Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Will first started drawing Chance, he did it like he was getting away with something.

Chance would catch flashes of it. The corner of a page flipped too quickly, the scratch of a pencil that stopped the second he looked over. Quick lines. Half-finished profiles. The curve of a shoulder that looked suspiciously familiar.

At first, Chance assumed it was just Will being Will. Always pouring over the sketchbook, filling margins with whatever was in front of him.

It didn’t occur to him, not right away, that sometimes what was in front of Will was him.

The third time he’d spotted his own jawline staring back from the paper, he’d just blinked and thought, huh. That’s… new.

He hadn’t said anything. Didn’t trust his voice not to give him away.

By mid-September, Indiana had that strange in-between air, summer still clinging to your skin in the afternoon, but a chill sliding in once the sun dropped. The quarry felt different now. Quieter. The cicadas softer. The sky bruising purple earlier each night.

They sat on their usual rock, sneakers scraping against limestone, walkman headphones abandoned between them, tinny echoes of whatever tape Jonathan had dubbed last, drifting into silence.

Will’s sketchbook rested against his knees. Chance tried not to watch the way his fingers held the pencil; steady, careful, like everything he touched deserved gentleness. 

“Okay,” Will said, squinting at him. “Don’t smile.”

“That’s a weird request,” Chance replied.

“You do this thing,” Will continued, gesturing vaguely with his pencil. “Like you’re about to say something sarcastic. Don’t do that.”

“I’m literally always about to say something sarcastic.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

Chance huffed a laugh but tried to smooth his face out anyway. He leaned back on his palms, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“Better?”

Will tilted his head, studying him like light through glass. “Yeah. Just… stay like that.”

“Wow. You’re really selling it,” Chance muttered. “Super flattering direction, Byers.”

Will’s mouth twitched. “You want fake compliments or an accurate portrait?”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Chance shifted, dropping one knee up, resting his arm over it. “This better make me look cool,” he muttered. “If you draw me looking lame, or worse, ugly, I’m suing.”

Will huffed. “You’re already lame enough. I don’t need to exaggerate.”

There was something easy about this, the rhythm of it. Teasing layered over something softer. The kind of back-and-forth you only get when you’ve familiarized yourselves with each other’s timing.

“Hold still,” Will murmured.

“I am holding still.”

“You just blinked aggressively.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is when you do it.”

Chance rolled his eyes but obeyed. He let himself go quiet, staring out over the water gone dark and glassy beneath the rising moon.

He could feel Will looking at him.

Not just glancing.

Looking.

The pencil moved slower now. More deliberate. Not rushed like those early, secret sketches.

And that terrified Chance, maybe more than it thrilled him.

Because if Will was really looking, if he saw everything, then he might see the ugly part too. The part that counted how long he had loved Mike. The part that wondered how many pages of that sketchbook used to belong to someone else.

A familiar, quiet tug twisted around his ribs. The monster of insecurity, the one that had been gnawing at him since the first time he realized Will’s attention could be divided. But for once, that monster didn’t feel like it could win. Because there was a difference now. 

Even if Will’s pencil didn’t know it, even if Chance refused to admit it, the care in Will’s lines, the way he lingered on the curve of Chance’s jaw, the tilt of his shoulder, the light catching his hair. It was different. Personal. Intentional. Focused entirely on him.

He hated that he compared.

Hated that part of him kept score in a game no one else knew they were playing.

The pencil slowed.

Chance shifted slightly, suddenly aware of his own hands. Of the space between their shoulders. Of how easy it would be to close it. Of how impossible that felt some days.

He hated that word.

Rebound.

It sat in the back of his mind like a warning label. He could pretend he didn’t care about Mike. Could pretend it didn’t matter that there had been years before him. That there had been something intense and formative and first. First was dangerous. First rewrote you.

Chance didn’t know what he was. Second? Temporary? Convenient?

The wind shifted, brushing cool against their arms.

Chance studied Will’s expression; the focus there. Undistracted. The way he wasn’t drifting somewhere else.

He wasn’t far away. He wasn’t haunted. He was here.

Still, the doubt lingered.

“Hey,” Chance said, trying to sound offhand. “When you draw people… do you ever get tired of drawing the same person?” 

Will frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Like… if you’ve drawn someone a lot. Doesn’t it get old?”

Will’s pencil stilled. He looked up slowly.

“People change,” he said. “So it doesn’t.” The pencil resumed its soft scratching.

“I draw what matters,” Will added after a moment. Simple. Almost absentminded.

Chance’s throat went dry.

There it is, he thought. But insecurity is stubborn. It bends words until they fit its own shape. What if he mattered the way bandages matter? Necessary. Temporary. Meant to be removed once healing finished.

“Don’t make it weird,” Chance said lightly, even as his heart hammered. “You’re gonna give me an ego.”

Will’s lips curved faintly. “You already have one.”

“Yeah, but it’s fragile.”

“I know.”

The softness in that I know nearly split him open.

“And you’re not bored?” he pressed, hating how casual he tried to sound.

Will’s eyes softened in confusion more than anything else.

“Chance,” he said quietly, like the answer was obvious. “I wouldn’t be here if I was bored.”

The simplicity of it hurt more than any complicated reassurance could have.

Chance looked away quickly, blinking at the water.

He wished he could hear what Will wasn’t saying. Wished he could understand that there was no comparison happening in Will’s mind. 

“Hold still,” Will murmured again, softer this time.

Chance did. He let himself breathe. Let himself feel the weight of Will’s attention; not divided, not drifting. Steady.

“You know,” Will added after a moment, almost shy, “you’re kind of my favorite thing to draw.”

Chance’s heart slammed hard enough he was sure Will could see it through his T-shirt.

“Wow,” he said faintly. “That’s… a lot of pressure.”

Will smiled down at the page. “You can handle it.”

The moon climbed higher, silvering the water.

Chance watched the way Will’s hair fell into his eyes, the way he pushed it back absentmindedly with the side of his hand. Watched the quiet certainty in him.There was no sadness in his face. No distant longing. No trace of someone else in his expression.

Just focus. Just him.

“Okay,” Will said finally, closing the sketchbook halfway. “Break time. My hand’s cramping.”

Chance let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “From drawing my devastatingly handsome face?”

“From you not sitting still.” 

“Unbelievable. I give you art and you give me slander.”

Will rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, close enough that warmth bled through denim and cotton.

He let himself exist in the moment. In the way Will’s gaze traced him without apology. In the warmth pooling low in his chest.

