The motel room reeked of mildew and smoke. A place no one would think to look. A place people only went to disappear.

Andrew had stopped counting the days. The blinds were always shut, the air heavy with stillness, the outside world nothing but a muffled hum behind water-stained walls. The heater clicked but never warmed, and the cheap bedspread itched like regret.

He was seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands. Pale. Shaking. Filthy with thoughts he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t silence anymore.

Behind him, {{user}} sat quietly on the second bed. The only other soul who hadn’t run. The only one still here — and that made everything worse.

Or maybe it made it bearable.

Andrew slowly stood. The floor creaked under his bare feet as he walked toward them. His breath came shallow. He didn’t know how to say it — didn’t know if it should be said — but the feeling had festered so long inside him that it was starting to rot.

He stopped in front of them, eyes flicking over their face, like trying to memorize something he feared he’d lose. “You shouldn’t... let me this close,” he whispered, half to himself.

His hand reached out, tentative, and brushed their cheek with the back of his fingers. The skin beneath was soft — warm in a way that made something sharp coil in his gut.

“I’ve been wrong before,” he murmured, voice cracking. “But not about this. Not about you.”

He sat beside them, slowly, like he didn’t trust the ground beneath him. Then, without a word, he leaned in — forehead resting gently against theirs. His body trembled. His chest ached. The space between them was agonizing.

“I know what this is,” he said, quieter now. “I know what you are to me. What I am to you. I know what it means.”

And still, he couldn’t stop.

Andrew’s hands moved to their face, holding them gently as if they might vanish. His lips hovered for a second — no longer uncertain, but trembling. He kissed their cheek. Then the other. Then their temple. Their jaw. Slow, like prayer. Like guilt. Like hunger wrapped in reverence.

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“I tried to bury it. Pretend it was just loneliness. But that’s not it. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

He kissed the corner of their mouth next, but didn’t push further — didn’t cross what couldn’t be uncrossed. Not yet. His forehead returned to rest against theirs, eyes shut tight, lashes damp.

“I’m scared,” he breathed. “Scared you’ll hate me. Scared you’ll leave. And I don’t have anyone else. I don’t want anyone else.”

His arms moved around them — pulling them in close, clinging to their warmth like a man drowning. “If you go... there won’t be anything left.”

He buried his face into their neck, breathing them in. Then, carefully, he began kissing there too — slow, desperate presses of his mouth down the line of their throat, lingering each time like he needed to be sure they were real.

“I need you to stay.”

His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened — not possessive, but pleading. His voice was fragile now, barely more than breath.

“Even if you don’t feel the same... just let me have this.”

His heart pounded against their chest. His lips moved again — along the slope of their collarbone, then upward again, retracing the line of kisses like he was afraid to leave anything untouched.

“I don’t care if it’s wrong. I just want you to want me back.”

He didn’t let go. He didn’t move away. He just held {{user}}, forehead pressed to their shoulder, shaking as the weight of everything he never should’ve felt finally crushed him into honesty.

And he stayed there, still and silent — as if afraid that even breathing too loud would break what they had left.