Archive of Our Own

“Thanks again for agreeing to help us,” Roark said, a broad grin lighting up his face as he turned to Steven, who was kneeling beside him on the dark, ashy ground. The glow from the nearby lava flows cast a warm, flickering light across Roark’s features, drawing sharp lines of orange and red along his jaw. Beside him, Steven was focused intently on a jagged rock he had just split open, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, a faint sheen of sweat beading at his hairline from the volcanic heat.

Steven continued to meticulously scrape away at the rough, uneven surface, the steady rasp of metal on stone blending with the distant rumble of magma shifting beneath them. His hands moved with practiced precision, careful and deliberate, as he replied, “Well, it’s certainly not my area of expertise, but I’m more than willing to lend a hand.” His tone was mild, almost understated, but there was a quiet sincerity there that Roark couldn’t possibly miss.

Flint, ever the opportunist, couldn’t resist poking fun. He lounged a few feet away, one boot propped casually on a nearby boulder, arms folded as if he were simply enjoying a show rather than assisting with an excavation. “What he really means is he’s more than happy to use any excuse to see Cynthia.”

He shot a playful wink over his shoulder toward the Champion, mischief dancing in his eyes like stray embers. Several nearby miners paused in their work, ears perking at the chance for gossip. “Isn’t that right, Cynthia?”

Caught off guard, Steven shot Flint a sharp glare, steel-blue eyes narrowing in warning. For a heartbeat, frustration flared hot in his chest, the tips of his ears burning with sudden embarrassment. The urge to retort rose to his tongue, but he bit it back, forcing down the impulse with a steadying breath. The intensity in his gaze quickly faded as he turned back to Roark, his expression softening into a sheepish, apologetic smile that tugged awkwardly at the corners of his lips.

“I assure you, that is not true in the slightest,” he defended, his voice polite but clipped as he tried to shake off Flint’s jibe. A faint pink still dusted his cheeks, betraying the effect the teasing had on him.

“Flint, would you be quiet and work, or go find somewhere else to be?” Cynthia interjected smoothly, the words leaving her mouth with a kind of effortless command. Her voice was dripping with exasperation yet still laced with amusement as she rolled her eyes in Flint’s direction. The playfulness in her tone suggested she was more than familiar with his antics—and more than capable of handling them.

She stood a short distance away, arms folded loosely over her chest, golden hair pulled back from her face to keep it from sticking in the humid air. Even in the dim, ruddy light of the volcano’s interior, she carried herself with the sort of poise that made people straighten instinctively when she looked their way.

“Hey now, you all need me. We are in a volcano after all,” Flint declared with a smirk, puffing himself up as if to emphasize the point. He leaned back against the rock wall with a great show of playful arrogance, ankles crossed and arms folded defiantly across his chest, the bright red of his hair almost glowing in the volcanic light.

In response and with easy confidence, Cynthia rose gracefully to her feet from the crate she had been perched on, dusting ash from the back of her shirt with a single, unhurried sweep of her hand. She was acutely aware of the many eyes watching them—miners stealing glances between swings of their pickaxes, researchers pausing as they adjusted instruments, a few League officials pretending not to listen while very obviously doing just that.

Murmurs rippled faintly through the cavernous chamber as Cynthia began to move. She strode confidently toward Flint, her long strides purposeful and unhurried, each footfall echoing softly off the stone. The packed volcanic floor crunched beneath the soles of her boots, a subtle reminder of the unstable environment that surrounded them. She closed the distance between them in just four measured steps.

With a gloved hand, she placed it strategically on his shoulder, fingers resting lightly yet decisively against the fabric of his vest. Her smile was sweet yet pointed—a subtle, well-practiced weapon of persuasion. Up close, her eyes held a cool sharpness that contrasted with the warmth of her voice.

“Perhaps you’d like to explore the rest of the volcano?” she suggested, her tone smooth like honey, each word rolling out with an almost lazy grace. Yet to those who knew her—or to anyone paying attention—the underlying threat was unmistakable. It was not a question. It was a warning wrapped in velvet.

Flint, as if frozen in place, blinked rapidly, whatever comeback he had been preparing dying on his tongue. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and shook his head vigorously, his eyes wide with surprise and the faintest twinge of alarm.

“Nope. I’m good,” he stammered, the bravado from moments ago evaporating in the face of Cynthia’s unwavering gaze. His smirk faltered into a crooked, nervous grin as he straightened up under her hand.

“Right. Then why not make yourself useful to the miners?” Cynthia continued, her tone still honeyed but tinged with a clearer edge of command now. She gestured casually with her free hand toward a section of the chamber where several workers were struggling with a particularly solid wall of stone. “I’m sure your ‘indispensable’ help would be appreciated over there.”

A few of the nearby miners snickered quietly, looking away quickly when Flint’s gaze snapped in their direction. Huffing under his breath, he pushed off the wall and stalked toward the indicated group, muttering something about being underappreciated. Even so, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips, betraying that he wasn’t genuinely offended.