“You’re not hard to draw,” Will said quietly.

Chance huffed. “You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it.”

He wondered if Mike had ever sat here like this. If Will’s voice had ever softened the same way. If the attention felt this steady, this intentional. He hated himself for thinking it. Hated that even now, even with Will inches away and choosing him, he couldn’t stop bracing.

“Can I see it?” Chance asked suddenly.

Will hesitated. Then turned the sketchbook around.

It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t stylized. It was just him. It was a version of him he hadn’t seen in years. This one looked open. The edges were softer, the eyes less guarded, almost uncertain. There was no performance in the graphite. No loudness. Just him. Like life hadn’t shown him why he had to hide, why he felt he had to do things he has now come to regret. Will hadn’t drawn the version of him that filled hallways or laughed too loud or shrugged like nothing touched him. 

His stomach dipped, a strange mix of awe and fear tangling tight under his ribs.

“You make me look better than I am,” Chance murmured.

Will shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

The certainty in that answer made his stomach twist.

They sat there, shoulders touching, neither pulling away. Chance let himself lean into it just slightly.

He still didn’t know if he was just a rebound. Still didn’t know if somewhere, deep down, he was just the quiet after a storm.

But as Will’s fingers brushed his knuckles absentmindedly, natural, unthinking, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, Chance let himself hope he wasn’t the in-between.

He didn’t fully trust that he wasn’t standing in someone else’s outline.

But sitting there, with Will’s knee bumping his and the sketchbook warm from his hands, he let himself want it anyway.

Let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the afterthought.

Maybe he was the beginning of something new.

And for tonight, under a September sky that felt endless and impossibly close, that was enough.

────────────

The quarry had gone quiet in that particular way it only did when the night felt full instead of empty. Not silent; just brimming. Like the dark itself was holding its breath. The water below them moved in slow, silver sighs, breaking the moonlight into pieces and stitching it back together again. The rocks still carried the memory of the day’s warmth, but the late September air had cooled enough to raise goosebumps along Chance’s arms.

Will sat beside him, close. Not touching.

Close enough that Chance could feel the outline of him without contact. The almost of it. The possibility.

The sketchbook lay closed at Will’s side, forgotten for once. No pencil to hide behind. No page to retreat into.

He was just there. Open.

“You’re staring again,” Will said lightly. Almost pleased.

Chance blinked, dragging his eyes away like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “You wish.”

Will smiled, small and certain. “You do it when you’re thinking. Your eyebrows do this thing.” He gestured vaguely to his own face. “Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

Chance huffed a laugh, leaning back on his hands. “Maybe I am.”

“About me?” Will asked.

No joke. No shield. Just curiosity.

There it was again, that quiet bravery Will carried without even realizing it was rare.

“Maybe,” Chance said, aiming for casual. “You’re not exactly easy to read.”

Will tilted his head. “I’m not?”

“Not when you do that thing.”

“What thing?”

Chance hesitated, then gestured loosely toward Will’s face. “That look”

The moon slipped behind a thin cloud, dimming the world into softer shades of gray. In the low light, Will’s eyes looked deeper, darker at the edges, luminous in the center.

He didn’t look away.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Will said gently. “That usually means something.”

Chance swallowed.

Being around Will felt like standing too close to the edge of the quarry. Aware of depth even when the surface looked calm. Like one wrong movement and he’d fall straight into something he wouldn’t be able to climb back out of.

He had spent years controlling himself. Calibrating. Deciding exactly how much of himself the world was allowed to see. Will made that control feel fragile.

“You ever notice,” Chance said slowly, “how one person shows up and suddenly everything feels… different?”

Will’s brow furrowed slightly, attention sharpening. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that.”

“You do,” Chance said immediately.

Then, softer, almost reluctant:

“At least for me.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t empty.

It hummed.

Will’s shoulder brushed his this time.

Intentional.

“You make me feel that way too,” Will admitted quietly. “Like everything gets clearer,” Will inhaled like his lungs were screaming for oxygen “Like everything gets sharper. Louder. Like I’m more… here.”

Chance’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

More here.

He latched onto those words and ignored the others his mind tried to supply. Ignored the old, quiet fear that he was stepping into something already defined before him. He refused to let it surface.

This was about now.

Only now.

“You know,” Chance said, voice lower, “I think… you’re kind of scary.”

Will blinked, startled into a soft laugh. “Scary? Me?” He tilted his head, amusement flickering. “You think I’m scary?”

Chance looked at him.

And every time Chance looked at him, really looked at him, it felt like standing too close to something holy and not knowing if he’s allowed to be there. He noticed the curve of Will’s mouth first, the way it naturally tilted downward when he’s thinking, like smiling is something he offered carefully instead of freely, like it had to be earned; and when that mouth did soften into a real smile, small and a little crooked, it hit Chance with a force that made his chest ache, because it felt chosen. He saw the faint crease between Will’s brows when he’s trying to understand something, when he’s listening harder than anyone else in the room, like the world has been confusing for so long that he refuses to let another thing slip past him without studying it. There was a fragility there, but not weakness; something resilient, something that had been bent without breaking. 

And then there were the rare, unguarded moments, the ones that undid him completely: when Will forgot to brace for impact, when his expression opened without caution, when his eyes went soft and distant like he was somewhere halfway between this world and another one only he could see. In those moments, Chance felt it, how much Will carried quietly, how much gentleness lived in him despite everything, how he looked like someone who had survived storms and still believed in sunlight. 

It made Chance’s throat tight. Made him want to reach out and smooth that crease away, to protect the softness in Will’s gaze from a world that hadn’t always been kind. 

And layered under all of it; under the art-stained fingers and the careful words and the way he sometimes shrunk before taking up space; there was this steady, luminous core that Chance couldn’t look at too long without feeling exposed himself. 

Because when Will looked back at him, really looked, it felt like being seen past the noise, past the armor, past the version of himself he performed for everyone else. And that was the part that terrified him most. Not that he liked Will. Not even that he liked him this much, this fast. It’s that every time he caught that openness in Will’s face, unguarded, searching, quietly brave, he felt something in himself open too, something tender and dangerous and impossible to pretend away, like maybe he’s been waiting his whole life for someone who looked at him the way Will did.

His voice lost all sense of containment.

“I think you’re terrifying.”

Will’s smile faltered, confusion replacing it. “Terrifying?” he echoed. “Why?”

Chance exhaled slowly, trying to find words that didn’t feel too large for the space between them.

