#sunshines

Bob tells himself it hasn’t really been that long.

A few weeks isn’t anything, not really. Not when they’ve still been talking—texts throughout the day, the occasional call when their schedules line up just right, Todd’s voice warm and familiar through the speaker like nothing’s changed.

And nothing has changed.

Not in any way that matters.

Still—it’s not the same.

It’s little things. The absence of it. No casual touches. No bumping shoulders. No Todd grabbing him by the back of his shirt just to pull him closer for no reason at all. No weight of him leaning in, no quiet, unconscious closeness.

Bob hadn’t realized how used to that he’d gotten until it was gone.

Now, it’s just… space.

He walks onto the sidewalk in front of the frat house and stops dead in his tracks, the sudden pause settling heavier than it should. The building looks exactly the same as always—lights on, faint movement behind the windows, the low hum of life inside.

Nothing’s changed.

And yet.

His hands stay in his pockets.

He doesn’t move.

For a moment, he just stands there, staring at the house like it might give him something—some kind of signal, some confirmation that walking inside will feel normal, easy, like it always does.

It doesn’t.

Bob exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the pavement. His fingers flex once against his body, then still.

He hasn’t been here in weeks.

It shouldn’t feel unfamiliar.

But it does.

There’s a flicker of something he doesn’t quite name—hesitation, maybe. Not doubt, not really. Just… that strange, quiet uncertainty that comes from stepping back into something after being away from it long enough to notice the gap.

He almost reaches for his phone.

Just to check, maybe send a message, a “hey, I’m here,” something small and grounding.

His thumb hovers.

Then stops.

No.

That’s not how this works.

Not with Todd.

Bob lets his hand fall back, jaw tightening just slightly as he pushes the thought away. He’s already here. Already came this far.

He’s not turning around now.

Another breath.

Then he finally moves—stepping toward the door, the sound of rocks moving under his shoes as he steps through the evening air.

The house looms the same as always.

Familiar.

Lived-in.

And just different enough that he feels it in his chest as he heads toward the door.

The door opens into noise.

It hits him all at once—the shift from quiet to lived-in chaos. Music somewhere deeper in the house, not too loud but constant. Voices layered over each other. Laughter breaks through in bursts. The sound of someone calling across the room, something clattering in the kitchen.

It’s familiar.

It’s always been like this.

Still, after the silence of his walk over, it feels sharper. Louder.

Bob steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind him, and for a second, he just stands there, adjusting to it. Letting it settle over him instead of trying to fight it.

A couple of people glance his way.

One of them lifts a hand in recognition—easy, casual. “Hey, man.”

Bob nods back automatically.

Another guy across the room does the same, chin tipping up in acknowledgment before going back to whatever conversation he was in.

But not everyone looks.

And not everyone knows him.

There are new faces—people he doesn’t recognize at all. Someone brushes past him without a second glance. Another looks at him briefly, like they’re trying to place him, then gives up.

It’s subtle.

Normal.

But it’s enough.

Bob shifts his weight slightly, hands hovering at his sides before he tucks one into his pocket, grounding himself in something small and familiar.

His eyes move through the room on instinct—searching.

Todd.

It’s automatic, the way he looks for him. The way his attention filters past everything else without effort, scanning over bodies, faces, and movement.

He’s not there.

Bob pauses.

Looks again, slower this time. More deliberate.

Nothing.

The realization settles quietly, but it lands.

Of course he’s not.

Todd’s busy. He said he’d had a long day. There are a dozen reasons he wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the room right now.

Still.

Bob exhales through his nose, gaze lingering a second longer before he forces it away, trying not to make it into something it isn’t.

Around him, the house keeps moving. Conversations continue. Someone laughs again, louder this time. A door opens somewhere down the hall, then shuts.

Everything is exactly as it should be.

And yet, standing there without Todd immediately in sight, Bob feels it. That quiet, strange disconnect.

Like he’s stepped back into something that didn’t pause for him while he was gone.

He barely has time to settle into that feeling before it shifts again.

A movement to his left—quick, purposeful.

Someone steps into his space.

Not close enough to be a problem, but close enough to make it one if it went any further.

Bob turns his head, attention snapping to him automatically.

New.

That’s the first thing he notices.

He doesn’t recognize this guy at all.

