd huffs out a quiet laugh, eyes flicking down and back up again. “You only like me for the beard.”

Bob’s face warms instantly, a soft flush creeping up his neck. “That’s not—” he starts, then shakes his head, smiling a little helplessly. “That’s not true.”

“Mm,” Todd hums, not sounding convinced at all.

Bob rolls his eyes, but his hand lingers just a second longer before finally dropping. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Todd says easily. “You like it.”

Bob huffs a quiet laugh, still smiling, still a little breathless in a way he hasn’t quite recovered from.

There’s another pause.

Softer this time.

Bob steps back first, just enough to reach for the door, his fingers brushing Todd’s hand one last time before letting go.

“You better text me,” he says again, like it matters.

Todd nods once. “Yeah.”

Bob lingers for half a second longer—then turns, pulling the door open and stepping inside. He glances back once, smile still there, before it swings shut behind him.

Todd stays where he is.

Doesn’t move.

Not until the door clicks closed.

And even then, he stands there for a second longer, the night quiet around him, something warm and steady still sitting in his chest before he finally turns and starts the walk home.

Todd doesn’t move right away.

He stands there for a second after the door closes, staring at it like he can still feel the echo of it—the warmth, the quiet, the way Bob had looked at him just before disappearing inside. There’s still a faint smile pulling at his mouth, something softer than what he wears for anyone else, and he exhales slowly before finally turning away.

The night feels different now.

Quieter. Lighter.

He slips his hands into his pockets as he starts walking, shoulders loose, head tipped slightly down as the moment replays without him trying to hold onto it—the almost kiss under the streetlight, the way Bob had said he loved him back, the way he’d leaned in at the end like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Yeah,” Todd mutters to himself, barely audible, like he’s still a little surprised by it.

His smile lingers.

For a few steps, that’s all there is.

Then—

Footsteps.

Faint at first.

Easy to ignore if he wanted to.

But they don’t fade.

They stay just behind him, matching pace in a way that doesn’t feel like a coincidence. Not loud, not rushing—just there. Persistent.

Todd’s expression doesn’t change.

He keeps walking, at the same pace and with the same posture, like he hasn’t noticed anything at all. His head lifts slightly, gaze flicking ahead, then casually to the side like he’s checking traffic—

And in that glance, it clicks.

Them.

The same group from earlier.

The ones at the party—too loud, too sharp around the edges. One of them is looking right at him now, not even trying to hide it.

Todd looks away just as easily as he looked.

No reaction.

No hesitation.

His hand slips out of his pocket, already pulling his phone free like it’s second nature. His thumb moves quickly across the screen, muscle memory taking over.

Intersection of Jenkins and Boyd. Group. Come immediately.

No extra words.

No panic in it.

Just clear. Direct.

He hits send to his right-hand man.

Doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t break stride.

The phone lowers back toward his side, fingers still loosely wrapped around it, and he keeps walking like nothing’s changed at all—even as the footsteps behind him stay right where they are.

The light ahead turns red just as Todd reaches the crosswalk.

He slows, stopping at the edge of the street, one foot slightly forward like he’s ready to move the second it changes. Cars pass in front of him, headlights cutting across the pavement in brief flashes, and for a second, it almost feels normal again.

Almost.

The footsteps don’t stop this time.

They close in.

One moves to his left. Another drifts too close on his right. The rest spread out just enough behind him that when he glances up at the reflection in the crosswalk signal, he can see it clearly—

He’s boxed in.

Todd doesn’t turn fully.

Doesn’t give them that.

He keeps his gaze forward, posture steady, phone still loose in his hand like it doesn’t matter.

“Didn’t realize,” one of them starts, voice too loud for the empty street, thick with something mean, “faggots were runnin’ frats now.”

A couple of them snicker.

Another steps closer, shoulder bumping into Todd’s just a little too hard to be accidental. “Yeah, man,” he adds, tone mocking, dragging the words out. “And bringin’ around that—what was he? Your little boyfriend?” A laugh, sharp and ugly. “Looked like he’d cry if someone raised their voice at him.”