Turning his attention back to Roark, Steven couldn’t suppress a nervous chuckle bubbling in his throat. The sound came out soft and slightly strained. “I wouldn’t want to cross her today,” he commented under his breath, lifting another loose rock from the rubble at his feet. The stone was warm to the touch through his gloves, its surface still holding faint traces of the volcano’s inner heat.

As he examined it closely, something about its unusual shape—a smooth, almost glassy curve along one side—sparked a sense of déjà vu. His fingers moved with more care now, brushing away the thin layer of soot and ash that clung stubbornly to its surface. Gradually, the dull gray gave way to a deeper, more vivid color beneath.

With a few final passes of his thumb, he revealed a captivating Fire Stone underneath. Its vibrant orange and yellow hues shimmered in the dim light, fractured patterns within it catching and refracting the glow from the molten rock below. Tiny motes of light seemed to dance within its core, as though flames had been captured and suspended inside the crystal.

“Beautiful,” Steven murmured almost to himself, a quiet note of awe in his voice. Carefully, almost reverently, he placed it atop the growing pile of evolutionary stones and rare finds nearby, arranging it so its polished surface wouldn’t be scratched by the rough edges of the others. Then he returned to his excavation with renewed focus, his earlier embarrassment fading into the background as the familiar comfort of careful work took over.

The heat pressed in from every direction, heavy and stifling, yet Steven found a rhythm in the monotony—select a promising rock, examine, brush, and set aside. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and scorched earth, punctuated by the faint metallic tang of exposed minerals. The distant drip of condensed steam echoed from the upper reaches of the cavern ceiling, creating a steady, irregular pattern beneath the low rumble of the volcano’s inner workings.

Suddenly, while reaching down for another stone, he felt something brush against his glove. The contact was brief but unmistakable—a soft, hesitant touch along the back of his hand. Startled, he froze for a fraction of a second, then jerked his gaze upward to meet Roark’s.

Roark’s face, already flushed from the heat, seemed to turn a deeper shade of pink than it had been moments before. His breath hitched so subtly that only someone as close—and as attentive—as Steven would have noticed. Roark’s hand lingered half a second too long near Steven’s before he snatched it back as if burned, fingers curling awkwardly into a fist.

Steven quickly averted his eyes, his heartbeat lurching once in his chest for reasons he couldn’t immediately name. He swallowed, forcing his attention down to the tool resting on the ground between them—a brush with ash darkening its bristles—feeling an odd tension lingering in the air. It was fragile, delicate, and he didn’t quite know where it had come from.

“Sorry about that,” Roark mumbled, clearing his throat as he pushed the brush across the ground toward Steven with an air of discomfort. His hands fidgeted slightly, fingertips tapping once against the rock beside him before stilling. “Here.”

Steven accepted the brush with a muted nod, his gloved fingers briefly overlapping Roark’s once more before he pulled back. The contact was fleeting, but it only seemed to deepen the silence stretching between them.

Noticing an unusual shift in Roark’s demeanor throughout the day, Steven felt a thin, persistent note of concern string through him like a taut wire. The usually exuberant young man—whose energy often filled any room he walked into—appeared subdued, even withdrawn, unlike his usual spirited self. His laughter had been shorter, his jokes less frequent, his shoulders a touch too tense beneath his long-sleeve shirt.

It was only in the quieter moments when they interacted directly that Roark showed brief flickers of his usual vibrancy: a quick grin at a successful find, an animated explanation of a rock formation, a spark in his eyes when he talked about the safety measures put in place for the miners. But even those flashes faded quickly, as if someone had turned down a dimmer switch inside him.

It struck Steven as peculiar, and more than that, worrying.

As he reached out to take the brush fully from Roark, Steven shifted a touch closer, reducing the small space between them. He lowered his voice so it wouldn’t carry to anyone else nearby, the ambient noise of pickaxes and quiet chatter providing enough cover. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, his words careful, as though he were probing at something delicate that might crumble if pressed too hard.

Caught off guard once more, Roark hesitated. His eyes darted away for a fleeting moment—to the pile of stones, to the miners in the distance, to the bright glow of the lava vent—before finally landing back on Steven’s face. Up close, Steven could see the faint shadows carved under Roark’s eyes, the slight tightness at the corners of his mouth that hadn’t been there before.

“Me? Oh, um, y-yeah. I’m fine,” Roark replied, the words tumbling out with forced casualness. The uncharacteristic stammer in his voice, coupled with the unreadable expression flickering over his features, suggested otherwise. His lips attempted a smile that never fully formed, faltering midway and sinking into something more uncertain.

He glanced back down at the rocks as if hoping they might swallow him whole.

What happened next startled both of them. When Steven instinctively reached out to place his hand reassuringly on Roark’s shoulder—a gesture he’d used countless times with him before—Roark flinched.