Younger, maybe. Or just newer. There’s a kind of stiffness to him, something a little too alert, like he’s still figuring out where he fits here—and compensating for it.

His eyes flick over Bob, quick and assessing.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

It’s not outright hostile.

But it’s not welcoming either.

There’s an edge to it—territorial, guarded. Like Bob is something that needs to be accounted for before he’s allowed to exist in the space.

It catches Bob off guard.

Not enough to show it—but enough that something in him stills.

For a second, he just looks at him.

Then he straightens, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders back, posture settling into something more deliberate. Calm, controlled.

He’s not used to this.

No one here has ever…

“Yeah,” Bob says evenly, voice quiet but steady. “I’m looking for Todd.”

The guy doesn’t move.

If anything, he leans in just slightly, like he’s not convinced that’s a good enough answer.

“And you are…?”

That’s the moment it tips.

Not into anger—but into irritation.

A flicker of it, sharp and unexpected.

Bob’s brows pull together just slightly, eyes narrowing—not aggressive, just… unimpressed. There’s a quiet who the hell are you sitting right behind his gaze, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

Because this—this is new.

No one here has ever questioned him like this before.

For a split second, something else slips in underneath it.

Small. Quiet. Easy to miss.

Does Todd not talk about me anymore?

It’s not a full thought—more like a reflex, something instinctive and unwelcome.

Bob’s jaw tightens just a fraction, pushing it down before it can settle into anything real.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s just some new guy.

Still, the irritation lingers, low and steady, as he holds his ground—waiting to see how far this is going to go.

The moment stretches just a second too long—and then it snaps.

“Hey.”

It’s not loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

The voice cuts clean through the tension, calm and certain, and the shift is immediate.

The new guy stills.

Bob glances past him just as Todd’s right-hand man steps in, sliding into the space like he’s been there the whole time—like he owns it.

His gaze flicks once between them, a quick assessment, already understanding exactly what’s happening.

Then it settles on the new guy.

“You good?” he asks.

Same tone—easy, almost casual.

But there’s something under it. Something firm. Final.

The new guy hesitates.

Just for a second.

“…Yeah. Just—didn’t recognize him.”

“Yeah,” the right-hand man says, a small nod, like that explains everything. “That’s on you.”

It lands sharper than it sounds.

A beat.

Then, quieter—closer.

“Back off. Unless you don’t know what’s good for you.”

No raised voice. No scene.

Just enough.

The message sticks.

The new guy exhales through his nose, jaw tight, clearly irritated—but he steps back anyway. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push it further. Just throws Bob one last look before turning and disappearing back into the flow of the house.

And just like that, the tension’s gone.

Or at least, redirected.

The right-hand man shifts his attention back to Bob, and it’s like flipping a switch.

The edge disappears.

What’s left is familiar. Easy.

“Sorry about that,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like this kind of thing gets handled before it ever becomes a problem.

Bob shakes his head slightly. “It’s fine.”

And it is. Mostly.

The guy nods once, then gestures loosely down the hall.

“Todd’s in his room.”

There’s a slight pause—just enough to add something to it.

“Had kind of a rough day,” he adds. “We’re making him take a minute. Relax.”

It’s casual, the way he says it.

But it lands.

Todd’s not out here.

Not because he’s busy.

Because he’s off.

Bob nods slowly, taking that in.

“Okay, yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” the guy replies easily, already stepping back, letting him pass. “Go ahead.”

And that’s it.

No hesitation. No question.

Just… permission that doesn’t need to be asked for.

Bob moves past him, heading toward the hallway, and as he does, that earlier flicker—the small, unwelcome thought—loosens its grip.

Softens.

Because this?

This feels the way it’s supposed to.

He’s not out of place here.

He never was.

The shift happens gradually.

With every step Bob takes down the hallway, the noise of the house dulls behind him—voices fading into a low murmur, music softening until it’s more vibration than sound. The chaos stays out there, contained, like it belongs to a different space entirely.

Back here, it’s quieter.

Closer.

The air feels different, somehow. Less crowded. More… personal.

Bob’s footsteps slow without him meaning to.

The hallway is the same as always—same doors, same worn spots in the floor—but now that he’s in it, the distance between him and Todd feels suddenly very real. Measurable. Each step brings him closer to something he hasn’t had in weeks.

His chest tightens, just slightly.