Todd’s jaw tightens.

Just barely.

He doesn’t look at them.

Doesn’t rise to it.

They’re waiting for that.

He knows it.

So he gives them nothing.

The light is still red. Too long.

“C’mon,” another one says, circling just a little closer, trying to catch his eye. “Say somethin’. You had plenty to say back there.”

Todd exhales slowly through his nose, steady, controlled.

“I’m just trying to go home, man,” he says flatly, like it’s not even worth more than that.

For a second, there’s a pause.

Then—

“Ohhh, listen to that,” one of them drawls, stepping in closer, close enough now that Todd can feel the heat of him at his side. “You hear that?” he calls over his shoulder to the others. “He’s just tryin’ to go home.”

A few of them laugh.

Another voice cuts in, louder, more deliberate.

“Ohhohohooo,” he says, dragging it out like it’s funny, like this is entertainment. “You’re not makin’ it home, pal.”

Todd’s grip on his phone tightens slightly.

Not fear. Calculation.

The circle closes in another inch.

There’s nowhere to step without stepping into one of them.

Todd shifts his weight, just enough to keep his balance centered, gaze still forward, expression unchanged.

He’s outnumbered. He knows it.

They know he knows it.

And the light hasn’t changed.

It happens fast.

Too fast to track, too fast to adjust.

One second, Todd’s standing there, weight balanced, calculating— The next, something cracks across his face.

Sharp. Blinding.

His head snaps to the side with it, and there’s that immediate, metallic taste flooding his mouth before his brain even catches up. Warmth follows just as quick—blood, already slipping from somewhere he can’t place yet.

The world tilts.

And in that split second—before anything else lands—Todd knows.

There are too many of them.

He’s not getting out of this clean.

He might not get out of it at all.

Another hit comes from the side, slamming into his ribs hard enough to knock the breath clean out of him. Air leaves his lungs in a rough, involuntary sound, his body folding slightly before he forces himself back upright on instinct alone.

Stay up. He has to stay up.

His hands come up—not to swing, not to fight it out—but to protect. Head. Face. Core. He tries to shift, to move, to find even a sliver of space to break through, but every direction is blocked by another body, another shoulder, another fist already coming his way.

A third hit—lower this time.

Then another.

They start stacking before he can fully recover from the last.

Pain blooms everywhere at once, overlapping, indistinct. His vision stutters—sharp for a second, then blurred at the edges, then sharp again in flashes that don’t quite line up.

Someone shoves him from behind.

His footing slips.

His hand shoots out to catch himself, palm hitting pavement—but it’s slick already, his grip sliding, skin scraping as he tries to push himself back up.

A kick lands against his side before he can.

Another glances off his shoulder.

He tastes more blood—thicker now, heavier—and he can feel it in multiple places, not just his mouth. Somewhere above his eye. His lip. Ear? Maybe it all.

It’s too much to track.

Too fast.

Too many.

This might actually be it.

The thought isn’t loud.

It doesn’t come with panic.

It just… lands. Flat. Certain. Real.

Another hit snaps his head back, stars bursting across his vision, and for a second, everything goes white at the edges. Sound warps—voices stretching, distorting—until all he can pick out are pieces.

Laughter.

Something shouted.

More slurs, sharp and clear, even through the noise.

He curls in tighter on instinct, arms coming up to shield his head as best he can, shoulders hunching, trying to make himself smaller, harder to hit where it matters.

It doesn’t help enough.

The ground feels closer than it should.

Then he’s on it.

Not a controlled fall—just… down.

The impact jars through him, breath stuttering again, and before he can even try to push himself back up, another blow lands, then another, then another, raining down faster than he can block.

His hands slip against the pavement when he tries to brace.

Nothing holds. Nothing sticks.

His body reacts—protect, cover, endure—but it’s not enough against the sheer number of them.

Voices blur together above him.

But the words—

The words still cut through.

Clear. Ugly. Relentless.

The hits don’t stop all at once.

They taper—just enough for the world to stutter back into focus in broken pieces.

