-Devon.
It was close to midnight when the house finally fell quiet again. A car door shut outside, the faint rumble of an engine pulling away, and the silence that followed was almost loud enough to jolt me awake. Gracie let out a sudden groan next to me. She had slumped sideways across the bed, mouth parted, breathing slow. I nudged her shoulder.
"Hey," I murmured. "He's gone."
She startled upright, hair mussed, eyes darting like she had woken from a nightmare. "Oh my god, anemia." She swayed a little, gripping the edge of the bed, then caught herself, muttering, "I need to eat something." Before I could say anything, she was already rushing to the door, steadying herself with the handle before pulling it open and stepping into the hallway.
I lingered behind, slower, my chest tightening with hesitation. I wasn't built for this kind of comfort, for walking into someone else's storm and knowing the right words to throw into it. That was Gracie's skill. Mine was silence, observation, defense when needed. Still, I followed, because staying behind would've felt cowardly.
The air outside the room was heavy, tense, like static before thunder. Bryce's voice carried sharp across the space before I even saw him.
"He thinks just like that he can throw a couple of words in and I'll bend before him. What the hell is wrong with him?" Bryce was pacing, his hands carving through the air, his footsteps quick and restless across the floor. "It's like he's telling me—'I let you exist on your own accord, but if I want you on a leash, I can do it.'" His laugh was harsh, almost a bark. "He's lost his mind."
Gracie stood off to the side, her arms crossed loosely, her expression calm even though her eyes were tired. She nodded as if she had heard this all before, her voice quiet when she answered. "I get it. Same old Jose."
Bryce's jaw tightened, his teeth flashing for a second as he exhaled. "And I wish he would just quit it. All of it. He hides it as jokes and banter, but it's not. It's not funny. It's—it's control." He stopped moving for a second, his chest heaving.
When his eyes landed on me, though, everything in his face shifted. The frustration, the sharp lines in his brow, the burn in his gaze—all of it softened. And then came that smile.
I couldn't stop myself from smiling back. It wasn't forced. It was instinct. My stomach twisted at how easy he made it seem, to take something jagged and swallow it down before it could cut anyone else. As if the burden belonged only to him.
I opened my arms without thinking. He hesitated. His gaze flicked to Gracie, then back to me, uncertain.
"It's okay," I told him softly. "She knows."
His jaw dropped, the kind of shock that looked like he had just been caught skipping class in high school, but then he moved, quick and wordless, straight into me.
The weight of him against my chest was warm, his forehead tucked into the curve of my neck. His arms wrapped around my back tight, like he needed proof I was real. I held him closer, one hand at the back of his head, the other splayed across his spine, and thought, how can someone carry so much noise inside themselves, yet silence it the second they look at me?
Gracie, standing a few feet away, let out a small, knowing sigh, like she was both exasperated and endeared. I didn't even have to look at her to know she was probably biting back a grin.
Bryce mumbled something against me, his voice muffled by my shirt, and I bent my head slightly, brushing my lips against his hair without thinking, whispering, "What did you say?"
He lifted his head, eyes glassy but smiling again, softer this time. "Nothing. Just… thanks."
I shook my head lightly. "You don't need to thank me."
But he kept holding on anyway, tighter still, like letting go might mean falling.
Bryce's grip lingered, his face pressed against me as though he could burrow into my chest and hide there. His breath was hot through the cotton of my shirt, uneven but slowly steadying. I rubbed the back of his head with my palm, slow and deliberate, feeling the dampness of sweat clinging faintly to his hairline.
Gracie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the sound of her heel against the hardwood tapping like a reminder that she was still here. When Bryce finally loosened his arms just enough for me to breathe again, she gave a small theatrical cough.
"Alright, alright," she said, her tone a mixture of fond and teasing. "I'll leave you two lovebirds to it. Don't stay up all night whispering sweet nothings, though, because one of you has rehearsals tomorrow and the other is apparently my new emotional support guard dog."
Bryce groaned into my shoulder, his voice muffled. "Gracie, please."
She smirked. I could hear it even if I didn't look at her. "Don't 'please' me. I'm too tired for denial. I'm going to bed before I collapse." She made her way toward the hallway, then paused, turning back just enough to catch my eye. "Devon—don't let him convince you he's fine. He never is after nights like this."
