Campus was loud in all the wrong ways.
The library buzzed with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clack of keyboards. Students moved like ghosts—half-asleep, caffeine-fueled, buried in deadlines. Ethan sat at one of the public computers, his fingers hovering over the worn keys, notes spread out beside him on a borrowed clipboard.
The screen glowed with half-finished sentences and formulas he couldn't focus on.
He blinked.
Tried again.
But his mind drifted.
To a thumb brushing his cheek.
To the scent of antiseptic and strawberry milk.
To the way Joss had looked at him—not with pity, not with hunger, but with something quieter. Something steadier.
Care.
He shook his head, refocused. He had exams coming up. Assignments due. A presentation next week. He'd taken the week off from the bar to study, told himself it was necessary. Smart. Responsible.
But every time he passed the alley behind campus, he slowed down.
Every time he saw someone tall, broad-shouldered, with that quiet kind of power, his heart skipped.
Even the strawberry milk in the vending machine made him pause.
He missed him.
Not loudly. Not desperately.
Just in the quiet moments. In the pauses between paragraphs. In the spaces where loneliness used to live.
He missed the way Joss made silence feel like safety.
He missed the way his presence filled a room without demanding anything.
He missed being seen.
Joss hadn't been to the bar in three days.
After that night, he'd had to deal with the thugs—clean up the mess, send a message, make sure no one tried anything again. It was business. Brutal, necessary.
But once it was done, he didn't go home.
He went straight to the bar.
And Ethan wasn't there.
Joss asked the boss, casually, like it didn't matter.
"He took a week off," the man said. "Studying for exams."
Joss nodded, but the words settled heavy in his chest.
He missed him.
More than he expected.
He told himself it was nothing. A passing curiosity. A flicker of interest.
But he kept replaying the way Ethan had looked at him—wary, defiant, vulnerable.
He kept remembering the bruise. The way Ethan had flinched, then held his ground.
He kept remembering the silence between them. How it hadn't felt empty.
He ordered a drink, then another. But even with the music and the laughter and the low thrum of nightlife around him, his mind was somewhere else.
At 10pm, he left.
His men were surprised. The night was still young. But Joss didn't explain.
He just walked.
And ended up at the convenience store.
The same one.
The one with the flickering light and the strawberry milk.
He didn't know why.
He just… needed to be there.
Ethan was already inside.
He'd come for something simple—buns for dinner, maybe a drink. He had more studying to do, and his stomach was growling. He stood in front of the refrigerated shelf, scanning the options, fingers hovering over a pack of red bean buns.
But his mind wasn't on food.
He'd passed the alley again today. Slowed down. Looked.
Nothing.
He'd checked the bar's schedule. Joss wasn't listed.
He told himself it didn't matter.
But he kept thinking about the way Joss had stood between him and danger. The way he'd touched his face like it was something precious.
He missed him.
In the way you miss warmth when the sun sets.
In the way you miss a voice you didn't realize had become familiar.
He missed the tension. The quiet. The possibility.
The door chimed.
He didn't look up right away.
But then he felt it.
That shift in the air.
That presence.
He turned.
And there was Joss.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the harsh light, wearing the same jacket, the same unreadable expression—but his eyes softened the moment they met Ethan's.
They paused.
Neither moved.
The hum of the fridge filled the silence. A clerk coughed behind the counter. Somewhere outside, a car passed.
But inside, time stilled.
Ethan's hand was still on the bun.
Joss's fingers curled slightly at his side, like he wasn't sure whether to step forward or stay still.
Their eyes held.
And in that fragile, suspended moment, everything they hadn't said shimmered between them.
The bruise on Ethan's cheek had faded.
But the memory hadn't.
Joss took a slow breath.
Ethan blinked.
And then—
"You came back," Ethan said, voice barely above a whisper.
Joss nodded. "So did you."