Sound bleeds in first. Too loud. Too sharp. Voices overlapping, laughter still clinging to the edges of it, boots shifting on pavement.

Then—

“ENOUGH.”

It cuts through everything.

Loud. Furious. Not part of them.

The movement above him falters.

Just for a second—but it’s enough.

Todd’s vision flickers, struggling to catch up, shapes blurring and sharpening in uneven bursts. He tries to lift his head—just a fraction—and it feels heavier than it should, like his body’s already starting to shut things down.

But he sees her.

Standing just past the edge of the circle, shoulders squared, voice still ringing from where she’d shouted.

Familiar.

He knows her—somewhere in the back of his mind, through the haze and the pain, recognition clicks faintly into place. Connected to the house. One of the guys’ girlfriends… or a sister… something like that.

He can’t quite hold onto it long enough to be sure.

The group hesitates, shifting, attention pulled just enough away from him.

The pressure lifts.

Not gone—but not crushing him anymore.

And with that tiny break, Todd’s body just… gives.

The tension drains out of him all at once, whatever was keeping him mostly upright—fighting, bracing, holding on—snapping clean through.

The pavement feels colder now.

Farther away.

His arms loosen where they’d been shielding his head, slipping just enough that he can’t quite bring them back up again.

Sound starts to fade at the edges.

The voices blur again—hers louder now, sharper, someone else arguing back, footsteps moving fast in different directions—but none of it sticks.

His vision narrows.

Dark creeping in from the sides.

And the last thing he registers is that split-second of stillness— the moment the hits stopped—

before everything goes out.

Sound comes back wrong.

Too loud in places. Too far away in others.

“Todd—”

His name cuts through first. Not clear—like it’s underwater, dragged and distorted—but there.

Then footsteps. A lot of them. Fast. Heavy. Closing in.

Something hits the pavement near him—knees, maybe—and then hands are on him, not striking this time but searching, urgent.

“Hey—hey, stay with me—”

He tries to respond.

Or maybe he thinks he does.

It doesn’t feel like anything comes out.

More voices pile in, overlapping—some angry, some panicked.

“What the hell happened—”

“Back up—get off him—”

“Call it in—now—”

There’s a shift in the air around him, like the space tightens, then expands. The presence changes—familiar now, louder, sharper, edged with something protective that wasn’t there before.

His frat brothers.

He can’t see them clearly, but he knows.

Knows by the way the voices sound—closer, angrier, like they’re ready to tear something apart.

Someone’s hand is at the side of his face, careful but shaking. “Todd—can you hear me? Look at me—hey—”

He tries.

His eyes don’t quite focus.

Everything doubles, then blurs again.

A distant wail starts to cut through the noise.

Sirens.

Growing louder. Closer.

Hands move again—more of them now, different. Firmer. Practiced.

“Don’t move him—hold—hold on—”

“Sir, can you hear me? Stay with me.”

Questions come at him, one after another, but they don’t land. They slide off, half-formed, too fast to catch.

His body feels heavy. Too heavy.

Like it’s sinking into the pavement.

There’s pressure somewhere—his arm, his side—then something sharp, quick, a pinch he barely registers.

“Stay with me—what’s your name?”

He knows it. He does. But it doesn’t make it to his mouth.

The lights hit next. Too bright.

Blinding white cutting through everything else, washing out the shapes, the movement, the faces leaning over him. He flinches, or tries to, but it barely registers.

Voices keep going.

Urgent. Insistent. Closer. Farther. All at once.

And then—

Nothing.

-

Waking up doesn’t happen all at once.

It comes in pieces.

First, the weight.

Heavy, pressing down on him from the inside out, like his body doesn’t quite belong to him yet. Then the faint, steady beep somewhere nearby—too consistent to ignore, threading through the haze before anything else makes sense.

Todd tries to breathe deeper.

Regrets it immediately.

Pain flickers to life in response—not sharp at first, just… there. A low, distant awareness that something is wrong. Everywhere. It builds slowly, like his body is catching up to what it’s been through, one piece at a time.