I nodded once, quiet, and she gave me a small approving smile before disappearing down the hall.
Silence fell, heavy but gentle. Bryce pulled back finally, his hands sliding from my back to rest loosely on my wrists. He looked up at me, his eyes still carrying the residue of his earlier anger, but softened by exhaustion and something more vulnerable.
"Sorry you had to see that," he said quietly, his lips pulling into a tired half-smile.
"Don't be." My thumb brushed absently against the inside of his wrist. "You don't have to smile at me every time you're breaking apart inside. You know that, right?"
His gaze searched mine, as if he didn't quite believe me. Then he laughed softly, though it sounded more like an exhale. "I can't help it. It's automatic. If I let it all show, maybe you'd run for the hills."
"Bryce." His name left my mouth steady, heavier than I meant it to. "I'm not going anywhere."
The words hung between us, thick, almost too much, and for a moment neither of us knew what to do with them. He looked away, blinking hard, before resting his forehead against my chest again with a muttered, "You're too much sometimes."
I let my chin rest on his crown, answering in a low voice, "So are you."
Bryce clung to me a little longer, then finally pulled away with a shaky breath. His hands fumbled at his sides, restless, as though he didn't quite know what to do with them now that he wasn't holding on to me. He glanced toward the hallway, where Gracie had gone, then back at me. His smile flickered, softer this time, tentative.
"Will you… stay?" His voice dipped low, almost sheepish, like he was asking for something he shouldn't. "Just until I fall asleep."
I hesitated, though not because I didn't want to. My chest was still carrying the heat of his body, and the thought of walking away from that now felt strange. Dangerous, even. "You'll be fine," I said quietly, though it sounded weak even to my own ears.
Bryce's eyes lingered on me, wide, pleading in their own quiet way. "Please."
Something in me gave way then. My shoulders dropped, and I nodded once. "Alright."
We walked together in silence down the hall, his steps dragging slightly, mine steady but weighed down with a confusion I couldn't shake. In his room, he tossed his shirt on the chair and sank into bed without ceremony, pulling the blanket halfway up. The lamp by the nightstand cast a faint golden wash over him, softening the sharp edges of his face. He patted the space beside him with a lazy hand, not even looking at me when he did it.
I sat down first, telling myself it would only be for a minute, then slid back until I was lying beside him. The mattress dipped toward his side, drawing me closer than I meant to be.
Bryce shifted, turning so his back pressed lightly against me. "You're warm," he mumbled, his voice already slipping into that drowsy register.
I let out a quiet laugh through my nose. "You're impossible."
He hummed something noncommittal, half-asleep already. His breathing slowed, deepened, the kind of rhythm that only comes when the weight finally slips off.
I stared at the ceiling in the low light, my arm unconsciously draped near his side, close enough that I could feel the rise and fall of his body. My thoughts, though, refused to rest. Every part of me knew this wasn't what I should be doing. I wasn't supposed to blur the line between his chaos and my steadiness, between duty and something else entirely. But the more time I spent here, the more the line smudged until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Why was it so easy to give in to him? To let him pull me into his orbit until it felt like leaving wasn't an option?
I told myself it was just to keep him steady for the night. Just until he fell asleep. Just until his breathing was even and the tension in his shoulders gave out. And yet, lying there with the faint warmth of him pressed against me, I knew I wasn't convincing anyone, least of all myself.
"Bryce, are you awake?" I whispered.
"Yeah…"
Bryce lay on his side with his back to me, the lamplight brushing the curve of his shoulder, his hair mussed from tossing against the pillow. I thought he had already slipped under, but then his voice rose, steady and unguarded, as though speaking to the dark and not to me.
"Tell me more about your family."
"Hmmm... well, my mother," he began, pausing long enough that I wasn't sure he would continue. "She used to dominate Velour Way. From her twenties until well into her forties, her name was the kind of name people spoke like it was carved into the street itself. Then she retired, slipped into directing, still powerful but from the wings. She never wanted to take me into the theater. She said she didn't want anyone to think I was shoved in because I was her son. She thought that would humiliate me, brand me a nepo baby before I even opened my mouth. But when I auditioned without her backing, people whispered anyway—said if even my mother wouldn't take me, then why would they? Every room I stepped into, they'd already decided I was undeserving. They thought I should bleed my way up like she did. They forgot that the doors never opened for me to begin with."