It wasn’t a small, barely noticeable twitch. His reaction was sharp, as sudden as a whip-crack. His shoulders jerked, his breath catching audibly in his throat, eyes widening with something that looked too much like fear before he managed to smother it.

Wide-eyed now himself, Steven immediately drew his hand back, fingers curling in on themselves as a wave of guilt washed over him. His stomach knotted, and his chest tightened with the realization that he had overstepped some invisible boundary he hadn’t known was there.

“I apologize. I just…” he murmured, his voice growing quiet and strained as his gaze dropped. The words tangled in his throat, and he let them die there rather than risk saying the wrong thing. He cleared his throat once, then returned his attention to the task at hand with forced focus, mumbling an uncertain, “Sorry.”

The single word felt insufficient, flimsy against the weight of the moment.

Roark closed his eyes in a brief, private moment of frustration, jaw clenching as he exhaled slowly through his nose. A mix of emotions flickered across his face when he opened them again—shame, irritation at himself, something almost like fear, and a raw, fleeting vulnerability he quickly tried to bury.

He hated the brief, flickering look of hurt in Steven’s eyes—the way it flashed there for a heartbeat before he could pretend it hadn’t. Hated that his own raw, instinctive reaction had been the thing to put it there, carving a thin line of distance between them where, moments before, there had been none. He hadn’t been ready for the sudden warmth of Steven’s hand on his arm, for the unexpected closeness or the sharp, familiar jolt of pain that had followed, echoing through the old scars he kept carefully hidden. The touch had startled him, dragging a reaction out of him before he’d had the chance to soften it, and now all he could see was the quiet confusion and wounded surprise in Steven’s gaze.

And it was his fault.

“No. It’s m—” he started, the apology catching in his throat.

“No, it’s fine, Roark. Let’s just focus on the work,” Steven interjected gently but firmly, not unkindly. His voice held an undercurrent of concern that he couldn’t quite disguise, the shadow of it lingering even as he attempted to smooth over the tension between them. He offered a small, strained smile that didn’t entirely reach his eyes.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the distant clatter of tools and the low murmur of the volcano filled the silence between them.

Eventually, Roark resumed his work, the familiar movements of brush and chisel giving his restless hands something to do. Still, Steven caught him stealing wary, almost guilty glances out of the corner of his eye—quick, searching looks that flickered to Steven’s face and then away again as though he were afraid of being caught staring.

The rhythm of their labor slowly reestablished itself, the earlier awkwardness settling into something quieter but no less present. A familiar routine formed around the two men: select stone, inspect, clean, set aside, repeat. Step by step, minute by minute, the jagged floor near the excavation site became more ordered, piles of categorized rock samples and minerals slowly growing at their feet.

Around them, the day stretched on. The oppressive heat never truly relented; it simply shifted, pooling in different pockets of the cavern as the natural vents exhaled waves of scorching air. Workers rotated in and out, some taking breaks near the cooler tunnels that led back toward the surface. Bottles of water were passed around, and the clink of glass and plastic punctuated the heavier sounds of metal on stone.

Cynthia moved through the area like a quiet overseer, checking on progress here and there, her presence alone enough to keep everyone focused and on task. Flint, now properly occupied, alternated between helping to break down stubborn rock formations with Infernape and entertaining the miners with outlandish stories during their short rests.

Time blurred, marked only by the gradual ache building in Steven’s shoulders and knees and the thinning of the natural light filtering from the mouth of the cave high above.

At last, as the day’s work finally began to draw to a close, the frantic pace eased. Orders were called to wrap things up, and the cacophony of tools striking stone waned into a more subdued clatter. People began sorting equipment, tallying finds, and securing samples for transport.

Steven straightened slowly, rolling his stiff shoulders as he surveyed the area one last time. He began to gather his supplies—brushes, chisels, a small field notebook smudged with ash, and a few particularly interesting rocks he intended to examine later. He brushed the dust from his gloves in a series of sharp flicks, feeling the fatigue settle more noticeably into his limbs.

As he reached for his sample case, his attention was suddenly caught by a quick, telltale movement from Roark out of the corner of his eye. The young gym leader, who had been upright and steady mere seconds before, swayed unsteadily on his feet.

His shoulders dipped, his knees buckled ever so slightly, and his hand shot out to brace against the nearby rock wall. The color drained from his face beneath the flush of heat, and his eyes unfocused, the world around him seeming to tilt.

An icy wave of alarm coursed through Steven’s veins, cutting through the haze of his exhaustion. His unease settled heavily in his chest, every instinct in him snapping to attention.

“Roark,” he called sharply, his voice low but urgent.

With renewed urgency, he hastily rose from his crouch and moved closer, boots scraping against the stone as he closed the distance in a few quick steps. He held his hands out, ready to catch or steady Roark if he collapsed, carefully avoiding making contact until he was sure it was welcome.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern thick in his voice as he searched Roark’s face for any sign of real danger—labored breathing, glassy eyes, a delayed response.

