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The drive home was different tonight.
Usually, Will filled every second with noise—riffs of bad pop songs, running commentary on billboards, a memory he’d just remembered from 2006, or a dramatic retelling of how he almost fell off the ring apron (again).
Kyle had learned to love that sound. It was Will’s way of processing, of existing, of anchoring himself in the world—loudly.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the hum of the car and the occasional blinker click was all Kyle heard.
He glanced over at Will at a red light. His boyfriend was staring blankly ahead, arms crossed over his chest. Not upset—just distant. Spent. Even his usual bouncing knee was still. That was the first sign something was off.
Kyle didn’t push. He knew better than to poke at the silence when Will retreated into it. He just reached over, let their pinkies touch lightly on the center console. That little touch, small but steady, stayed all the way home.
They kicked off their shoes at the door. Kyle mumbled something about snacks and drifted toward the kitchen. Will didn’t say a word, just disappeared into the bedroom. Kyle figured he was changing.
But when the minutes ticked by and there was no shuffling, no humming, no muttered swears about mismatched socks or “where the fuck is that shirt,” Kyle’s stomach gave a small twist.
He walked down the hall, granola bar still in hand, and pushed the bedroom door open gently.
Darkness.
The only sound was the soft whir of the ceiling fan.
Will was curled under the blanket, fully dressed. Not asleep. Just… there. Eyes open, tracing something on the ceiling only he could see.
Kyle lingered in the doorway, unsure for once. “Do you wanna be alone or…”
Will didn’t answer right away, but then he turned his head and smiled—a tired, barely-there smile, like the kind you give when you’re worn down to the threads but grateful someone noticed.
“C’mere,” he whispered.
Kyle didn’t hesitate. He tossed the granola bar onto the dresser, toeing off his socks as he climbed into bed. The covers were cool but Will was warm, even in his quiet. Kyle eased close, one arm wrapping around Will’s middle as Will shifted to face him.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Will’s hand found Kyle’s under the covers. Their fingers intertwined slowly, like it took effort to even hold on—but he did it anyway.
Kyle studied him in the dark. The shadows blurred the sharp lines of Will’s face, softening the edges. His lips were parted just a little. His brow, usually so animated, was furrowed just slightly, like the tension hadn’t quite left his body.
Kyle leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to Will’s temple. “Rough day?”
Will gave the tiniest nod, eyes still on some invisible point in the ceiling.
“Too much?” Kyle asked.
“Yeah,” Will exhaled. “Just… everything. Too much noise. Too many people. I couldn’t think straight. My head's still buzzing.”
Kyle’s chest ached a little. He knew that buzz—the overstimulation, the sensory hangover that didn’t go away with a nap or a snack. Sometimes all you could do was shut down until it passed.
And Kyle knew this about Will—knew it deeply, intimately, in the way that you only notice when you care enough to watch someone closely.
Alongside all the idiosyncrasies he loved about Will—the mismatched socks, the chaotic snack habits, the wild gesturing mid-story—Kyle also knew that Will, for all his star power and big personality, was susceptible to sensory overload.
Will never talked about it. Never made a scene. Never asked for space.
But Kyle had seen the signs.
The way Will would dissociate slightly after a hectic pay-per-view, staring at the locker room wall like it was a lifeline, only to blink and smile when someone clapped him on the back. The way his eyes would lock onto the corner of the table during a press conference, zoning out for just a second before jolting back with a quip the second someone said his name. It was so subtle, most people would miss it.
But not Kyle.
And when he walked into their bedroom tonight and found Will lying there in the dark, Kyle knew. Will wouldn’t admit it. He’d probably even try to laugh it off later.
But right now, he just needed silence. He just needed stillness.
And Kyle was more than willing to give that to him.
“You don’t have to talk,” Kyle murmured. “We can just lay here.”
Will turned then, slowly, so they were face to face under the covers. His hand reached up to cup Kyle’s cheek—just a soft press of skin, grounding. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.
So they laid like that, pressed close in the dim quiet.
Minutes passed.