His fingers twitch.

Or he thinks they do.

There’s a firm tightness around one of his hands—bandaging, maybe. Something wrapped, restricting movement. His ribs protest the slightest shift in his chest, a dull ache blooming outward when he inhales again, shallower this time.

He swallows.

Dry. His throat feels raw.

The room starts to take shape in fragments.

White ceiling. Fluorescent light, dimmed but still too bright against his eyes. A machine to his left—beeping steady, indifferent.

Todd’s brow pulls slightly, the movement small, strained. He tries to turn his head.

It doesn’t go far.

Pain stops him before he can push it, something tight along his neck and jaw reminding him—firmly—that he doesn’t have full range anymore. Still, it’s enough to shift his view just a little to the side.

And that’s when he sees him.

Bob.

Curled in closer to the bed than makes sense, like he never really settled into sleep properly. His arms are folded on the edge of the mattress, and his forehead rests against them, turned slightly toward Todd, like even unconscious, he hadn’t wanted to face away.

He looks… worn. Not just tired—drained. Like he’s been there for a while.

Todd blinks slowly, trying to make sure he’s actually seeing what he thinks he is.

Bob doesn’t move. Still breathing, steady and quiet, but completely out.

Todd’s chest tightens—but this time it’s not just pain.

Confusion. Something softer, buried underneath it.

His lips part, voice rough when it finally drags its way out.

“…Bob?”

Bob’s head lifts the second he hears it.

Like he hadn’t really been asleep—just waiting for something to pull him back up.

“Todd—”

The chair scrapes softly against the floor as he shifts closer, already reaching for him without thinking. His hand finds Todd’s arm first, careful, hovering for half a second like he’s not sure what won’t hurt, then settling as gently as he can.

Relief hits him all at once.

It’s written all over his face—too fast, too big to hide. His shoulders drop, breath catching on the way out like he’s been holding it for hours. Maybe longer.

“You’re awake,” Bob says, voice unsteady despite how quiet he tries to keep it. “Hey—hey, you’re okay—”

Todd shifts, instinct more than intention. Pain stops him almost immediately.

It locks through his ribs, his side, his head—sharp enough this time that it pulls a low sound from him before he can swallow it back. His body tenses, then stills again, like he’s learned the limit already.

Bob’s hand tightens slightly where it rests on him. “Don’t—don’t try to move,” he says quickly, softer now but urgent. “Just—just stay still, okay?”

Todd exhales shallowly, blinking hard as he tries to clear the lingering haze. His gaze finds Bob again, holds there like he’s trying to piece something together that isn’t quite lining up.

“…What are you doing here?” he asks, voice rough, quieter than it should be.

Bob lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh—but it breaks halfway through.

“What am I—” He shakes his head, like he doesn’t even know how to answer that without it sounding ridiculous. His hand slides, careful, up to Todd’s shoulder, then hesitates before moving higher—fingers brushing into his beard, slower this time, grounding.

“I needed to know you were alive,” Bob says.

There’s no hesitation in it—no attempt to soften it or dress it up.

Just the truth, sitting there between them, heavier than anything else in the room.

Todd’s expression shifts—just slightly.

Confusion still there, yeah. Pain, too. But something else flickers underneath it now. Something quieter.

Bob swallows hard, his other hand coming up without thinking, hovering over Todd’s bandaged one before resting beside it instead of on it, like he doesn’t trust himself not to hurt him.

“I—I didn’t know if you were gonna—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head quickly like he can’t say it out loud. Like that would make it real in a way he’s not ready for.

His eyes are glassy. Red around the edges.

He doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t put anything back up between them.

Todd just watches him.

Too tired to push. Too hurt to pretend.

And for the first time since he woke up, the room doesn’t feel as heavy.

Still painful. Still wrong. But… not empty.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

The room settles into a quiet that feels heavier than before—not empty, just… full. Of everything that hasn’t been said yet. Of everything sitting right under the surface.