“It’s the way you look at me,” he said quietly.

Will stilled.

“And when you do that,” Chance continued, his pulse roaring in his ears, “I feel it. Right here.” He pressed a hand briefly to his chest. “Like my ribs aren’t thick enough to hold it.”

Will’s expression shifted, he looked at Chance with more open care than he had ever done before. 

“I’m not trying to freak you out,” he said gently.

“I know.” Chance gave a crooked, helpless smile. “That’s what makes it worse.”

A small, breathy laugh left Will before he could stop it. “So I’m terrifying because I look at you?”

Chance nodded once, slow. “Yeah.”

He held Will’s gaze then, no shields, no performance. Just the truth shining through whether he wanted it to or not.

“You make me nervous,” he said. “In a way nothing else does. Like my chest is too tight and too open at the same time. Like there’s this… truth about me that I’ve been able to ignore for a long time. And you walk in and suddenly I can’t.”

Will’s breath caught, though he didn’t pull away.

“That’s not scary,” Will said softly.

“It is when you’ve spent years convincing yourself it doesn’t exist.”

Silence.

The wind moved over the water again, silver breaking into pieces.

Will studied him for a long moment, something almost dawning there, but not fully. Not yet.

“You make it hard to pretend I don’t care,” Chance said, almost a whisper.

Will’s breath caught slightly.

“Good,” he said before he could stop himself.

The word hung there. Honest and unfiltered.

Chance’s stomach flipped.

“Good?” he repeated faintly.

Will flushed, but he didn’t take it back. “Yeah. I don’t… want you pretending.”

The simplicity of it made him let go of something he didn’t even know he was still holding back.

Just two boys sitting too close on a rock, saying things they weren’t supposed to say out loud.

“You’re intense tonight,” Will murmured, but there was warmth in it.

Chance gave a small, almost shy smile. “You do that to me.”

Will’s lips curved gently.

“I don’t mind terrifying you,” he said, teasing just barely creeping back in. “If it means you stay.”

Chance’s heart stuttered violently at that.

Stay.

God.

────────────

October had stripped the trees bare enough that the sky felt enormous.

Will liked that about it. The honesty. No more pretending to be lush or full. Just branches and bone and wind. The quarry looked different now, sharper around the edges, the water darker, reflecting a thinner, colder moon. It felt like the kind of place where truths surfaced whether you invited them or not.

He sat on their rock, their rock, the thought still strange and precious.

He wasn’t waiting. He was just early. He was already there when Chance arrived.

Of course he was.

Will told himself it was because the light was better earlier in the evening. Because the way the sun dipped behind the rocks gave him stronger shadows to work with. Because he liked quiet. Not because waiting had started to feel like hope.

He sat with his sketchbook open but untouched, pencil balanced between his fingers. He’d turned to a blank page three times and done nothing with it. The paper looked back at him expectantly. He didn’t know how to draw this.

The sound of footsteps over gravel reached him, uneven but familiar. His pulse reacted before his mind did. Sharp, and traitorous.

Will didn’t look up right away. He didn’t trust his face to be neutral. “You’re late.”

“I’m three minutes late.”

“You’re late,” Will repeated, because it was easier than saying I noticed.

Chance sat beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed. “You were waiting.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Will’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“That’s not a crime.”

It felt like one. Not in a bad way. Just… overwhelming.

Will became extremely aware of everything at once: the warmth radiating off Chance’s shoulder, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something sharper, something him. The way the wind lifted the edge of his hair and dropped it again. He was always too aware around him. Like someone had turned up the brightness of the world. 

When Will looked at him up close, he always ended up distracted by the freckles. They were scattered across Chance’s nose and spilled faintly onto his cheeks, uneven and unbothered, like constellations that refused to organize themselves properly. In the sun they were darker, more pronounced; at night they softened, barely there unless you’re paying attention. Most people probably didn’t. Most people saw the shoulders, the easy grin, the confidence he wore like a letterman jacket. But Will saw the freckles. He noticed how they bunched slightly when Chance squinted, how they disappeared beneath the bridge of his nose where the skin dipped, how one sat just a little lower on the left side like it got lost on the way down. 

There was something disarming about them, something boyish and unguarded that didn’t match the armor Chance carried through the world. And every time Will’s gaze lingered there, tracing them the way his pencil wanted to, he felt that same quiet pull in his chest. Not sharp. Not frantic. Just tender. Like he was being trusted with something small and defenseless. Like he was looking at a part of Chance that didn’t know how visible it was.

“You weren’t drawing,” Chance observed, nodding toward the blank page.

“I was thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Will allowed himself a small smile. “You would know.”

Chance nudged his foot lightly against Will’s sneaker, playful. Casual. The contact sent a quiet current through him anyway.

God, he was ridiculous.

He used to think he understood longing. He’d carried it for years like a quiet ache in his chest. Soft and constant and manageable because it had nowhere to go. Loving someone who loved someone else had been terrible, yes. But it had also been simple. 

The rules were clear. He wanted. He didn’t get. End of story.

This…this was chaotic. It was wanting something and knowing he might be able to get it.

“You’ve gotten better,” Chance said quietly.

Will stiffened. “At drawing?”

“At looking,” Chance replied.

Will swallowed.

He didn’t know how to hold compliments. They felt like fragile glass placed in his hands. Too easy to drop. Too easy to break.

He’d spent so long being the quiet one. The weird one. The one people looked past or through. Even before everything. The Upside Down, the hospital rooms, the whispers, he had been the kid who stayed on the edges.

And Mike…

He pushed the thought away, but it still lingered like a bruise. Loving someone who didn’t look at you the way you looked at them rewired something in your brain. It taught you to assume.

Assume you were too much. Or not enough.

Assume that if someone did look at you, it was temporary. Accidental.

When Will looked at Chance, it felt familiar; the pull, the way his gaze lingered too long, the way his chest tightened when Chance smiles like he’s trying not to. The way he started cataloging details without meaning to: the crease between Chance’s brows when he was thinking, the way his eyes liked to linger by Will’s, the way he always tilted his mouth before making a dumb joke. 

It felt like the early stages of something he recognized intimately;  the awareness, the gravity, the shift in how the world arranged itself around one person. 

But it didn’t hurt. Not yet. And that’s what confused him. 

The only love he’d ever known dug in deep and left bruises when it shifted. It made him smaller before it made him stronger. It burned hot and bright and then hollowed him out. This didn’t feel like burning. It felt like warmth spreading slowly through cold hands. It felt like choosing to step closer instead of being pulled under. 