I stayed quiet, letting the words spill. He wasn't looking at me, his voice flat but not without weight, like he had pressed these thoughts into himself a thousand times already.
"My father thought differently. He wanted me with him. Maybe to spite her, maybe to prove something. He said he knew how to take care of his kids, that if she didn't want me, he'd show me how the world really worked. He offered me a place with him, under his wing, said there's nothing wrong with a little help, no shame in being guided." Bryce's breath hitched, though his voice did not. "But to my mother, dependence was filth. She thought strength was carving your path with your own nails, the way she had. They fought about it endlessly—dependence against independence, as if they were fighting about my very existence. And all I wanted was something else entirely. Not to be dependent, not to be ignored, just… to be like her. To stand on the stage, to act, to be a theater actor. It was never about the favors, never about the wings. I just wanted to follow what I loved."
He curled further into himself, his shoulder blades tight beneath the fabric. "My sisters sided with my father, of course. The family business had already swallowed them. They followed him into production, into management, one of them even brought her husband in to handle finances. Now it's a sealed circle, thriving, feeding itself. I see how it will end—one day it will collapse, and they'll all drag each other down with it. But I don't want any part of it. I wanted something that was mine, not theirs, not hers. My father wouldn't shut up about his way, my mother wouldn't talk to me at all. And when she did, I could feel her bracing for me to beg for something, when all I wanted was her voice, her time. They're selfish. All of them. And I've been stuck between them my whole life."
The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't a silence I wanted to leave untouched. My chest ached with the things he had said, with the bare honesty of it.
"Your turn."
I let my voice break the air, softer than I intended. "My father died when I was three. I don't remember his face, just a photograph of him in the house and the shape of his absence. My mother remarried when I was about fifteen or sixteen. We moved to a new city, new house, new rules. My stepfather had children of his own, a boy and a girl. Suddenly we were stitched into this odd patchwork family that never quite fit together. The boy was introverted to the point of suffocation, and every time my mother tried to force conversation between us, it was painful. She had this thing in her head that we always had to include everyone, be kind, extend a hand, no matter what. It was her mantra—be nice, you never know what people are going through. She drilled it into me."
I felt myself exhale slowly, memories surfacing, unearthing. "That's how I met my first friend. Treasure. The sports center where I trained would bring in kids from the orphanage every now and then. My mother shoved me toward them, told me to make them feel included. Treasure was there. We were six or seven. He followed me everywhere, this small stubborn shadow. We grew up close, and yet he was always… careless with me. He never really considered how I felt about things, never noticed. He did what he wanted, and I tried to keep up. Even in our twenties, he was still trailing behind me, or maybe I was still carrying him. Until he wasn't. Until he started lying and chasing shinier things than what we had."
The words were rolling out of me now, slower than Bryce's, but weighted. "He was never adopted. Before the orphanage, he was abused at home. The kind of abuse that leaves marks no one sees. And in return, he hurt animals, smaller creatures. That's what they wrote down in the report—danger to animals, danger to babies. A label, ugly and blunt, when what he needed was help, care, someone who would see past the hurt. But the report followed him. Families read it and walked away. Nobody adopted him. He grew up with that shadow tied to his name. It ruined him, in many ways. And when he was forced out of the orphanage, he and I reconnected. We moved together to Valmont. Went to college. Took the bodyguard assessments together. Landed our first big client together."
My throat felt tight. "And then he changed. Or maybe he showed me what he always was. Infatuated with the life, the people, the chaos. He lied. He maneuvered. He turned our bond into something that only worked in his favor. I couldn't keep up with it, couldn't stomach it. So I left. But he was my family for as long as I had one. When I walked out of my house, it was him I called family."
I stopped, realizing I had given him more than I had intended. I lay there, the lamp still burning low, my eyes tracing the faint outline of Bryce's jaw. He hadn't turned around.