For a second, Roark’s gaze seemed distant, unfocused, as though he were looking through Steven rather than at him. Then, slowly, clarity began to bleed back into his eyes, like fog lifting from glass. He blinked a few times, straightened with visible effort, and forced a small, wavering smile.

“Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little tired,” Roark replied with a nervous chuckle, the sound thin and brittle. He lifted a hand to rub the back of his head in an endearing yet anxious gesture he’d done a hundred times before, though this time it lacked its usual careless ease. His laughter, usually bright and contagious, now came out muted, lacking its familiar warmth.

“Don’t worry about me,” he added quickly, almost too quickly, as if hoping to shut down the conversation before it could begin. Even so, his hand remained braced lightly against the rock at his side, fingers digging just a little too hard into the stone, as though he weren’t entirely confident his legs would hold without the support.

Steven didn’t argue—not yet—but the tension in his jaw and the crease between his brows made it clear that, despite Roark’s words, he had no intention of simply not worrying.

But Steven wasn’t buying it. The bland reassurance, the forced smile—none of it eased the gnawing worry churning in his stomach. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

They had been through a lot together. The cave-in had changed everything—first with the terror of nearly losing Roark, then with Steven’s slow recovery afterward, and finally with the quiet, tentative closeness that had grown between them in the months since. Steven had come to recognize the patterns in Roark’s behavior: the way he moved when he was tired, the way his shoulders set when he was stressed, the way he laughed when he was genuinely fine versus when he was putting on an act.

This was not fine.

He watched as Roark bent down to retrieve his bag from the ground. The motion, usually smooth and easy, was awkward and strained. Roark’s knee wobbled, his hand groping blindly for the strap as if it were suddenly difficult to focus. His balance faltered, and he swayed, boots scraping lightly against the stone as he fought to remain upright.

Steven’s chest tightened. He couldn’t help but worry now.

Despite the oppressive heat of the cavern—thick, heavy, pressing down on them like a physical weight—a tremor ran through Roark’s body. It was subtle at first, a faint shiver that shouldn’t have existed in air this hot. Steven’s instincts responded before his mind had fully caught up. He took a quick step closer, reaching out to steady Roark as his knees buckled slightly.

The moment his hand brushed Roark’s sleeve, Roark flinched, his muscles tensing under the touch as if he’d been jolted. Steven’s fingers froze, then instantly pulled back, guilt and hesitation flaring through him.

He lingered, hovering in Roark’s peripheral vision, staying close enough to catch him if he fell but far enough back to respect the fragile, invisible boundary that had appeared between them. He watched Roark carefully, tracking the slight sway of his body, the tightness in his jaw as he forced himself to stand straight.

As Steven shifted even closer, readying himself to catch Roark if he tipped forward, his instincts screamed at him to act. He reached out again, more deliberately this time, his hand closing gently around Roark’s forearm where his sleeve hid any scars remaining from the accident.

The reaction was immediate. A visible flinch rippled through Roark’s body, his breath hitching audibly. His muscles jerked beneath Steven’s grip, as if that simple contact had triggered something sharp and unpleasant. Steven released him at once, fingers springing open as if he were the one who had been burned.

He swallowed, forcing himself to remain still. He wanted to steady Roark, to hold him upright, to tell him to lean on him if he needed—but he also wanted to respect whatever fragile space Roark was desperate to maintain. So he hung there in the awkward middle ground: close enough to reach out if Roark fell, but not touching.

Before Steven could find the right words—something that wasn’t too pushy, too clinical, or too painfully honest—to express his concern or offer reassurance, the moment shattered.

The steady crunch of approaching footsteps echoed across the cavern floor, followed by the low murmur of familiar voices. Flint and Cynthia approached, the candle-flame warmth of their presence brushing up against the fragile hush that had settled between Steven and Roark.

“We’re heading to dinner with some of the others. Would you two like to join us?” Cynthia asked, tugging her gloves off with a smooth, practiced flick of her wrists. She flexed her fingers once, the leather creaking quietly, then tucked the gloves neatly into her belt.

Roark straightened reflexively, shoulders pulling back as though he could shake off the vertigo through posture alone. He forced a smile onto his face, the corners of his mouth twitching upward without any light in his eyes. “I’m actually a bit tired, so I think I’ll just head back to the hotel,” he replied. His voice was steady enough, but the slight roughness in it betrayed how drained he really was.

“Steven?” Cynthia turned her gaze toward him, her expression warm yet expectant. Her eyes flicked, just once, from Steven to Roark and back again—sharp enough that Steven suspected she’d noticed more than she let on.

He hesitated, torn for a moment between the offer of normalcy and the nagging anxiety coiled in his chest. Part of him wanted to go, to sink into the easy flow of conversation and noise, to distract himself. But the thought of leaving Roark alone like this felt almost unthinkable.