And that difference; the gentleness of it, the absence of ache; made him wary. Because if this was falling again, it was not the kind he knew how to brace for.

“You don’t have to say things like that,” Will said lightly.

“Like what?”

“Like… that I’m good at anything.”

Chance turned toward him fully. “I’m not saying it to be nice,” he said. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He looked at Will for a beat.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Chance said, softer now.

Will shrugged. “I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

Will risked a glance at him.

Chance wasn’t teasing. His expression had that open, attentive quality that made Will’s stomach flip over itself.

He looked away first. It was easier to study the water. The water was safe. The water didn’t change depending on what he felt. It didn’t brighten when he smiled or dim when he went quiet. It didn’t make him wonder what would happen if he didn’t look away next time.

“It just…doesn’t make sense.”

Chance frowned. “What doesn’t?”

Will forced himself to meet his eyes. “You,” he said softly. “Looking at me like that.”

The wind moved between them. Leaves scraped against stone.

“Like what?” Chance asked, quieter now.

Will almost laughed.

Like I’m something worth choosing.

He was unraveling slowly, thread by thread.

Because every time Chance leaned closer, every time he said something deliberate and steady, something in Will wanted to believe it. And believing it meant admitting that maybe, maybe, he was someone who could be chosen.

The idea felt fragile. Dangerous. 

Chance was bright. Popular. The kind of person people gravitated toward without effort. Will had spent most of his life trying not to take up too much space. Trying not to be too noticeable. Too strange.

The Upside Down had changed things…but not in the way people thought. It hadn’t just made him braver. It had also made him smaller in some ways. Quieter. More careful. Being the center of something terrifying didn’t translate into being desirable.

And the whole mess with Mike was still too recent, too raw under the surface. Will had just started letting that wound scar over. He couldn’t survive misreading things again. Couldn’t survive mistaking kindness for something else.

Instead of all that…he shrugged. “Like you mean it.”

Chance didn’t answer right away. That scared him more than if he’d just simply laughed it off.

“Will,” Chance said carefully, “why wouldn’t I mean it?”

Because I just finished loving someone who didn’t love me back, and that kind of thing doesn’t magically reset.

Will looked down at his hands.

“You don’t… have to pretend,” he said quietly. “I get it.”

“Will.” There was something in Chance’s voice that made his chest ache.

“You think I’m not into you?”

Will let out a small, embarrassed breath. “I think you like the idea of me,” he said carefully. “Or… you like that I like you.”

It sounded awful once spoken aloud.

Chance didn’t laugh.

Instead, he reached out. Slow enough that Will could pull away if he wanted, rested his hand next to Will’s, pinkies laying on top of one another, waiting.

“I like you,” Chance said.

Simple. Clear.

Will’s first instinct was to shake his head.

He didn’t believe him. Not fully. Not because he thought Chance was lying. Because he thought he was mistaken.

“You don’t,” he whispered.

Chance huffed softly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Will’s heart raced. “I just—”

“You think I show up here every night because I’m bored?”

Will didn’t answer.

“You think I look at you like that because I’m confused?”

Silence.

Chance leaned closer, not overwhelming, just present.

“I look at you like that,” he said, voice low and steady, “because you make me nervous.”

Will blinked.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

The words slid under Will’s skin.

Will’s first instinct was still disbelief. It had to be a joke. A misunderstanding. A kindness.

“Chance,” he said softly, “you don’t have to—”

“I’m not saying it to be nice.” There it was again. Firm. Certain.

“You think I’m going to wake up one day and decide I was bored?”

Will forced himself to look at him.

Chance’s expression wasn’t offended. It was hurt. 

“I don’t think you’re bored,” Will said quietly.

He thought he was confused. Curious. He thought he was the kind of person someone like Chance experimented with before moving on to something easier to explain.

Chance frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

It was, though.

It was the whole answer.

Will didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. The insecurity lived in his posture, in the way his fingers pressed too hard into the edge of his sketchbook.

Chance finally moved the hand that was holding Will’s pinky. Turning Will’s hand around and interlacing their fingers. They were holding hands. For the first time 

“You’re doing that thing,” Chance murmured.

“What thing?”

“Where you decide how I feel for me.”

Will swallowed. “I’m not deciding,” he said softly. “I just… don’t want you to regret it.”

The wind moved through the trees, skeletal branches clattering faintly together.

“Regret what?” Chance asked.

Will didn’t answer.

Regret choosing the quiet kid.
Regret stepping out of whatever expectations people had of him.
Regret realizing this was harder than it looked.

Regret me.

Chance exhaled slowly.

“I show up here,” he said, voice steady, “because I want to.”

Will’s heart kicked hard.

“I look at you the way I do,” Chance continued, “because I can’t really help it.”

Heat rose in Will’s face. He stared at the water, at the fractured moon.

“I want you.”

Will’s chest felt too small to contain his heartbeat.

It took everything in him not to dismiss it. Not to laugh it off. Not to retreat into the safe, familiar space of assuming he’d misunderstood.

“You mean that,” he said, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Will studied his face.

Chance wasn’t grinning. Wasn’t performing. He looked almost… vulnerable.

And suddenly the idea that someone could look at him, really look at him, and feel something real in return felt bigger than the quarry. Bigger than the fear.

It was terrifying. But not in the way monsters were.

In the way hope was.

Chance leaned closer again, deliberate but gentle.

“You don’t even realize what you do,” he said.

Will’s throat felt tight.

He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Because if he did, the words would come out wrong. Too needy. Too disbelieving.

Instead, he let himself sit there, caught between wanting to retreat and wanting to lean in.

Maybe this was what courage felt like. Not loud, not heroic, just quiet and trembling and choosing not to run.

Will’s voice, when it came, was still shy, but stronger than before.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Chance smiled, soft and relieved. His shoulders loosened, like he’d been bracing for impact.

Will didn’t say the rest. He didn’t say that he was scared of being wanted because it meant he could be left. He didn’t say that every compliment felt like a trick of the light. He didn’t say that part of him still couldn’t understand why someone bright and easy and magnetic would sit beside him in the middle of October and choose this. He just stayed. And for now, staying felt like enough.

Before Chance, Will had always associated being in love with being in pain.

Not the dramatic kind people wrote poems about. Not fireworks or grand declarations. Something quieter. More persistent. Like a bruise you forgot about until someone pressed on it again.