For a moment, neither of us spoke, and I thought maybe he had drifted, or maybe he didn't know what to say to all that. But then, his voice reached me, hushed, fragile.
"Devon… it sounds like we've both been living inside families that never knew what to do with us."
I swallowed hard, and I couldn't bring myself to deny it.
Bryce shifted on the mattress, the sheets sighing as he turned to face me. His hair fell over his forehead in an unruly spill, and the lamplight caught the tired shimmer in his eyes. He looked like he had been carrying his words for too long, and now that they had finally escaped him, he seemed lighter and heavier all at once.
"You know," he said, voice lower now, as if turning toward me meant lowering the volume too, "I don't think I've ever told anyone all of that. Not like this. Not without trimming it down or turning it into some half-hearted joke." He paused, his gaze softening. "But you… you just sat there and let me unload it."
I studied his face, every faint twitch of his expression, the small pulls at the corners of his mouth that tried to keep composure. "Because it matters," I said. "What you're carrying—it matters. Even when you've convinced yourself no one else should care."
His eyes narrowed faintly, but not in suspicion. More like disbelief, like he wanted to be sure I wasn't feeding him some empty line. "And you, Devon? You say Treasure was your family, but do you still believe that?"
The question landed heavier than I expected. I held his gaze, the brown of his eyes so open that it felt like he was handing me the space to answer honestly. "He was my family. He shaped who I became. But family isn't always the ones you can stay with. Sometimes they're just the ones who leave fingerprints you'll never wash off. Treasure will always be part of my story. But right now—" I breathed slowly, feeling the weight of my own admission. "Right now, my family is wherever I'm needed. And tonight, that feels like here. With you."
The words seemed to reach him in a place he had tried to barricade. His lips parted, the smallest breath slipping out, as though he hadn't expected me to give him that. He shifted closer, the distance between us narrowing until the warmth of his skin began to mix with mine.
"Devon," he whispered, almost as though the name itself was a fragile thing in his mouth. "You don't know how rare that is. To feel like someone actually wants to stand next to me, not because they're tied to me, not because they can get something out of me, but because they just… want to be here."
I reached up without thinking, brushing my fingers against the curve of his cheek. His skin was warm, softer than I imagined. "Then maybe you needed someone stubborn enough not to leave, even when you've convinced yourself you don't need it."
That broke something in him. Not dramatically, but in a way his eyes changed, dark and wet at the edges. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against mine, his breath mingling with mine, uneven but steadying.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, voice raw, almost childish in its honesty. "I don't know how to take someone caring for me without wondering when it'll vanish."
"Then don't try to figure it out all at once," I murmured back. "Just let me be here tonight. That's enough."
He closed his eyes, the faintest tremor running through him, and then he exhaled into the small space between us, surrendering the fight he had been carrying in his chest all night. His hand slid across the sheet, finding mine, his fingers hesitant before curling around, gripping with a quiet desperation that said far more than words could.
His grip on my hand lingered, firm but trembling in its honesty, and for a moment neither of us moved. The silence stretched thin, filled with the sound of his breathing as it brushed against my face. I felt his thumb shift against my knuckles, tracing the shape of them as if he needed proof I was real.
Then he moved. Just a small tilt at first, his nose brushing the side of mine, a hesitation that carried a thousand questions he didn't ask. His lips hovered close enough that I could feel the ghost of his breath slip over my mouth, warm and uneven. I didn't pull away. I couldn't.
He leaned in, and the space between us dissolved. His lips touched mine, tentative at first, almost fragile, like he feared I might break if he pressed harder. But I didn't. I let the weight of it settle, slow and sure, the kind of kiss that wasn't meant to consume but to confirm.
Bryce's hand left mine, sliding up to rest against my chest, right over my heartbeat. I knew he could feel how unsteady it was, but I didn't care. I turned my head just slightly, deepening the kiss, not hurried, just enough to tell him he didn't need to hold back.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes opened slowly, searching me in the dim light. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came. Instead, he let out a shaky laugh, soft and disbelieving, the kind of laugh that said he had surprised even himself.
"You make this too easy," he whispered, his voice catching.
I reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead, my thumb resting against the warm line of his temple. "Maybe it doesn't have to be hard," I said, my own voice low, steady, carrying the truth I wanted him to hold on to.