“Not tonight,” he said finally, shaking his head gently. “I have some paperwork to finish up, and besides, I found some interesting stones earlier that I’m rather intrigued by.” His voice stayed even, almost casual.

Still, as he said it, a small, genuine flicker of excitement stirred at the thought of examining the stones in quiet detail—mineral structures, inclusions, crystalline formations—anything to occupy his mind. It was a familiar refuge, one he had always retreated to when emotions felt too big.

“Naturally,” Flint laughed, unable to resist the opening. Before he could elaborate, Cynthia’s elbow found his ribs with surgical precision. He grunted, then flashed her a wounded look that earned him only a faint smirk.

“Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us,” Cynthia said. Her gaze lingered on both of them a moment longer—assessing, thoughtful—before she turned back toward the lively group waiting by the tunnel entrance. Flint fell into step beside her without needing to be asked, his stride easily matching hers.

Their voices faded, swallowed by the echoing cavern.

As the two were left alone once more, whatever flimsy mask Roark had been holding onto slipped. His smile faded like a light being dimmed, leaving behind a raw, unsettled expression. He blinked rapidly, once, twice, three times in quick succession as the world around him blurred at the edges.

A strange flutter gripped his chest—too quick, too uneven—like his heart had stumbled and forgotten how to fall into its normal rhythm. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, fingertips digging into his temple. A dizzy lightness rose in him, like his consciousness was floating an inch above his body, threatening to drift away.

He braced his free hand against the unyielding cavern wall, palm flattening against the rough, cool stone as though he needed the earth itself to hold him in place.

“Roark?” Steven’s voice cut cleanly through the haze, steady and grounding.

By then, Steven had already stooped to gather the rest of Roark’s scattered supplies, quickly but methodically, making sure nothing of importance was left behind. Now he straightened, eyes trained sharply on Roark’s trembling frame.

Roark shook his head slowly, as if even the motion cost him something. His brow furrowed, a flicker of worry crossing his own features as he realized how far from normal he felt. He raised a finger, signaling Steven to pause, to wait, to give him a second to pull himself together.

“I’m good,” he muttered, though the words came out uneven, frayed at the edges. The slight wobble in his voice betrayed him completely. “Just… feel a little weird.”

His shoulders sagged, the tension draining from them not in relaxation but in defeat. It was a subtle surrender—one that said plainly that this wasn’t just mild fatigue.

“I think the heat is getting to you,” Steven replied, the conviction in his voice growing heavier with each passing second. He stepped in closer, no longer content to hover at a distance. Gently, but with quiet insistence, he reached for Roark’s hand, pulling off one of his gloves as he went.

His fingers closed around Roark’s, the glove leather cool and dry against Roark’s too-warm skin. Steven turned Roark’s hand palm-up, his thumb finding the inside of Roark’s wrist as habit and training guided him. He pressed his fingers down, searching for the steady, familiar thrum of a healthy pulse.

He found it—but it wasn’t steady.

His brows drew together immediately. The rhythm beneath his fingertips was too fast, fluttering and skipping like a Starly trapped in a cage. Worse, there was a weakness to it, an inconsistency that made his stomach drop.

“It’s too fast, irregular… weak,” he murmured under his breath, his clinical mind cataloging each abnormality even as the more human part of him cursed himself for not pushing Roark harder to rest earlier. “Damn it,” he muttered, a rare, quiet curse slipping out as a faint edge of panic began to lace his tone.

He looked up sharply, meeting Roark’s eyes with a new urgency. “We need to get you back to the hotel,” he said, voice firm. “You should have told someone you needed a break.”

He didn’t wait for Roark to argue or brush it off. In one smooth motion, he slipped Roark’s bag off his shoulder, slinging it over his own instead. The strap bit into his collarbone, but he barely felt it, too focused on the unsteady rise and fall of Roark’s chest.

“Really, it’s just a headache,” Roark insisted, lifting a shaky hand in a flustered gesture as if he could swat away the tension in the air. “Seriously!”

“That’s exactly why you’re about to pass out,” Steven shot back, an uncharacteristic sharpness creeping into his tone. His brow arched in disbelief, and he rolled his eyes, though the gesture did nothing to hide the anxiety in them. “I trust you when you say you’re fine, and if you tell me not to worry, I’ll try not to. But I won’t ignore the obvious signs of heat exhaustion.”

Roark’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t know how to respond to that.

Something had shifted subtly between them in the months after the cave-in. At first, the change had been almost imperceptible—a lingering glance here, an extra check-in there. But around two months after the incident, Steven’s concern had crystallized into something more constant, more deliberate.

Steven was more protective now. Not in a patronizing way, but in a quietly relentless one. He always made sure Roark had eaten, that he drank water, that he took proper breaks. He would visit Sinnoh more often and always made sure to stop in Oreburgh City. He walked the tunnels with him more often. He stood a little closer when they were in unstable areas. And each of those gestures, though small on their own, scratched at Roark’s pride.