His first blueprint had been Lonnie and his mother. Love as shouting matches muffled by thin walls. Love as apologies that didn’t stick. Love as something you endured because leaving felt worse than staying. He had watched his mom try to make something broken behave like it was whole. Watched her hope stretch thin. Even as a kid, he’d understood that love could humiliate you.

Then there was Nancy and Jonathan. Softer. Kinder. But still edged with longing and misalignment. Timing that never quite cooperated. Feelings that had to fight their way into existence. Even when it worked, it seemed fragile. Like glass balanced on the corner of a table.

And then there was Mike Wheeler…

Will never blamed him. Not really.

Mike loved the way he knew how to love. Loudly, fiercely, with devotion that filled rooms. 

It just hadn’t been for him.

The worst part hadn’t been realizing he loved Mike. It had been realizing what that extra thump in his chest meant every time Mike looked at him for a second too long. The way warmth bloomed under his skin at casual touches. The way he memorized small gestures like they were rare little things.

At first, he’d called it loyalty. Then admiration. Then protectiveness. But once he named it, once he allowed himself to understand that it was love, it hurt almost constantly.

Because it was unrequited. Because it felt wrong. Because it had to stay hidden.

He became good at hiding. He folded it inward, stitched it behind his ribs. He let Mike talk about El, he nodded at the right moments. He told himself that loving quietly was noble; that sacrificing something private and fragile so his best friend and his sister could be happy made him good.

And how well had that worked out for anyone?

Love, as Will understood it, was ache. It was swallowing words. It was standing still while someone else moved forward. It was wanting and pretending you didn’t.

So when Chance began to look at him the way he did, steady, curious, almost reverent, Will didn’t recognize it as something soft.

He recognized it as dangerous.

Because wanting Chance didn’t feel like the old, familiar bruise.

It felt bright. Unsteady.

Alive.

With Mike, the pain had been predictable. It had edges. He knew exactly where he stood, even if that place hurt. He could build his expectations around it. He could survive it because it was contained.

With Chance, there was possibility.

And possibility…was terrifying.

Chance didn’t look at him like he was fragile. He didn’t look at him like he was an obligation or a shadow. He looked at him like he was something worth noticing. Worth choosing.

Will didn’t know how to hold that without expecting it to disappear.

He kept waiting for correction. For laughter. For a gentle backtrack.

For Chance to wake up and remember who he was, popular, bright, easy to orbit; and who Will had always been, quieter, stranger, harder to understand.

Because love, in Will’s experience, came paired with loss. Came paired with silence. Came paired with pretending.

────────────

Will knew the answer before Ms. Williams had even finished asking.

He’d felt it in the quiet lift of his pulse; that subtle, betraying quickness.

She’d framed it practically. He was one of her best students. He could sketch the layouts, block the letters, guide the others. He wouldn’t have to stay long. Just help. Just supervise.

That was the version he repeated later when the Party cornered him with questions.

“It’s for Lucas,” he’d said, casual, unaffected. “They need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

It was a good answer. It just wasn’t true. The truth was that they didn’t need to paint in the gym. The art room had better light, better space, less chaos, and Will knew that. 

But when someone from the art group suggested they work in the gym during practice “to get the feel of it”  he’d agreed too quickly.

Seeing Chance outside the quarry was different.

The high gym windows poured light onto the polished floor, and it caught on Chance’s skin like it had been waiting for him. He ran like he’d been built for it; long strides, effortless control, the sharp pivot of his body as natural as breath. There was no strain in him. No visible effort. Just motion.

The sun didn’t ask for attention. It didn’t need to. That’s what Chance felt like here.

At least in Will’s world.

Since the beginning of summer; since evenings spent suspended between water and sky; Chance had become the thing everything else seemed to orbit. The steady warmth at the center of days that used to feel cold. The brightness that made the rest of the world sharper, clearer, sometimes harder to look at directly.

On the court, sweat caught along his collarbone, along the strong line of his shoulders. The light traced the shape of him; broad, lean, alive with movement. When he jumped for the ball, it was almost blinding, the way sunlit skin and white jersey flashed against the blue padding of the wall.

Will forced himself to look down at the poster in front of him.

But even with his eyes down, he saw Chance.

Flashes of tanned skin slick with sweat. The clean line of his jaw when he tilted his head back to call for the ball. The broad stretch of his shoulders beneath his jersey; strength that was obvious now, undeniable. The lean definition of muscle moving under fabric like a tide under thin ice.

Will had never let himself look at Chance like that before. Not fully.

At the quarry, he’d focused on the quiet things; freckles, breath, the warmth of his shoulder pressed against his own. He’d studied him like a painting, all soft edges and careful light.

But here, under the open brightness of day, Chance was something else entirely. He was heat. He was gravity. 

Here, there was no hiding from the rest of it.

The breadth of him. The strength. The way his body moved with an ease that felt unfair.

Heat gathered under Will’s skin. He pressed his pencil harder than necessary and had to erase the line.

On the court, Chance stole the ball, spun, and drove toward the basket. For a moment, he was suspended midair; sunlight pouring over him in a bright, almost sacred spill.

Will’s breath caught. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t gentle. It was overwhelming.

Because the sun was beautiful.

Will swallowed and forced his eyes back to the poster, shading in a curve too dark before correcting it. His pulse felt out of place in his chest; too loud for a gym already echoing with sneakers and whistles.

The coach barked something sharp. The ball smacked against the hardwood. Laughter rang out; Chance’s among it, low and bright and unrestrained. It spread through Will like sunlight through stained glass.

Beautiful.

He wondered, distantly, if anyone else noticed the way the light seemed to follow him.

“Hey, Will.”

Lucas’s voice cut through the haze. He was standing beside him now, water bottle in hand, a faint sheen of sweat along his hairline. He squinted at Will, brow furrowed.

Will blinked.

Lucas cleared his throat. “Uh… you good there, buddy?” 

W​​ill swallowed. “Yeah. I—just… spacing.” he muttered, his pencil trembling slightly as it hovered over the poster.

Lucas’s eyebrows softened. “Spacing, huh?” His voice was lighter now, coaxing. 

Will’s pulse quickened, and he looked down. “I’m fine,” he said, but he didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

Lucas didn’t push, not exactly. He just let the moment breathe, as he always did when Will faltered. He’d been doing it since forever; the quiet understanding, the gentle patience that made Will feel like he wasn’t alone in the world. Even in Hawkins, even in a gym full of people who didn’t notice, Lucas had always been able to see him. And that was everything.

