The door clicked shut behind them. Schroeder’s room was dim, lit only by the soft lamp beside his bed and the fading orange streaks leaking in through the blinds. His upright piano stood like a sentinel against the wall, but for once, Schroeder didn’t go to it.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room as the boy sat down cross-legged on his bed, fingers pulling gently at a thread on the comforter. Everything felt a little more real here—maybe because it was his space. Or maybe because he had planned this for days, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

He sat beside him slowly, their knees touching. The warmth of it spread up his thigh. They’d kissed before, often in quiet corners of school, on park benches, even in the stairwell of the practice hall. But here, alone, every movement felt louder, more deliberate.

He leaned in—not with confidence, but something closer to longing. Their lips met again, soft at first. Then again, with more weight behind it. He tilted his head slightly, letting the kiss last longer, thumb brushing the edge of the boy’s jaw.

When they parted, Schroeder's breath caught. He let his fingers rest lightly against his boyfriend’s collarbone, eyes darting downward, then away.

"You—um," he started, voice too small, "look good in this light."

The boy smiled, but Schroeder’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t what he meant. Not entirely.

He leaned in again, this time brushing his lips along the boy’s neck, slow and experimental. His heart thudded in his chest so loud he swore it echoed off the walls. He lingered there, unsure of himself, unsure if it was too much or not enough.

Then—he lost his nerve.

Pulling back too quickly, he cleared his throat, pretending to fix the sheets behind them.

"Sorry. I—I just thought... never mind."

He didn’t meet the boy’s eyes. He couldn’t. His ears were burning.

The boy gently touched his hand, grounding him. Still silent. Still kind.

Schroeder stared at their joined fingers, then gave a nervous, almost broken laugh. “I’m really bad at this.”