He didn’t want to be someone who needed protecting.

He especially didn’t want Steven—the Champion, the man he admired—to see him as weak.

Besides, the cavern felt comfortably cool to him compared to its usual scorching intensity. The air, thick as it was, didn’t seem stifling; if anything, it felt almost soothing against his overheated skin. Sure, his muscles had been more sore than usual that morning, but he’d chalked it up to a long string of demanding days—a nameless ache that came with the job. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t deal with. At least, that’s what he’d been insisting to himself all day.

He hadn’t been particularly hungry at lunch either, that much he knew. The thought of food had turned his stomach, but Steven’s quiet persistence had worn him down. Under that calm, gentle pressure, he’d reluctantly eaten a sandwich. For a little while afterward, the lightheadedness had eased; the world had steadied, and he’d convinced himself he was fine.

But the relief had been fleeting.

Now, as they left the oppressive glow of the volcano behind and made their way up toward the hotel, a thick silence wrapped around them. Their footsteps echoed dully in the tunnel; no idle chatter, no easy jokes, no commentary on any of their findings—just the soft scuff of boots and the faint rustle of Steven shifting the weight of Roark’s bag on his shoulder.

The heat faded gradually, replaced by the more familiar, dry coolness of the upper floors. The hotel lobby greeted them with an almost jarring rush of normalcy: guests checking in and out, the murmur of conversations at the front desk, the rolling of suitcase wheels over polished tile, the faint scent of coffee and cologne hanging in the air.

The background buzz felt surreal against the heavy quiet that lingered between the two of them.

They crossed the lobby side by side, neither speaking. When they stepped into the elevator, the environment shifted again. The doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing them in a small, enclosed world of brushed metal and muted light.

The hum of the elevator motor filled the silence as the small floor indicator ticked up slowly. The soft, overhead glow washed Roark’s face in a pale, almost ghostly light, making the dark shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced. His temples throbbed in time with the mechanical rhythm. Every floor they passed let out a muted chime, each one a small needle in his skull.

The quiet between them grew thicker, punctuated only by the faint, uneven sound of Roark’s breathing and the steadier cadence of Steven’s.

Roark could feel Steven’s gaze on him from the side—steady, assessing, unwilling to look away. It was both comforting and suffocating,like a hand at the small of his back guiding him forward and a weight on his chest pressing down at the same time.

When they finally reached their floor, the doors slid open with a muffled ding and a gust of cooler air from the hallway. The harsh hallway lighting spilled into the elevator, and Roark winced at the shift. On the other side, a small boy launched forward the second the doors parted, nearly colliding with Steven as he tried to step out.

“Hey—watch out,” Steven said evenly, stopping short.

“Don’t shove people, Noah,” the boy’s mother scolded sharply from behind, her voice tight with embarrassment. She caught her son by the shoulder and tugged him back. “You wait your turn.”

“I wanna go to the pool!” the boy protested at full volume, sandals squeaking on the tile as he twisted in her grip. His excitement overrode any hint of shame as he bounced on his toes, goggles already hanging around his neck. “Come on, Mom, hurry, hurry!”

The child’s shrill enthusiasm ricocheted down the hallway, a noisy contrast to Roark’s frayed nerves. He would have found the scene amusing—maybe even endearing—if not for the way his headache had blossomed into something sharper, like a band tightening behind his eyes.

As Steven stepped out of the elevator, the mother shot him a harried, apologetic look. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, one hand still clamped around her son’s wrist.

“It’s fine,” Steven said, stepping aside to give them room. His tone was even, but there was a slight crease between his brows as he watched the boy tug his mother into the elevator.

He moved past them and stopped just beyond the threshold, then turned back, waiting on the other side of the doors for Roark with quiet expectation. The doors tried to close, stuttering against the sensor, a dull warning chime sounding until Roark forced himself to move.

As Roark stepped into the hallway, the change in air hit him—cooler, carrying the faint scent of cleaning solution and the indistinct blend of detergent and hotel carpet. The hallway lights seemed a little too bright, edges a little too sharp. Steven held out Roark’s bag, the strap looped over his fingers.

Roark took it. The familiar weight settled into his hands more heavily than he remembered, dragging at his shoulders when he slipped the strap over one of them. His muscles ached in a way that felt bone-deep, fatigue threading through every small movement.

“Make sure to get some rest tonight,” Steven urged quietly. Up close, his voice lost the clipped precision it had held earlier. The firmness that had once edged his words had tempered into something softer, but no less serious. His eyes searched Roark’s face as if memorizing every line of exhaustion there. “Please.”

There was a thread of genuine worry woven through his words that Roark felt more than heard. It hummed beneath the surface, a subtle tremor in Steven’s usually steady tone. Something in Roark’s chest shifted at that—an odd mix of guilt, gratitude, and a flicker of warmth he hadn’t invited.