Bob’s hand is now in Todd’s hair, fingers barely moving now, like he forgot what he was doing halfway through it. His other hand rests near Todd’s on the bed, close but not touching, like he’s afraid of getting it wrong.

Todd watches him. Waits.

Bob’s breath stutters in, then out again, uneven.

“I—” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening like he’s trying to figure out how to say something that doesn’t have a clean way out.

His hand drops from Todd’s hair, both of them coming together instead, fingers knotting loosely in front of him. They’re shaking.

He doesn’t try to hide it.

“One of your guys came to get me,” Bob says finally, voice quieter now. Thinner. “One of the new recruits. He didn’t—he didn’t tell me anything. Just that something happened. That I needed to come. Now.”

Todd’s expression stills.

Bob swallows hard, eyes flicking away for a second before forcing himself back.

“I thought maybe it was a small argument, or—” he exhales shakily, shaking his head. “I didn’t think it was—”

He cuts himself off, breath catching.

“They took me to the house,” he continues, words starting to come faster now, like if he stops, he won’t be able to keep going again. “And your VP—he sat me down and explained it. What happened. What they said. What they did.”

His hands tighten together, knuckles going pale.

“I saw them before that, though,” he adds, voice dropping. “Your guys, the ones I guess found you.”

Todd doesn’t move.

Bob’s eyes flick over him again, like he’s seeing it layered over what’s in front of him now.

“They still had your blood on them.”

The words land heavily.

“I’ve never seen them like that,” Bob says, quieter now. “Not joking, not loud—just… angry. Like they were trying not to tear something apart.”

Todd knows that look. Has seen it before.

Bob shakes his head, like he can’t get the image out of his mind.

“And then they told me,” he says, voice starting to break at the edges now. “How many there were. What they were saying. How long it went on before someone got there—”

He stops, swallowing hard, like the rest of it won’t come out without taking him with it.

Todd’s chest tightens—not from the injuries this time.

From him.

“I keep thinking about it,” Bob admits, barely above a whisper now. “About how fast that could’ve—how easily that could’ve been—”

He can’t finish it. Doesn’t need to. The meaning sits there anyway.

Heavy.

Bob drags in a breath that doesn’t quite steady him.

“It’s not just that they hurt you,” he says, quieter now, but worse. “It’s why. It’s what it means.”

His gaze moves over Todd again—the bruising, the bandages, the way even breathing seems measured now.

And something in him just… gives.

“I can’t—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head again, more firmly this time, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

But his hands are still trembling. His voice still unsteady.

There’s nothing composed left in him now.

Just fear.

Raw and sitting right there between them.

The silence after that feels different.

Heavier.

Like something’s already shifting, even before either of them says it out loud.

Bob’s breathing is still uneven, hands clenched together like he’s holding onto something that keeps slipping. He stares down at them for a second, then back up at Todd—and there’s a decision there now.

Not sudden. Not impulsive.

Worse.

Like he’s been coming to it this entire time.

“I can’t do this,” Bob says.

It’s quiet. But it lands harder than anything else so far.

Todd’s brow furrows slightly, like he didn’t hear him right. “What?”

Bob swallows, forcing himself to hold Todd’s gaze even as his voice threatens to shake again. “I can’t—” he starts, then steadies it just enough. “I can’t be part of this. Of… what comes with being with you.”

Todd stares at him.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe for a second.

“That’s not—” he tries, but the words don’t line up. “Bob—this isn’t—”

“I know,” Bob cuts in quickly, shaking his head. “I know it’s not you. I know you didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

His voice cracks anyway.

“But that doesn’t change that it happened.”

The words sit there, raw and unfiltered.

Bob’s hands loosen just enough that he can reach out again, careful this time, fingers brushing over Todd’s bandaged ones like he’s trying to memorize something he’s already losing.

“I love you,” he says, softer now. It sounds different this time—fragile in a way it hadn’t been before. “That’s the problem.”

Todd’s chest tightens.

“Bob—”

“I love you,” Bob repeats, a little more firmly, even as his eyes start to gloss over again. “And I can’t—” He shakes his head, breath catching. “I can’t stand the idea of getting another call like that. Of walking into a room and not knowing if you’re gonna—”

He stops himself again, jaw tightening.