Not anxiety. Not exactly.

Just… awareness.

He reaches Todd’s door and stops.

For a second, he just stands there.

Looking at it.

Like it might open on its own if he waits long enough.

His hand lifts—then pauses, hovering just inches from the wood.

This is the first time he’s seeing him again.

Not through a screen. Not through a voice.

Actually seeing him.

The thought settles heavier than it should.

There’s a flicker of something under it—small, quiet, but enough to make him hesitate.

What if it feels different?

It’s not a full doubt. Not something he believes.

Just a question.

One he doesn’t give time to grow.

Bob exhales softly through his nose, fingers curling slightly as he closes the distance.

Then, he knocks.

Not loud.

Just enough to be heard.

The sound comes almost immediately.

Movement—quick, a little messy.

Something shifts inside the room, like it’s being pushed aside or set down without much care. A dull thud follows, then the scrape of something against the floor.

Bob stays still, hand lowering back to his side as he listens.

There’s a beat of silence. Followed by a voice.

“Yeah, hold on—”

Todd’s voice.

Rougher than usual. Edged with irritation, like it’s been sitting there all day and hasn’t worn off yet.

More movement. Closer this time.

A quieter mutter under his breath—something Bob can’t quite make out, but the tone is clear enough. Frustrated. Tired. Not meant for anyone in particular, just… there.

Bob’s chest tightens slightly at the sound of it.

It’s familiar.

And not.

He hasn’t heard Todd like this in a while.

Another step. The creak of the floor just on the other side of the door.

Todd still doesn’t know it’s him.

He’s expecting someone else.

Bob shifts his weight just slightly, something in him going still again—not tense, not nervous, just… waiting.

The handle turns.

The door swings open fast.

Todd doesn’t ease into it—he yanks it open like he’s already halfway through whatever he’s about to say, irritation sitting sharp in the set of his mouth, in the way his brows are drawn together.

He’s expecting someone else.

Bob sees it before anything else.

The edge of it.

Then everything underneath.

The beard—thicker than the last time he saw him, not fully grown out, but enough to change the shape of his face. Rougher. A little uneven in places.

His eyes—tired. Not just physically, but worn in that quiet way that settles in after a long day that didn’t go right.

The tension in his shoulders, in the way he’s holding himself like he hasn’t fully come down from whatever’s been weighing on him.

It all lands at once.

Bob doesn’t move.

For a fraction of a second, Todd doesn’t either.

He’s already mid-breath, irritation still there—until it isn’t.

Recognition hits.

And it’s instant.

Everything shifts.

The tension drops out of his posture like it was never there. His expression breaks open, sharp edges softening all at once into something warmer—brighter.

“Oh my god—hey!”

It’s not controlled.

It’s not measured.

It’s immediate, real, like he didn’t realize how much he needed this until it was standing right in front of him.

And just like that, the whole day he’s been carrying disappears from his face.

Before Bob can even respond, Todd reaches for him.

It’s quick, instinctive—fingers catching in the front of his shirt, already pulling him forward like the distance between them is something that needs to be fixed immediately.

“C’mere—”

Bob barely has time to react before he’s being tugged over the threshold, momentum carrying him inside. The door swings shut behind them with a solid click, sealing the quiet of the room around them, cutting off the last of the noise from the hallway.

Bob stumbles half a step, thrown just slightly off balance by the sudden movement.

He catches himself easily enough—but he doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t step back.

For a second, he just stands there, close—closer than he’s been in weeks—caught somewhere between surprise and something heavier that settles in his chest all at once.

Todd’s still holding onto him.

Not tight. Not restraining.

Just… there.

Like he hasn’t quite let go yet.

Like he doesn’t want to.

“You okay?”

The question comes softer this time.

Different from the irritation that had been in his voice seconds ago—gone completely now, replaced with something warmer. Careful. There’s a small smile tugging at his mouth, but underneath it, there’s something else too.

Relief.

It lingers in the way he looks at Bob, like having him here—right in front of him—has already taken the edge off everything else.

And Bob—

Bob just looks at him.

Bob opens his mouth—

Nothing.

He blinks once, like that might fix it, like the words are just… stuck somewhere on the way out.

“Uh—”

It comes out wrong. Barely a sound, more breath than anything.

He huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving breath through his nose, tries again—mouth opening, closing—then just… gives up.