Roark nodded, his answer simple yet sincere. “Thanks. I will.” His voice came out a little rougher than he intended. For a heartbeat, he stayed there, meeting Steven’s eyes as if that could somehow reassure him more than the words could.

As he turned away, the strap of the bag bit into his shoulder, reminding him how drained he really was. His footsteps sounded too loud against the patterned carpet runner, echoing strangely in the otherwise quiet corridor. He couldn’t be sure, but beneath the soft rustle of air-conditioning and the distant muffled splash from the pool, he thought he heard the faintest whisper of “Good night” slip from Steven’s lips.

The words brushed against his back like a ghost of a touch.

Roark paused and glanced over his shoulder, mouth already parting to respond. But when he turned, Steven was already walking away toward his own room, his back straight, strides measured and unhurried. His hands were tucked into his pockets, shoulders set in a way that made him seem composed, almost distant, as if the moment between them hadn’t weighed on him at all.

The corridor stretched out on either side, lined with identical doors and muted artwork. The hum of the building—the far-off elevator, the whisper of vents, the murmur of a television behind a closed door—only emphasized the quiet pressing in around Roark.

Steven’s retreating figure grew smaller with each step until he turned a corner and disappeared from view, leaving Roark standing alone in a hotel hallway that suddenly felt far too vast.

He shook the moment off with a small shrug, trying to convince himself it didn’t mean anything. Shouldering his bag, he made his way down the hallway and into his room. The soft click of the door locking behind him brought an abrupt, almost jarring shift.

Silence.

He let his bag drop to the floor with a dull thud, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet space. For a second, he just stood there, shoulders drooping, listening to the faint hum of the air system and the distant murmur of other guests through the walls.

A shower, he decided. That was the first priority. A shower would help. It always did.

The thought of collapsing straight into bed was tempting—achingly tempting—but the sticky film of sweat, soot, and dust clinging to his skin was intolerable. He rummaged halfheartedly through his bag until he found the crumpled shorts and t-shirt he’d worn that morning, forgotten in the rush of the day.

With a weary sigh, he padded into the bathroom. His movements were slower than usual, every step feeling a fraction heavier.

He twisted the knob, letting hot water pour from the showerhead in a steady, rushing cascade. Within moments, steam began to fill the small room, fogging the mirror and curling around him like a warm cloak.

His hands trembled slightly as he peeled off his clothes, each layer sticking to his skin with stubborn patches of grime and dried sweat. The fabric scraped faintly against the more sensitive areas of his shoulders and back where muscles ached the most.

The steam wrapped around him, offering a brief illusion of comfort—of warmth he could control, rather than the oppressive, unrelenting heat of the cavern.

He stepped beneath the water. The spray struck him like a barrage of tiny needles. The water, hot at first, spiked against his overheated skin in a way that felt almost icy, a strange, biting contrast he couldn’t quite reconcile. He flinched involuntarily as the stream hit his shoulders, where muscle and bone ached beneath the surface.

He stood there, letting the water pour over him, the sound a constant roar in his ears. Maybe he had stayed too long in the steam. Maybe it was just exhaustion finally catching up, settling into his bones like wet sand.

Roark braced his palms against the cool, slick tiles of the shower wall as another wave of dizziness surged over him. This one was stronger, more destabilizing than the earlier episodes in the cavern. His vision tunneled at the edges, black creeping inward before receding.

The once-comforting heat now felt wrong. The water crawled over his skin like a chill he couldn’t shake, burrowing deeper instead of warming him. An unsettling twist roiled low in his stomach.

But it was the tightening in his chest that truly terrified him

It started as a dull pressure, then sharpened into something more vicious—an almost primal, clawing grip around his heart. It felt as though scalding talons were squeezing, digging in, refusing to let go. Each heartbeat was jagged, erratic, like an uneven drumbeat that didn’t know its own rhythm anymore.

His breath hitched, then shortened. His chest felt both too tight and too hollow.

With a jerky, uncoordinated motion, he reached up and twisted the tap off. The water ceased abruptly, leaving only the drip-drip-drip of the last drops from the showerhead.

The silence that followed made the pounding of his pulse in his ears almost deafening.

Steam clung thickly to the air, a hazy veil that blurred the edges of the room. It made the small space feel both stifling and hollow. He stepped out of the shower, feet slipping briefly against the damp tiles before he caught himself.

His hand fumbled blindly along the counter until his fingers finally closed around a towel. The fabric was soft enough, but against his over-sensitized skin it felt absurdly scratchy, dragging in a way that only intensified his awareness of every ache and chill.

The symptoms he had been so determined to ignore all day—brushed off as fatigue, as a headache, as “just the heat”—now clung to him like a shadow that had solidified. Heavy. Inescapable.