He was still so close, his breath drawing slow between us, the last ghost of a smile fading from his lips, and I could see the moment it shifted—something behind his eyes changing, not unsure but decided, like a tide coming in.
Bryce moved before I could even think to brace for it. One knee hit the mattress beside me, then the other, and suddenly the weight of him was above me, not crushing, but undeniably there, anchoring me beneath the soft give of his thighs and the lean press of his hips. His hand never left my chest. He just slid it up—over the fabric of my shirt, then under—until his palm was pressed flat to my skin, splayed fingers catching on my sternum, feeling the wild, uneven beat that hadn't settled since the first time he touched me.
The kiss came slower this time, but deeper. Less hesitation, more pull. His lips found mine again with a kind of intent I felt before I could name it, like he was learning me with every inch he claimed. The tentative edge from before had melted away, not into something rough or rushed, but into something fluid, drawn out—almost indulgent. The way his mouth parted against mine made my chest flutter, warm and stuttering, and when he tilted his head and sank just a little more into me, the sound I let slip was quiet, involuntary, a breath caught mid-thought.
His tongue brushed mine and it wasn't sudden, just smooth, coaxing, like he was trying to fit us together in the simplest possible way. My hands had ended up on his waist somehow—God knows when—thumbs pressing into the small spaces between the ribs and the soft stretch of his t-shirt. I felt his stomach tense under my fingers as I curled them in, tugging him a fraction closer. He didn't resist. His whole body responded, this subtle but unmistakable lean that brought his chest to mine, our hips not quite aligned, but closer than I was prepared for.
I could feel it now—how warm he was, how lightly he was shaking, just the tiniest tremor when my fingers pushed beneath his shirt to touch bare skin. His breath hitched, not dramatic, just this little skip in rhythm like he hadn't expected it to feel quite that real. I almost smiled.
"You're trembling," I murmured, and it came out softer than I meant it to. I didn't mean to sound charmed by it. But I was.
He pulled back barely enough to look at me, eyes catching mine in the half-light like he was trying to check if I was joking. I wasn't.
"Yeah," he said, a little breathless, "well... you're unfair."
That did make me smile, though I tried not to let it. "How so?"
"Existing like that," he mumbled, and kissed me again before I could reply.
This time, it was all tongue and soft pressure and the hitch of his hips as he leaned into me with more confidence, enough to draw a thin sound from my throat. His hand on my chest drifted to my collarbone, then down again, tracing the edge of it like he was exploring—deliberate, almost slow enough to tickle. When his fingertips finally found the dip of my sternum again, I swear I felt him smile into my mouth, just barely.
I shifted under him, not pushing him away, just adjusting, letting my legs part enough that he could slot between them more easily. He took the silent invitation without comment, body lowering in a single smooth motion that settled him fully against me. Our thighs brushed. His belt buckle pressed faintly against my pelvis. His hand slid down my side, then around to the small of my back, fingers splayed and anchoring like he didn't want me to drift anywhere.
There was nothing frantic about the way we kissed now. It was drawn out, purposeful—like we'd both decided there wasn't any need to rush, like we wanted to explore every slow second of it. My lips tingled, not from pressure but from persistence, and the faint taste of mint and something unplaceably Bryce made it hard to think.
He made this little noise in the back of his throat—barely audible, like a hum or a sigh he hadn't meant to release—and I felt it vibrate against my mouth. The hand at my back pulled me tighter to him.
Then he broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, forehead pressed to mine, eyes fluttering closed.
"Shit," he whispered, voice rough with too many feelings he didn't know where to put. "Devon…"
That was all he said, but it landed heavy. Like my name had more weight in his mouth than he knew what to do with.
I reached up and slid my hand along the back of his neck, curling my fingers into his hair, grounding both of us. "Yeah," I breathed, not as an answer, just a placeholder for everything I didn't have words for either.
Bryce tilted his head and kissed my jaw instead, slow and dragging, then lower, just under my ear, the scrape of stubble sending a shiver right down my spine. His breath was warm there, the way he exhaled like he was trying to memorize the scent of me. I felt his lips curve faintly as I squirmed under him.