For a second, there’s nothing.

No words.

Just him standing there, still caught in Todd’s grip, looking at him like he’s trying to take everything in at once and can’t quite keep up.

Because it hits.

Not gradually. Not gently.

All at once.

The fact that he’s here. That Todd is right in front of him. That this isn’t a voice through a phone or a name lighting up his screen—it’s real, it’s solid, it’s him.

Closer than he’s been in weeks.

Bob’s expression softens without him meaning it to. Something quiet, almost dazed, settling into his features as he looks at him—really looks.

At the beard.

At the way it changes him just enough to feel new, unfamiliar in a way that pulls Bob’s attention in instead of pushing it away.

His hand lifts.

Slowly.

Like, he’s not entirely sure when he decided to do it.

It hovers for just a second—half a breath of hesitation, something small and instinctive.

Then he closes the distance.

His fingers brush against Todd’s beard, light at first. Testing.

Then linger.

And just like that, everything else fades out a little around them.

Todd stills under his touch.

Not rigid—just… quiet. Like something in him settles the second Bob’s hand reaches him, like the rest of the room fades out enough that all of his attention narrows to that one point of contact.

To him.

His eyes flick down briefly, following the movement—Bob’s fingers brushing through his beard, light at first, almost tentative.

Then lingering.

When he looks back up, there’s already a hint of a smile there. Softer than usual. Edges rounded off into something more fond than teasing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low, easy. “Couldn’t be bothered to shave.”

It’s casual.

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away.

If anything, he lets it happen—lets Bob take his time with it.

Bob doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t really react at all.

His focus stays exactly where it is, like he’s still catching up to the reality of him being here, close enough to touch again. His thumb shifts slightly, brushing along Todd’s jaw, feeling the shape of it, the texture—something quiet and grounding in the repetition of it.

He steps closer without thinking.

Just enough to close the last bit of distance between them.

Still, his hand doesn’t drop.

There’s something softer in his expression now. Not dazed anymore, but… settled. Like the moment has caught up to him, and he’s letting himself be in it.

When he speaks, it’s quieter than before.

Careful.

“Can I ask you to keep it?”

The question hangs there between them.

Simple.

But not really.

Todd’s smile deepens just slightly.

Not teasing.

Not yet.

Something in his expression shifts—subtle, but there. His gaze lingers on Bob a second longer, like he’s really taking him in now, like the weight of the question lands somewhere deeper than it should.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just stays there—

close, warm, present—

letting the moment sit exactly as it is.

Todd doesn’t answer right away.

For a second, he just looks at him.

Really looks at the way Bob’s still standing close, still touching him like he doesn’t want to stop. Like he missed this.

Something settles behind his eyes.

Then shifts.

Todd takes a small step forward.

It’s not sudden.

Not forceful.

But it’s enough.

The space between them disappears completely now—no gap left, no question of distance. Bob’s hand is still at his jaw, but now their chests brush, close enough that the contact feels intentional.

Todd’s gaze drops briefly to his mouth—then back up.

“Oh…” he murmurs, voice lower now. Slower. “So you like it?”

There’s a tease to it.

But it’s quieter than usual.

Measured.

Like he’s not just playing—he’s checking.

Bob feels it.

The shift.

The question underneath the words.

He doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers move slightly against Todd’s jaw, grounding himself there, and then he nods—slow, certain.

A small smirk pulls at his mouth.

Todd doesn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, something in his expression settles—decision, quiet but clear—and he moves.

Slowly.

Close enough already that it doesn’t take much. Just a slight shift forward, a tilt of his head, his gaze flicking once more to Bob’s mouth before dropping—lower.

He doesn’t rush it.

Gives him time.

Plenty of it.

Enough that if Bob wanted to step back, to break the moment, he could.

He doesn’t.

Doesn’t move at all.

So Todd closes the last inch of space and leans in, his mouth brushing just beneath Bob’s jaw before settling at his neck.

The contact is soft.

Warm.

Deliberate.

And it lands like it’s been building there the whole time.

Bob goes completely still.

Not pulling away—not leaning in—just… frozen.

His breath catches sharp in his chest, like his body reacts before his brain can catch up, like the feeling of it hits somewhere deeper than expected.

A quiet inhale, barely controlled.