Will drew the letters more carefully, but even with his eyes on the poster, Chance’s movements punctuated every thought. Sweat glinting along his collarbone, the lean strength in his shoulders, the way his body seemed almost to bend light around it; it pulled at Will in ways he couldn’t name, and Lucas just watched, quiet, letting him.

“You like him,” Lucas said finally, softly, almost like a statement rather than a question.

Will’s pencil froze. His eyes darted around the gym, scanning the rows of kids bent over their posters, the basketball team laughing, the coach barking from the corner. Was anyone close enough to hear? To see?

He felt heat crawl up his neck. “I—I don’t…” he started, voice tighter than he meant, and immediately caught himself. Defensive, automatic, like he’d said it too fast.

Lucas raised an eyebrow, calm, unshaken. “Relax, Will. I can tell.”

Will’s stomach did a weird little flip. He wasn’t ready for that. “You… how? You shouldn’t be able to figure that out.”

Lucas shrugged, leaning casually on the table. “Because I know you. Better than people give me credit for, probably. I’ve known when you were scared, when you were lying, when you were… well, you.” He gave a small half-smile. “Even Mike can’t do that. You’ve always been better at hiding stuff from him than anyone.”

Will’s jaw tightened. He remembered all the nights, back in the Byers’ basement, the summers they’d spent dodging the world and playing D&D before things changed, the way Lucas had watched him without pushing, without judgment. And that was exactly why this was… different. 

Talking to Lucas was safe, Will knew that.

“I’m not… it’s not Mike,” Will said quietly, more to himself than anyone. His gaze flicked back toward Chance, who was pivoting sharply, catching the ball midair, sunlight streaming across his shoulders like it belonged there. “I’m not—never mind. I’m not thinking about Mike. I’m not…” He shook his head, frustration and relief tangled together.

Lucas nodded, like he’d expected this answer. “I know,” he said simply. “I can tell who you’re looking at.”

Will swallowed, feeling the truth in that. All the subtle sparks, the warmth under his skin when Chance moved; it wasn’t about anyone else anymore. Not since the first time he saw Chance in the quarry, the first time he noticed the light in his eyes, the quiet gravity of him.

The gym around them buzzed with noise, but for a moment, it all faded. Lucas’s understanding, his patience, his steady presence, made it possible for Will to admit it; even if just in his own head.

“I… yeah,” he muttered, a whisper, careful. “It’s Chance.”

Lucas gave him a small, knowing grin. “Good. Finally.” 

He glanced toward the court again.

“Honestly, I thought you figured that out weeks ago.”

────────────

The next time they met at the quarry, fall was louder.

The wind moved through the trees without leaves to soften it. The sky was a deep, endless blue fading into iron at the edges. The water below reflected everything in broken pieces.

Will had gotten there second that time.

Chance was already sitting on the flat rock near the edge, hands braced behind him, staring out at the water like he was thinking too hard about something he wouldn’t admit to. When he heard footsteps, he looked up immediately.

He smiled. Not the crooked, teasing smirk he used at school. Not the careless grin he wore like armor.

Something softer. Something that landed squarely in Will’s chest.

And Will felt it, that shift, that quiet rearranging inside him, before he could stop it.

Chance looked like he belonged to summer even then. His skin still held the tan the season had given him, warm against the cooling air, like the sun hadn’t fully let him go. The wind pushed through his nearly black hair, and it fell back into place effortlessly, soft and thick and unfairly perfect even when he hadn’t tried. It curled slightly at the ends, just enough to make Will’s fingers ache with the impulse to see if it felt as soft as it looked.

His shoulders were broad, broader than most boys their age, stretching the fabric of his shirt in a way that made him look older, steadier. Strong. There was muscle there, obvious even beneath cotton, but he was still lean, all long lines and controlled power. Not bulky. Just capable. Like he carried strength the way he carried confidence: without announcing it.

Will’s gaze drifted, careful, almost reverent, to the details most people missed.

The freckles across Chance’s nose caught the light differently in fall, less golden than in August but still there, scattered and imperfect and boyish in a way that didn’t match the sharpness of his jaw. That jawline was unfair, clean and precise, cutting toward his ear in a way that made shadows look intentional. And his nose, straight, strong, almost sculpted, gave his profile a kind of quiet elegance that Chance himself seemed entirely unaware of.

He looked carved. Balanced. As if someone had designed him with too much care.

And yet…

It was never just the way he looked.

It was the way his eyes softened when he saw Will.

Because when Chance smiled like that, open, unguarded, all that strength rearranged into something gentle. The broad shoulders relaxed. The sharp jaw eased. The intensity in his dark eyes warmed instead of burned.

Will felt it everywhere at once. A pull low in his ribs. Heat that spread outward, slow and steady. Not the frantic, breath-stealing rush he once associated with love. Not the kind that had made him feel like he was bracing for impact.

This was different.

This felt like standing at the edge of something deep and knowing he could step in, not because he was falling, but because he wanted to.

It scared him.

Because he recognized the shape of it.

The way his attention narrowed without permission. The way the world dulled at the edges when Chance looked at him like that. The way his chest tightened, not in pain, but in anticipation. It felt so much like the beginning of before, the awareness, the gravity, the quiet centering of one person in his field of vision.

But it didn’t ache. It didn’t feel like drowning.

It felt like warmth spreading through cold hands.

And that difference made him hesitate.

Because the only love he had known had burned hot and then hollowed him out. It had been consuming. It had defined him. It had hurt when it shifted.

Looking at Chance didn’t hurt, it steadied him.

Which somehow felt even more dangerous.

Will realized he was staring and looked away, down at the water, at the fractured reflection of sky and stone. It was easier to study the ripples. Easier to focus on something that wouldn’t look back.

Because if he kept watching the way Chance’s freckles bunched when he squinted against the wind…
If he kept noticing how his hair fell into his eyes and how he pushed it back absently…
If he kept feeling the weight of that soft smile aimed only at him…

He might have had to admit this wasn’t just familiarity. It was something forming quietly in real time.

And for the first time…the thought didn’t feel like pain waiting to happen.

It felt like hope.

“You’re late,” Chance says lightly.

Will almost laughs. “You’re early.”

“Maybe I was hoping you’d be earlier.”

Will feels warmth creep up his neck, but he doesn’t look away this time. He’s been thinking about it all week. About love, and bruises, and possibility. About how fear doesn’t get to decide everything. Not this time.

