They sat outside the convenience store, legs stretched beneath a plastic table, two cans of beer sweating in the night air. The flickering light above them buzzed faintly, casting soft shadows across their faces.
It wasn't glamorous.
But it felt safe.
Ethan took a sip, the bitterness grounding him. Joss leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert—always watching, always reading.
"Have they come back?" Joss asked, voice low.
Ethan shook his head. "No. Not since that night."
Joss nodded, but didn't look away. "Good."
There was a pause. Not awkward—just thoughtful.
"How's school?" Joss asked.
Ethan smiled, a little surprised by the question. "Busy. Exams next week. I've been living in the library."
"Still engineering?"
"Yeah. Structural design. It's tough, but I like it. Makes sense to me."
Joss listened, really listened. His gaze didn't drift. His fingers didn't fidget. He was present in a way most people weren't.
Ethan noticed.
He felt it.
And maybe that's why he kept talking—about his professors, his group project, the bridge model he was building. He didn't usually share this much. But with Joss, it felt… familiar. Like the silence between them had already done the introductions.
Joss wanted to ask more.
About Ethan's family. About the weight he carried in his shoulders.
But he hesitated.
He didn't want to push.
Didn't want to make Ethan retreat.
So instead, he asked, "Do you get time for yourself?"
Ethan laughed softly. "Not really. But I'm used to it."
Joss nodded, eyes flicking down to his beer. "You shouldn't have to be."
They talked until midnight.
About small things. Big things. Nothing and everything.
Joss didn't want it to end.
He could've sat there all night, just listening to Ethan's voice, watching the way his eyes lit up when he talked about tensile strength and bridge load calculations. It was ridiculous. And beautiful.
But he wasn't selfish.
"You've got class tomorrow," he said, glancing at the time. "I should let you sleep."
Ethan hesitated. "I'm okay."
Joss stood, stretched slightly. "Let me send you back."
Ethan shook his head. "It's okay. The thugs are gone. You don't have to."
"I know," Joss said. "But I want to."
Ethan looked at him—really looked. The man who had stepped into the dark for him. Who had sat here for hours, asking questions, listening, never once making him feel small.
He nodded.
"Okay."
In the car, the silence was soft.
Ethan glanced at Joss, then down at his hands. "I've been talking about myself all night."
Joss raised an eyebrow. "I don't mind."
"Still," Ethan said. "I don't know anything about you."
Joss hesitated.
He wanted to tell him everything. But he couldn't. Not yet.
"I run things," he said. "Business. Logistics."
"Sounds vague."
Joss smirked. "It's meant to."
Ethan didn't press. But he noticed the way Joss's jaw tightened. The way his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, always scanning.
"Is it dangerous?"
Joss paused. "Sometimes."
Ethan's chest tightened.
He didn't know what to say to that.
So he didn't.
They reached the hostel.
The building loomed quietly, its windows dark, its corridors still.
Joss parked, but neither moved.
Ethan looked out the window, then back at Joss.
"Thanks for tonight."
Joss nodded. "Anytime."
But neither opened the door.
They just sat there.
Letting the silence stretch.
Letting the presence of each other fill the space.
Ethan's hand was on the door handle, but he didn't turn it.
Joss's fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, like he was holding something back.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to this car. This breath. This heartbeat.
Ethan wanted to stay.
Joss wanted to ask him to.
But neither did.
"Goodnight," Ethan said softly.
"Goodnight," Joss replied.
Ethan stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn't look back. But he felt it.
Joss watching.
Waiting.
Wanting.
Back in his room, Ethan dropped his bag and collapsed onto the mattress. He didn't shower. Didn't change. Just curled into the sheets, the scent of beer and night air still clinging to his skin.
He fell asleep fast.
And dreamed of Joss.
Not in the way people dream of danger or desire.
But in the way you dream of warmth when you've been cold too long.
The flickering lights of the convenience store blurred into soft lanterns, casting golden halos around them. They sat side by side, knees almost touching, the night air gentle against their skin. Joss was laughing—quiet, unguarded, the kind of laugh that made Ethan's chest ache.
In the dream, Ethan reached out.
Not because he was brave.
But because he wasn't afraid.
His fingers brushed Joss's hand, and Joss didn't pull away. He turned his palm upward, let Ethan's touch settle there like something sacred.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Joss leaned in, close enough that Ethan could feel his breath—warm, steady, grounding. His hand came up, cupped Ethan's cheek, thumb tracing the curve just beneath his eye.
"You're safe," Joss whispered.
And Ethan believed him.
In the dream, there were no bruises. No debts. No weight pressing down on his shoulders.
Just the quiet hum of belonging.
Joss pressed a kiss to his forehead—soft, lingering, reverent. Not possessive. Not demanding.
Just there.
Just enough.
Ethan closed his eyes, leaned into the touch, and let himself be held.
Not because he was weak.
But because he was tired.
And in the dream, Joss didn't ask him to be anything else.