His hands come up automatically, finding Todd’s chest without thinking—fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his shirt, grounding himself in something solid.

He doesn’t stop him.

Doesn’t interrupt it.

Just stands there, breath uneven, heart kicking a little harder than it should and lets it happen.

Todd doesn’t linger there long.

Just enough for it to land.

Then he pulls back—slowly, like he doesn’t want to break it too abruptly, like he’s giving the moment room to breathe instead of snapping it in half.

The absence of contact is immediate.

Noticeable.

His gaze lifts back to Bob’s face, searching—not rushed, not uncertain, just… checking.

Taking him in.

Bob’s still close. Still holding onto him. Hands pressed lightly against his chest like he hadn’t quite remembered to let go yet, like he’s still catching up to what just happened.

His breathing isn’t steady.

Todd notices.

Of course he does.

There’s a flicker of something softer in his expression again—something that cuts through the tension instead of adding to it.

“You okay?”

Same question as before.

But not the same at all.

This one is quieter.

Lower.

Carrying something under it now—awareness, maybe. Of what he just did. Of how Bob reacted. Of how easy it would be to keep going… or to stop.

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t close the space again either.

Just stays right there.

Close enough to feel.

And waits for Bob to answer.

Bob doesn’t answer right away.

His fingers flex once against Todd’s chest, barely there, like he’s grounding himself through the fabric. His mouth opens, then closes again. For a second, he just looks at him—still a little stunned, still breathing like that kiss knocked something loose in him he hasn’t fully recovered from yet.

There’s hesitation there.

Not because he doesn’t want to say it.

Because he does.

And that somehow feels worse.

His eyes flick down for half a second, then back up, and when he finally speaks, his voice comes out quieter than usual. Rough around the edges. Almost careful.

“I’m having the nastiest thoughts right now.”

It doesn’t sound slick.

Doesn’t sound practiced.

It lands exactly like what it is—a confession. Honest and a little helpless, like the truth slipped out before he could polish it into something safer.

For one brief second, Todd just stares at him.

There’s a flash of surprise across his face—small, sharp, impossible to miss.

Oh.

Then it’s gone.

Not because he hides it.

Because it turns into something else just as fast.

Decision.

Clear and immediate, settling into the set of his mouth, the look in his eyes, the way his whole attention narrows in on Bob like there’s nothing else in the room worth noticing anymore.

Todd doesn’t hesitate.

The moment the words settle, he closes the distance again—hand coming up to the side of Bob’s neck, steady and sure as he pulls him in.

The kiss isn’t rushed.

Not at first.

It starts slow—intentional, like he’s meeting him there instead of overwhelming him, like he’s letting Bob feel it instead of taking it.

And Bob—

Bob is already gone.

He leans into it immediately, like there was never a question, like the second Todd touches him again, everything else falls away without effort.

The breath he was holding slips out against Todd’s mouth, soft and unsteady, and then he’s kissing him back—fully, without hesitation, like the pause from before never existed.

His hands move on instinct.

One slides back into Todd’s beard, fingers threading through it, gripping just enough to keep him close—like he doesn’t want to lose the feeling of it, like he’s been thinking about it longer than he realized.

The other pushes up into his hair, curling there, holding him in place.

Todd deepens the kiss easily, like he was waiting for that—like the second Bob meets him halfway, he gives more without thinking.

Closer.

Warmer.

There’s nothing tentative left in it now.

No space.

No distance.

Just heat, and breath, and the quiet, overwhelming sense of finally having him right there again—real, solid, within reach.

And just like that, those weeks apart disappear.

The kiss doesn’t break; it shifts.

Moves.

Todd takes a step back without really thinking about it, and Bob follows just as easily, still holding onto him, still pulled in close. Their mouths stay connected through it, uneven and a little breathless now, like neither of them is quite keeping up with the pace they’ve set.

They bump lightly into something—Todd’s hip catches the edge of the bed.

There’s a soft, half-laugh that slips out against Bob’s mouth, barely there, more breath than sound.

Neither of them pulls away.

Todd adjusts his footing, one hand sliding down from Bob’s neck to his side, guiding without forcing—just enough pressure to shift them back another step.

Bob goes with him.

Easily.

Like he’s not even thinking about it.

Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The mattress dips behind him, and it happens naturally after that—momentum more than intention—as Todd leans forward and Bob gives, letting himself fall back onto the bed without breaking the kiss.