"You're ticklish there," he said, like it was a discovery.
"Don't weaponize it," I muttered, even as my skin lit up wherever his mouth moved.
He didn't listen.
He kissed the same spot again, this time slower, more deliberate, then traced his tongue along the curve of my neck until I tilted my head without meaning to, giving him more room. My pulse was a steady thrum beneath his lips, and I could feel how intently he was tracking it.
"You're ridiculous," I breathed.
"Accurate," he replied, dragging his teeth gently along my throat just enough to make me twitch.
Then, without warning, he shifted his weight again, enough to slip a hand under my shirt fully, sliding up my ribs until his thumb brushed the edge of my pec. He didn't push further, not yet—just held me there, breathing against my neck, and I realized how quiet the room had gone except for us. The hush was thick, like the air knew to listen.
My fingers found the hem of his shirt in retaliation and slipped underneath. His skin was warm, smooth, with a faint trace of nervous sweat, and the sound he made when I pressed my palm flat to his stomach—somewhere between a gasp and a laugh—made something flicker deep in my chest.
"You okay?" I asked, barely above a whisper.
He nodded without lifting his head. "Yeah. I just… really like kissing you."
The honesty of it caught me off guard. I swallowed.
"I noticed."
He grinned against my collarbone. "Not subtle, huh?"
"Not even a little."
He lifted himself just enough to meet my eyes again, bracing one hand beside my head, the other still splayed warm and steady over my chest. For a beat we just looked at each other—just long enough that the silence got warm around the edges. His smile softened, and then, as if it had always been inevitable, he leaned in again, brushing my lips with his.
This time, I kissed him first.
He kissed me again, slower this time but less restrained, like he'd decided to stop pretending this was casual. His tongue curled into my mouth with a kind of quiet insistence, not greedy, but deliberate, and his hands wandered like they had purpose now—over my chest, down my sides, thumbs grazing ribs and hipbones like he was tracing fault lines.
I tugged his shirt up without ceremony, knuckles bumping clumsily over the hem, and he grunted a soft laugh into my mouth as he sat up just long enough to drag it over his head. It hit the floor behind him without either of us looking. My hands found his bare skin immediately—warm, lean, a little too tense to be confident, like he was still holding back a fraction.
"You've been holding out on me," I muttered against his neck, dragging my teeth lightly just beneath his jaw.
"Trying to be polite," he mumbled, voice gone rougher now, like it didn't know how to settle. "It's getting harder."
"Oh no," I said, hand skimming down his back to the waistband of his jeans, "not your impeccable manners."
"Shut up."
I kissed the words off his mouth and slipped a hand between us, palming the front of his jeans. The hiss he gave me was worth the shift in position, his hips twitching forward into my hand.
"Dev," he groaned, biting down on a laugh and then on my shoulder.
I only smiled. "You're not leaving fully dressed, are you?"
That earned a grin, crooked and immediate. "God forbid."
He shifted again, weight balanced on his knees as he worked the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with a sound that sent a subtle shiver through both of us. His briefs followed, dragged low with a practiced twist of fingers and hips. I watched every inch of him as he undressed—flushed down the chest, skin warm and freckled in places I hadn't seen before, cock half-hard and thickening with each breath he took, his thighs tight as he kicked his jeans the rest of the way off and let them join the growing pile of fabric on the floor.
He looked back at me like he was bracing for something, but I was already pulling my pants down, briefs caught with them, shoving both off in a single motion that wasn't exactly graceful but didn't need to be.
Bryce's eyes tracked the movement like he was trying to memorize it. Then he let out a breath—half a sigh, half a curse—and settled between my legs again, skin on skin now, no layers left between us. His cock brushed mine, just a twitching drag as our hips lined up, and the heat of it hit like a jolt.
"Oh my god," he breathed.
"Yeah," I said, tugging him closer by the hips, nails grazing his skin just enough to make him shudder. "There it is."
He kissed me again like he was losing track of anything else, and when we moved, it was together, fluid, inevitable. Every brush of our bodies lit something new beneath my skin, something that didn't need explanation. He ground against me slow, like he needed to feel every second of it, and the weight of him, the sheer warmth, made it impossible to think of anything but more.