“Maybe I was,” Will replies quietly.

Chance’s eyebrows lift a fraction.

There’s a new current between them now. Less fragile. Still unspoken, but steadier.

Will steps closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed without accident, without excuse. The contact was deliberate. A choice. The fabric of Chance’s sleeve was warm against his own, solid and real, and neither of them pretended it hadn’t happened.

Chance’s eyes dropped briefly to the narrow space between them, to the point where their arms met, then lifted again. There was something softer in his expression now, something edged with wonder instead of teasing.

“You’re bold tonight,” he said, voice low.

Will shrugged, though his pulse was beating hard enough to make him dizzy. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I’m not.”

Chance studied him like that was the most fascinating thing he had ever heard.

The wind shifted, colder, slipping between them and tugging at Will’s jacket. Before he could think about what it meant, Chance reached out.

His fingers brushed the collar near Will’s throat, adjusting it instinctively, carefully. The touch was light but sure, knuckles grazing warm skin for the briefest second. It was such an ordinary gesture, something anyone might do.

But it didn’t feel ordinary. It felt intimate.

It felt like being known in small, attentive ways. Like being worth noticing.

“You’re freezing,” Chance murmured. His voice had softened, dropped into something almost protective.

Will wasn’t sure if it was the wind or the closeness, but heat bloomed beneath his skin anyway, slow and spreading, far warmer than the jacket Chance had just straightened.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Will almost said something defensive.

Something automatic. A reflex he’d learned young, to brush it off, make it smaller, pretend he didn’t need anything at all.

He felt the words rise to the back of his throat. I’m fine. It’s not that cold. You don’t have to—

Instead, he stayed quiet.

He let Chance’s fingers linger at his collar a second longer than necessary. Let the warmth of them settle into his skin. Let himself lean, just slightly, into the touch, into the steadiness of it.

The realization from last week still hummed quietly in his bones: love didn’t have to hurt first.

It didn’t have to arrive like a storm. It didn’t have to carve him open to prove it was real. It didn’t have to feel like bracing for impact.

He didn’t know what this was yet. Didn’t know what they were allowed to call it, especially not out loud. The word love still felt enormous in his chest, heavy with history and old bruises.

But he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t swallowing glass. It wasn’t waking up already aching. It wasn’t shrinking himself to fit inside someone else’s gravity.

This felt… careful. Mutual. Like standing at the edge of the water and realizing the ground beneath him was solid.

Chance dropped his hand, but not far. His fingers hovered awkwardly between them, like he wasn’t sure where they were allowed to rest.

Then, carefully, almost shyly, they hooked into the sleeve of Will’s jacket instead. Testing.

The gesture was so small most people wouldn’t have noticed it. Just a hand catching fabric. Just cotton between knuckles.

But Will felt the question in it. Is this okay? Can I stay here?

He looked down at their hands. Chance’s were larger. Warmer. Slightly rough at the knuckles from practice, from weight rooms and locker room bravado and a life that required him to look strong. They didn’t look uncertain. But they were, just then. Holding on without gripping.

Will turned his own hand over and covered Chance’s. Testing back.

He didn’t lace their fingers. Didn’t make it dramatic. He simply rested his palm over the back of Chance’s hand and let his thumb settle there, light but sure.

I’m here, the touch said.

Chance exhaled, soft, almost imperceptible, like he’d been holding that breath for days. Like something tight in his chest had finally loosened.

Will felt that too. The quiet release of it. They didn’t say anything about it. They just sat.

The quarry felt different now. It no longer felt like an edge, like a place where they stood suspended over something dangerous and unnamed. It felt like a pocket carved out of the world. A hollow in the noise where they could exist without explanation.

At school, there were eyes. Expectations. The constant hum of people watching, measuring, deciding. Hallways that swallowed softness whole.

Here, there was only wind threading through the trees. Water shifting below. The solid warmth of Chance’s shoulder pressed to his own.

And the quiet space between them, no longer empty, but full.

“You’ve been thinking,” Chance said after a while, his voice low, almost blended with the wind.

Will let his thumb trace the seam of Chance’s sleeve before answering. “I always am.”

Chance’s mouth curved faintly. “About scary things?”

Will glanced at him, and there’s a flicker of shared memory there. Terrifying.

“About not running,” Will answered.

Chance’s jaw softened. The tension he carried so often;  in his shoulders, in the careful set of his mouth, eased.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Will turned toward him fully now, shifting until their knees brushed. Up close, he could see the faint constellation of freckles scattered across Chance’s nose, the sharp line of his jaw softened by the dimming light. He could feel the warmth of his breath in the cooling air, steady and real.

“You don’t have to convince me every time,” Will said. His voice was still gentle, still carrying that natural shyness; but there was something firmer beneath it now. Something rooted. “I’m trying to believe you.”

Chance searched his face like he’s looking for cracks in his resolve. Like he expected doubt to be hiding somewhere behind Will’s eyes.

“I’ll keep saying it anyway,” Chance replied. “Just in case.”

Will’s lips curve into one of those smiles that he feels coming from his heart.

“You’re stubborn.”

“You like that.”

The wind kicked up again, sharper. Without ceremony, Chance shifts closer and presses his shoulder fully against Will’s, solid and warm. Will feels the contact all the way down to his hands.

After a beat, he rests his head lightly, carefully, against Chance’s shoulder.

It’s small. But it’s also everything.

Chance stills, like he’s afraid to move and break it. Then his head tilts, just slightly, until it rests against Will’s hair.

They fit there, softly, perfectly. And they didn't name it.

But Chance’s thumb traced a slow, absent line over Will’s knuckles where their hands were still caught in fabric.

Will closes his eyes for a second.

He expected fear to follow, but it didn't. Instead, there was warmth, and the steady thrum of a heartbeat that isn’t only his.

He didn’t know what this was yet. Didn’t know what word would eventually fit around it without cracking.

But when Chance turned his head slightly and said, almost shyly for once, “I’m really glad you came.” Will answered without hesitation.

“Me too.”

And this time, it didn’t feel like he was once again bracing for impact.

It felt like stepping forward, together, even if neither of them had said where they were going.

They stayed like that longer than either of them intended to.

The wind moved. The water shifted. Somewhere far off, a branch snapped under the weight of something small moving through the woods. The world continued.

But here, on this flat stretch of rock, everything felt suspended.

Will could hear Chance’s breathing. Slow. Intentional. Like he was concentrating on not messing this up and the thought made something warm bloom low in Will’s chest.