Will's breathing started to slow, that tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Kyle tucked one leg between Will’s, curling in without crowding.
He was just there. Solid. Safe. Someone who didn’t mind the silence.
Eventually, Will’s voice returned, soft and a little hoarse.
“Sorry I’m not myself tonight.”
“You are,” Kyle said immediately. “You don’t have to be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”
Will’s mouth curled just a little. “Still feel bad.”
“Don’t,” Kyle whispered, kissing the corner of his smile. “You’re allowed to just be.”
Will leaned in then, forehead resting against Kyle’s. “You make it easier.”
“I try.”
And then, as if the moment had passed and he was easing back into himself, Will let out a breath of a laugh. “Bet you’re disappointed I didn’t make a single dumb joke tonight.”
Kyle smiled into the dark. “It’s okay. You can owe me one tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m gonna make it awful. So bad. You’re gonna regret giving me permission.”
And Kyle laughed, real and gentle, because even at his quietest, Will was still Will.
Will hadn’t moved much, still curled close with his hand resting limply on Kyle’s side. But there was something in the air between them—a fragile kind of quiet that made Kyle pause before moving, even though everything in him ached to comfort.
He knew Will would never say no.
Even now, drained and barely functional, Will would let Kyle do anything just to make him happy. But Kyle also knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed—how even the most well-meaning touch could feel like static crawling on your skin if you weren’t ready for it. He didn’t want to be that.
So he shifted just enough to whisper, soft against the shell of Will’s ear, “Can I touch you?”
Will didn’t hesitate. His voice was small but certain. “Of course.”
Kyle’s hand slid up slowly, giving space for Will to change his mind—he didn’t—but when Kyle’s fingers began threading through his curls, Will melted. Literally melted. His shoulders loosened, his jaw unclenched, and he turned slightly, nestling his face into Kyle’s chest like instinct.
Kyle smiled faintly into the dark.
Will’s hair was soft and wild, still faintly scented with shampoo and smoke from pyros. Kyle’s fingers moved gently, combing through each lock like he was petting a tired animal.
Will let out a hum—barely a sound, more like a vibration in his chest—and scooted even closer, letting his leg hook loosely over Kyle’s hip.
He liked it. A lot.
Kyle could feel how much just from the way Will’s body responded—how his breathing had evened out, how the tension had melted from his brow.
He didn’t speak, didn’t make a joke, didn’t even try to explain himself.
And Kyle didn’t ask him to.
He didn’t need words. Not tonight.
Moments like this were rare—so rare. Will was the human embodiment of motion and noise, always talking, always doing, always deflecting discomfort with jokes and sparkle and energy. He’d mastered the art of “I’m fine” so thoroughly that the world believed him without question.
But Kyle knew better.
He’d learned to read the subtle shifts—the way Will’s voice got just a bit too loud when he was overloaded, how his laughter sounded off-key when he was pushing through a migraine, how his hand would rub at the same spot on his jeans over and over like he was trying to ground himself. Kyle had learned to see him, even when Will was hiding in plain sight.
Whether that had something to do with Will being on the spectrum or just being human, it didn’t matter.
Here, now, in the dark, Will wasn’t hiding.
He was quiet. Still.
Letting himself be held.
Kyle’s fingers continued their slow, lazy path through his curls, occasionally tracing the back of his scalp with featherlight pressure. Will’s breathing grew slower, deeper.
Kyle rested his chin against the top of Will’s head and closed his eyes.
This was love, he thought—not the loud kind that got all the applause, but the quiet kind that stayed through the silences. The kind that didn’t need to be flashy or explained. The kind that just was.
He didn’t know if Will would remember this moment tomorrow. Or if he’d brush it off with a joke, or pretend like nothing had happened.
But Kyle didn’t care.
He’d be there again. The next time Will’s world got too loud, the next time the mask slipped, the next time his golden retriever energy flickered out for just a little while.
He’d be there.
Always.
Just like this.
The next morning crept in slowly, soft rays of light filtering through the curtains like they knew better than to be loud. The apartment was still, quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and the hum of a distant car outside.