“I don’t want to watch that happen to you,” he finishes, voice barely holding together. “I don’t want to be part of something where that’s always… there.”

Todd’s expression shifts.

Disbelief first.

Like this doesn’t make sense, like it doesn’t line up with anything they just had, anything they just said.

“You don’t mean that,” he says quietly, shaking his head just enough that it pulls at something sore. “You’re just—this is a lot right now. You’re scared.”

“Yeah,” Bob admits, and that almost makes it worse. “I am.”

There’s no denial in it.

No attempt to soften it.

Just truth.

Todd’s throat works, something in his chest cracking open in a way that has nothing to do with the injuries.

“This isn’t—” he tries again, voice thinner now. “This isn’t how this ends. We’re—we’re fine. We’re—”

He can’t even finish it.

Because they’re not. Not in the way he means.

Bob’s hand stills where it rests near his, fingers curling slightly like he wants to hold on but knows he shouldn’t.

“I’m not saying you’re not worth it,” Bob says quickly, like he needs Todd to understand that part. “You are. You are, Todd. That’s not—this isn’t about that.”

Todd’s eyes are already glassy now.

“Then what is it?” he asks, softer. Stripped of everything else.

Bob swallows hard.

“It’s that I can’t lose you,” he says. “And this—” his voice shakes, just slightly, “—this is how that starts.”

The words hit and settle.

And there’s nothing Todd can say to undo them.

For a second, he just looks at him.

Like if he holds there long enough, something will shift back into place.

It doesn’t.

His voice, when it comes out again, is quieter than it’s ever been.

“Please don’t leave me.”

No edge. No pride.

Nothing but the truth of it.

And that—more than anything—almost breaks Bob completely.

Bob doesn’t say anything else.

For a second, it looks like he might—like there’s more caught in his throat, something unfinished—but it never makes it out. His eyes stay on Todd’s, searching, memorizing, like he’s trying to hold onto something he’s already letting go of.

Then he moves.

Slowly. Carefully.

He leans in, one hand coming up again, hovering for just a moment before settling gently against the side of Todd’s head, fingers threading lightly into his hair the same way he had before—soft, grounding, familiar.

The same way Todd had touched him earlier.

In the same way everything had felt easy.

Bob presses a kiss to his forehead.

It’s gentle.

Lingering just a second too long to be casual.

There’s no rush in it. No hesitation either.

Just… tenderness.

The exact same kind of tenderness Todd had given him outside his apartment.

But it doesn’t feel the same.

Not even close.

When Bob pulls back, he doesn’t look away right away.

His hand lingers for a second longer, thumb brushing once through Todd’s hair like he can’t quite help himself.

Then it drops.

And he stands.

The chair shifts quietly against the floor as he steps back, the sound small in the space but loud enough that it marks the moment anyway.

Todd watches him.

Doesn’t move.

Can’t.

Bob hesitates at the edge of the bed—just for a fraction of a second, like something in him is pulling in the opposite direction.

Then he turns. Walks to the door.

Todd’s chest tightens, something rising up before he can stop it.

“Bob—”

It barely comes out. Too quiet. Too strained.

It doesn’t carry.

Bob doesn’t stop.

The door opens. Closes. And just like that—

He’s gone.

The room falls into a kind of silence that feels different from before.

Heavier. Hollow.

Todd stares at the space where he’d been, like if he focuses hard enough, something might undo itself. Like maybe this part isn’t real.

It is.

The pain in his body is still there—dull, constant, pulling at every movement, every breath.

But it fades into the background.

Becomes something distant.

Secondary.

Because the ache settling in his chest—

The empty space where Bob had been—

That’s louder.

That’s sharper.

Todd lets his head sink back into the pillow, eyes fixed on nothing now, the ceiling blurring slightly as everything finally catches up.

He doesn’t try to move.

Doesn’t call out again.

There’s nothing left to reach for.

Just the quiet.