It doesn’t feel like being pushed.

Doesn’t feel like being put anywhere.

Just… falling into place.

Bob’s smiling when he lands—soft, a little breathless, the sound of it catching between kisses as his hands tighten briefly in Todd’s hair and beard, keeping him close.

And Todd follows him down just as easily—

like they both ended up exactly where they were already heading.

The kiss breaks—but only barely.

Just enough for breath.

Todd shifts like he might pull back, just for a second, just to look at him, and Bob doesn’t let him.

His hand tightens in Todd’s shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as he tugs him right back down, closing whatever space tried to form between them.

“I’ve missed you.”

It comes out soft.

Pressed right against his lips.

Not rushed. Not thrown out.

Felt.

Todd stills for half a second at that—just long enough for it to land—before Bob kisses him again.

This one is different.

Slower.

More deliberate.

Less about the rush of it and more about holding onto it.

His grip shifts—one hand still in Todd’s hair, the other steady at his shirt now, keeping him close in a way that feels grounding instead of urgent.

Like he’s making up for something.

Like he’s been waiting to say that without saying it.

And now he finally has him close enough to mean it.

Todd doesn’t answer right away.

Not with another kiss. Not with movement.

He pulls back just enough to look at him—really look this time.

Bob’s still holding onto him, still close, still a little breathless, and there’s something in his expression that hadn’t been there before. Not just want.

Something softer.

Something that settles in Todd’s chest before he can stop it.

It lingers there for a second—quiet, steady—underneath everything else.

Then it shifts.

Not disappearing.

Just… threading itself into something warmer. Something a little sharper around the edges.

Todd’s mouth curves slightly, not quite a smirk. Not as teasing as it usually is.

Quieter.

More them.

“Show me how much.”

The words are low, almost murmured, like they belong right here between them instead of anywhere else.

Not a challenge.

Not entirely.

There’s something else under it—something that matches the way Bob said it, the way he pulled him back down, the way he didn’t let the moment slip.

An answer, in its own way.

And an invitation.

Bob huffs a quiet breath at that—something caught between a laugh and something softer—and it shows on him immediately.

The flush creeps up his neck, across his cheeks.

He feels it.

Doesn’t hide it.

But he doesn’t pull back either.

If anything, it settles something in him.

That last bit of hesitation.

Gone.

His grip shifts—firmer now—and before the moment can slip back into something softer again, he moves.

It’s not rough.

Not abrupt.

Just… decisive.

Bob shifts his weight and rolls them, guiding Todd onto his back with a smoothness that feels more instinct than plan. The mattress dips under the change, their positions flipping without breaking the closeness between them.

For a second, he hovers there.

Above him.

Close enough that their breaths still mix, that their mouths are only a fraction apart.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

It’s quiet.

There’s a hint of a smile in it, something a little more confident than before—but still him. Still softened at the edges, still threaded with that same honesty that makes everything he says land a little deeper than it should.

His hand moves without hesitation now, sliding under the hem of Todd’s shirt, palm flattening warm against his skin.

Not rushed.

Not unsure.

Just certain.

Like he finally knows exactly what he wants—

and isn’t second-guessing it anymore.

Todd exhales softly beneath him—something low and warm that seems to settle deeper the longer Bob stays there.

His hands come up without thinking, finding Bob’s sides, then his back, pulling him down just enough to close whatever space is left between them.

Bob goes easily.

Like he’s been waiting for that too.

Their mouths meet again—less urgent now, but no less intense. Slower, deeper, like they’re not trying to get anywhere anymore. Just stay here.

Hands move.

Not rushed.

Not fumbling.

Familiar.

Bob’s fingers press more firmly against Todd’s skin, mapping the shape of him through touch instead of sight, like he’s reminding himself this is real—this is him, right here, within reach again.

Todd’s grip tightens in response, one hand sliding up his back, the other steady at his side, holding him close like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.

Their breathing falls out of sync, then finds its own rhythm again—quiet, uneven, shared.

Everything else fades.

The noise from the house, the distance of the past few weeks, the weight of the day Todd had been carrying—it all dissolves into something softer, something steadier.

Just this.

Closeness.

Warmth.

The quiet, undeniable pull of finding each other again after being apart just long enough to feel it.

And finally—