Kyle woke up warm, comfortable, and with a ridiculous mop of curls tickling his neck.
Will was draped over him like a weighted blanket—his leg tossed lazily over Kyle’s thighs, one arm slung across his chest, and his face smooshed into the pillow near Kyle’s collarbone. His curls were going everywhere, a true disaster of sleep-induced chaos. He looked like a golden doodle that got caught in a wind tunnel.
Kyle blinked, trying not to laugh too hard. Will looked so not like the man who once dropkicked someone off a ladder. And yet, he was still every bit himself—just a softer, gentler version.
Will stirred, groaning softly as he stretched like a cat, arm flexing with that slow, lazy strength he always had in the mornings.
“Ugh,” he muttered, voice scratchy with sleep. “I think my soul left my body last night.”
Kyle smirked. “Did it come back looking like a haystack?”
Will cracked one eye open, his expression bleary but amused. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to suplex you for that.”
“You say that like you don’t want to cuddle me for at least another hour.”
Will snorted, low and fond. “...Maybe an hour and a half.”
He blinked a few times, slowly getting his bearings, but never moved far from Kyle’s chest. His fingers lazily traced invisible shapes on Kyle’s side, aimless and grounding.
Kyle took a moment just to look at him.
Will was cute. Not in a conventional way—he was a 31-year-old man with a beard, tattoos, and the kind of career that made most people wince just watching. But Kyle had always found him adorable in the weirdest, most specific ways.
The way his whole face lit up when someone mentioned Assassin’s Creed. The menacing grin he wore mid-match, right before landing something insane. That dorky, genuine laugh he let out when Kyle told a joke that wasn’t even funny.
And now—hair wild, eyelids droopy, voice thick with sleep, and absolutely no filter—he looked extra cute.
Will yawned into Kyle’s shoulder, then mumbled, “Hey. Thanks for last night.”
Kyle’s fingers, still buried in Will’s curls from where they’d fallen asleep, paused for a beat. “For what?”
Will wriggled slightly, his nose scrunching like he was embarrassed. “Y’know. For... not being weird about me being weird.”
Kyle pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.
“Okay, first of all? Shut up.”
Will blinked, amused.
“Second of all,” Kyle continued, brushing a curl away from Will’s forehead, “you’re not weird. You were just overloaded. That’s normal. Especially after a night like last night.”
Will opened his mouth to protest, but Kyle cut him off.
“And third, how many times have you literally carried me to bed because I was grumpy about dropping a sandwich or forgot what day it was?”
Will huffed a soft laugh, a little sheepish.
“I like taking care of you,” Kyle said gently. “Even when it’s rare. Even when you don’t say a word. Especially then.”
Will went quiet, gaze warm and glassy in that soft, early-morning way. Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Kyle’s.
It started as a quiet thing—barely a whisper of a kiss. Just the simple press of lips, a breath exchanged between them.
But it didn’t stop there. Will lingered, his hand curling lightly at Kyle’s waist, holding him like he was afraid to let the moment go too soon. His mouth moved slowly, gently, as though tasting the comfort he didn’t know he needed.
Kyle responded with the same tenderness, his fingers still threaded through Will’s wild curls, keeping him close and coaxing him in even further.
The kiss deepened, not with heat, but with something more delicate—like exhaling after a long, long day. Will’s lips moved against his with a kind of reverence, all slow brushes and soft sighs, until Kyle felt like he could melt into him entirely.
The world outside the bed didn’t matter. Not the noise, not the spotlight, not the chaos they were both so used to enduring. Just the quiet intimacy of two people knowing exactly what the other needed.
When they finally pulled away, it was only by a few inches. Will’s forehead rested lightly against Kyle’s, their breaths mingling in the still air.
“You’re my favorite person,” Will murmured, voice hushed and heavy with emotion.
Kyle grinned, voice low. “I better be.”
Will rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Brat.”
“Your brat.”
They stayed like that for a little while longer, wrapped up in each other and the morning light—just soft, sleepy, and safe.
And for Kyle, there was no better way to start the day.