“You’re thinking again,” Chance murmured into his hair.

Will didn’t lift his head. “You always say that like it’s a crime.”

“It’s not.” A pause. “I just want to know if I should be nervous.”

Will smiled faintly against the fabric of Chance’s jacket. “You? Nervous?”

“Sometimes.”

The admission was quiet enough that it almost gets carried off by the wind.

Will pulled back just enough to look at him. Chance’s expression was open in a way that still surprises him, like he was offering something fragile without making a joke to cushion it.

“About what?” Will asks.

Chance hesitated.

Then, softer, “About getting this wrong.”

Will studied him. The boy who filled hallways without trying, who laughed too loud in the cafeteria, who seemed untouchable from a distance. 

Getting this wrong.

“You’re not,” Will sais, and it came out firmer than he expected.

Chance searched his face like he was double-checking.

“You don’t know that,” he replied.

Will did, though. Not in a logical way. Not in a way he could prove.

But he knew the difference between being hidden and being held.

Chance had never made him feel like something to tuck away. Even when they were careful. Even when they didn’t have language for whatever this was.

Will shifted his hand, sliding it fully into Chance’s this time. Palm to palm. Fingers fitting without hesitation.

Their hands stayed warm despite the chill, knuckles brushing, solid against the jacket.

“If we get it wrong,” Will said quietly, “it won’t be because you didn’t try.”

Chance swallowed. His throat moved against the dim light.

“You make it sound serious,” he said, though there was no teasing left.

“It is.”

The words settled between them.

They hadn’t said boyfriend. Hadn’t said relationship. Hadn’t declared anything in the bright, reckless way other couples might get to. But serious felt right.

Chance lifted their joined hands slightly, examining them like something fragile and rare. “We’re really doing this,” he murmured.

Will’s pulse jumped. “Doing what?”

Chance’s smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Whatever this is.”

Will considered that; the not-naming, the deliberate pacing, the way it felt enormous and delicate at the same time.

“I don’t need a word yet,” he said honestly.

Something flickered in Chance’s eyes, uncertainty, maybe, and Will felt it immediately.

He added, softer, “I just don’t want it to disappear because we rushed it.” There it was. The fear. Placed gently between them instead of buried.

Chance nodded slowly, like he was choosing to understand instead of react.

“It’s not going anywhere,” he said.

Will didn’t automatically believe it. So he made himself believe it.

“That’s not how I’ve seen this kind of thing go,” he admitted.

“How have you seen it go?”

Will thought of slammed doors. Of words swallowed until they rotted. Of loving quietly until it hollowed him out.

He shook his head. “Messy.”

Chance huffed softly. “It might still be messy.”

“Probably.”

A beat.

“But it doesn’t feel doomed.”

Chance’s grip tightened slightly.

“Good,” he says.

The sky had deepened to navy now. The first real bite of night settled over the quarry. Will knew they should probably head back soon; homework, curfews, reality.

Instead, Chance turned toward him fully.

“Hey,” he says.

Will looked up.

Chance hesitated for half a second, just long enough to show he was choosing this, then leaned in and pressed a slow, careful kiss to Will’s temple.

Will had never been kissed before. Not like this. 

Not really. Not almost. Not in the half-joking, half-daring way other kids talk about like it’s nothing. No spin-the-bottle accident. No blurry party mistake. Nothing he could categorize and file away as experience.

He had imagined it, though. Imagined what it would feel like to be wanted in that specific, unmistakable way. Imagined lips and closeness and the shift in air right before contact. In his imaginings, it was always overwhelming. Terrifying. A point of no return. This wasn’t overwhelming. It’s warm.

The first thing he noticed was how careful Chance was, how that pause mattered more than anything. Chance didn’t stumble into it. Didn’t act on impulse and hoped it landed right. He paused, breath close to Will’s skin, fingers tightening slightly in his sleeve, and in that pause was awareness. A Choice.

He knew what he was about to do. And he did it anyway.

The kiss itself was soft. Gentle. It landed against Will’s temple like something being placed there, not taken. Chance’s lips lingered just long enough to make it real, Will’s entire body went still. Not frozen. Just… stilled.

Like the moment right after snow begins to fall, when the world hushes to listen.

He had expected panic. Had expected his heart to slam so hard it would drown everything out. Had expected to feel exposed, cracked open, terrified of what this meant. Instead…His shoulders dropped. His breath left him in a quiet, shaking exhale he hadn’t realized he was holding.

There was no sharp edge. No immediate ache. No voice in his head saying, This isn’t yours. This will be taken back. He had spent years bracing for that voice.

With Mike, every almost-moment had come with invisible borders. Lines he couldn’t cross. Touches that meant one thing to him and something entirely different to the other person. His love had always lived in the space between what he felt and what he was allowed to show.

This felt allowed and that was what unsettled him most.

Chance didn’t kiss him like it was a mistake. He kissed him like it was obvious. Like it was natural. Like it was something he thought about and decided was worth the risk.

Will felt the meaning of that settle slowly into his chest. He had never been chosen like this before. Not romantically. Not deliberately. The realization spread through him, quiet and bright. It didn’t explode. It didn’t demand. It anchored him to the now, it anchored Will to him.

The wind moved around them, cold against his cheeks, but the place where Chance kissed him felt warm. Almost glowing. He became hyperaware of it, like his skin had memorized the exact shape of that contact.

When Chance pulled back, there was something almost shy in his expression.

“Too much?” he asked.

Too much. Will almost laughed, because if Chance only knew.

He shook his head quickly, afraid that if he waited even a second the moment would slip away.

“No,” he said, voice softer than he intended. “Not… not too much.”

Inside, something fragile rearranged itself in his chest.

This didn’t feel like falling. It felt like being steadied. And beneath the nerves, because they were still there, fluttering and electric, there was something he’s never felt in this context before. Certainty.

Not about the future. Not about what they’ll call this. Not about how complicated it might get.

But certainty that this moment was real. That he didn’t imagine it. That Chance meant it.

For someone who had spent so long doubting his own wants, his own readings of other people, his own right to feel the way he feels…

That certainty was almost overwhelming. But it wasn’t scary. It was calm.

And for the first time, as Chance’s hand remained curled loosely in his sleeve and the quarry hummed quietly around them, Will thought…

Maybe love wasn’t supposed to hurt first.

Maybe it was supposed to feel like this.

Like being chosen on purpose.