Previously…
It’s just after six when I get home.
The hallway smells faintly like someone burned toast two floors down. The light outside the apartment door flickers the way it always does, like it’s debating whether to commit. I stand there for a second longer than I need to, keys in my hand, replaying Trey’s voice in my head.
So you’re gonna fuck your stepdad?
I shake it off and unlock the door.
The apartment’s quiet. Not empty-quiet. Waiting-quiet.
Jeff’s boots are by the door. That means he’s home.
I step inside and shut it behind me. The air’s warmer than the hallway, carrying that familiar mix of oil, detergent, and whatever cologne he throws on after a shower. It hits me low in the chest before I can brace for it.
“Hey,” he calls from the living room.
“Hey.” My voice sounds normal. I think.
I round the corner and find him on the couch, shirt off, sweatpants low on his hips, one arm slung across the back cushion like he owns the place. TV’s on but muted. He looks up at me once—quick scan, same way Trey did earlier.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs. “Just asking.”
There’s something unreadable in his expression. Not suspicion. Not concern. Just attention.
I drop my keys on the counter and lean against it, keeping space between us. Trey’s laughter is still echoing in my ears, but it feels distant now. Like it belonged to a different version of me—one that could talk about this stuff without it being real.
Jeff reaches for the remote but doesn’t unmute the TV. “How was Trey?”
“Loud. Opinionated. The usual.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
Silence stretches between us—not uncomfortable, but charged. The kind that feels like it’s waiting for someone to move first.
I glance at him without meaning to.
He catches it.
And just like that, the room feels smaller.
I don’t sit. If I sit, I’ll default to something easy. A joke. A distraction. A hand sliding somewhere it doesn’t belong.
“Jeff,” I say.
He shifts slightly, attention sharpening. “Yeah?”
I hesitate. The words feel heavier than they should. “Can we… talk? Like actually talk.”
One eyebrow lifts. Not mocking. Just surprised. “We are talking.”
“You know what I mean.”
He studies me for a long second, then reaches for the remote and turns the TV off completely. The silence that follows is intentional.
“Okay,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”
I move closer but stay standing, arms crossing over my chest before I can stop myself. Defensive. Great.
“I don’t want this to just be… whatever this is,” I start. “Not in a bad way. I just—I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jeff leans forward, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t interrupt.
“I’ve spent most of my life thinking I had myself figured out,” I continue. “And then the last few weeks happen. And last night happens. And now I’m sitting here trying to decide if I’m experimenting or if I’m… changing.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he keeps listening.
“And you,” I add, quieter, “you’re not just some guy. You’re… you. You live here. You’re in my life. If this blows up, it doesn’t just get awkward. It gets permanent.”
That lands. I see it.
Jeff exhales slowly. “You think I haven’t thought about that?”
“I don’t know what you’ve thought,” I admit. “You don’t exactly over-explain yourself.”
He almost smiles at that.
“I’m not trying to mess you up, Harrison,” he says finally. “I’m not trying to steer you anywhere you weren’t already leaning.”
“That’s the thing,” I say. “I don’t know where I’m leaning.”
He stands then—slow, deliberate—and closes some of the distance between us. Not touching. Just close enough that I feel the shift in air.
“You don’t have to decide what you are tonight,” he says. “Or tomorrow. Or because of me.”
“Then what are we doing?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. Steady.
“We’re figuring it out,” he says. “Unless you don’t want to.”
I search his face for deflection. For swagger. For that easy confidence he wears everywhere else.
It’s not there.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck, a tell I’ve seen a hundred times at the shop when something’s not lining up the way it should.
“You think this is simple for me?” he asks quietly.
I don’t answer.
“I’ve spent my whole life being the guy who’s supposed to have his shit together,” he continues. “The steady one. The adult in the room. I don’t get to be confused. I don’t get to not know what something means.”
He looks at me then—not past me, not through me. At me.
“And then you start looking at me the way you did. And I look back. And suddenly I’m not the responsible one anymore. I’m just a man.”
The word hangs there.
“I didn’t plan this,” he says. “I didn’t sit around thinking about crossing lines. I tried not to, actually. You think I didn’t notice the first time you looked at me different? I noticed.”
My chest tightens.
“I kept telling myself it was a phase. That you’d get it out of your system. That I’d shut it down if I had to.” He exhales. “I didn’t shut it down.”
“Why not?” I ask.
He holds my gaze a beat too long.
“Because I wanted it too.”
There’s no bravado in it. No smirk. Just honesty.
“And that scares the hell out of me,” he admits. “Not because of what it is. But because of what it could cost you.”
The room feels different now—not smaller. Heavier.
“I’m not trying to define you,” he says. “I’m not trying to take something from you before you’ve even figured it out. If you wake up tomorrow and decide you don’t want this, I deal with that. I don’t make it weird. I don’t punish you for it.”
He steps a fraction closer, voice lower but steady.
“But don’t think for a second I’m casual about you.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said.
I don’t think about it. If I do, I won’t do it at all.
I step forward.
It’s not dramatic. I don’t grab him. I just close the space and rest my hand against his chest, right over his heart. Through the thin fabric, I can feel it—steady, real, not racing.
Jeff stills.
For a second I wonder if I’ve misread everything. If this is where he gently takes my wrist and puts it back at my side.
He doesn’t.
His hand comes up instead, slow, giving me time to pull away if I want. He doesn’t grab—just cups the back of my neck, thumb resting under my ear. It’s grounding. Familiar in a way that feels new.
“Okay,” he says quietly, like he’s checking in.
“Okay,” I echo.
We’re close enough now that I can smell his soap, feel the warmth of him without him touching anywhere else. My hand stays on his chest. His stays at my neck. Neither of us moves further.
It’s not a kiss. Not yet.
It’s the decision to stay right here.
Do they kiss? Do they go further? Do they cross that line?
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