His hands trembled as he dried off and tried to dress. His shirt fought him, tangling around his arms and catching against damp skin. The simple act of pulling it over his head felt like an impossible task, each movement demanding more effort than he seemed to have.

By the time he managed to wrestle himself into his clothes, his head was spinning. His vision blurred for a moment, forcing him to grab the side of the sink to steady himself.

He shuffled toward the adjoining bedroom, each step a test of will. The carpeted floor cushioned his feet but did nothing for the heaviness in his legs.

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, he let himself collapse sideways onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, springs creaking softly in protest. A wave of fatigue rolled over him, washing the edges of his awareness in gray.

He lay there, curled slightly on his side, staring up at the ceiling as a single, chilling thought crept into his mind.

Was he dying?

The pain, the dizziness, the suffocating pressure in his chest—it all felt so wrong, so overwhelming, that his panicked mind latched onto the worst possibility.

He focused, desperately, on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest became his anchor. Each inhale drew in the cooler air of the bedroom, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat of the volcano and the steam-choked bathroom. The air felt crisper, clean, sliding into his lungs like something soothing and real.

Tremors still raced through him, small waves that made his muscles twitch and his teeth want to chatter. Every breath reignited a thread of discomfort, as though his body was relearning how to function.

Gradually—very gradually—the vice around his chest loosened. The sharp edges of pain dulled, turning into a residual ache instead of an immediate crisis.

That experience, he decided hazily, was easily among the top ten things he never wanted to relive.

His eyelids drifted shut, the darkness behind them swallowing the blurry outline of the room. He felt himself slipping, sinking down into a heavy, dragging sleep.

A stray, absurd thought surfaced through the fog: had he remembered to set an alarm for the morning?

It was ridiculous, given how he felt—trivial, even—but it clung stubbornly to the edges of his consciousness as he slid under.

When he finally pried his eyes open again, he had no sense of how much time had passed. The room around him was cloaked in shadows, the only harsh light coming from the bedside table lamp. It glared down on him like a small sun, intensifying the pounding behind his eyes.

A deep ache radiated through his body, pooled in his joints, and settled into his spine. His skin prickled with an odd mix of heat and chill, as though he were both burning and freezing at once.

With trembling fingers, he groped blindly across the bed until they closed around the familiar shape of his phone. Its cool surface grounded him for a heartbeat.

He blinked at the bright screen. The time glowed back at him: just past ten.

Late—but not late enough to explain why he felt like this.

A cold realization slid into him like a blade.

He was cold. Not just chilly—bone-cold. The kind of cold that lingered deep in his muscles and made his teeth want to chatter.

He curled in on himself instinctively, tucking his knees up and pulling the blankets tighter around his shoulders. The sheets rustled, the weight of the comforter wrapping him in a cocoon.

He could no longer deny it.

He was sick.

And he was completely alone.

The weight of that isolation pressed heavily on his chest, almost as oppressive as the tightness he’d felt under the shower. The quiet of the room, broken only by the faint hum of the heater, seemed to amplify every fear and ache.

All he wanted, suddenly, was to be with Steven.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and clear. It lodged itself in his chest, bringing with it a sting of tears he tried to blink away immediately.

It felt wrong to want that. Selfish, even.

Steven was in a committed relationship with Wallace. Steven had responsibilities, a reputation, a life already so full of demands and expectations. And in Steven’s world, what was Roark, really? A colleague? A friend? Someone he’d helped? Someone he cared about, maybe, but not… not someone to prioritize.

Not someone to be cherished.

And yet, lying there shivering under the blankets, Roark found that he didn’t care anymore about the boundaries that logic and circumstance had drawn.

With a resigned, shaky sigh, he forced his arm out of the warmth of the covers. The air felt like ice against his skin. His fingers moved sluggishly as he unlocked his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

Name after name blurred past: employees, League officials, local staff, acquaintances. None of them were who he wanted.

Then he found it.

Steven.

His heart thudded once, hard enough to make him momentarily dizzy. Every reserved, rational part of him screamed not to do it—to wait, to handle this on his own, to not drag Steven into his mess.

His thumb tapped the call button anyway.

He pressed the phone to his ear and retreated his arm beneath the blankets, curling around the device as the ringing began. Each tone seemed to stretch on forever in the silence of the room, amplifying the rush of his pulse and the tight ache in his throat.

Then, at last, the line clicked, and a familiar voice broke through the stillness.

“Roark?” Steven’s voice was immediately alert—no trace of grogginess, no irritation. In the background, Roark could hear the rapid clicking of a keyboard and the faint rustle of paper, the subtle soundtrack of Steven’s work. He had clearly not been asleep.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Roark croaked, unsure of what else to say. The words scraped out of him like gravel, his throat raw and dry. The sound made him flinch inwardly.

He hated how weak he sounded. Pathetic. Small. Surely, Steven could hear it too.

On the other end of the line, the typing stopped abruptly.

“Are you alright?” Steven asked, concern sharpening his voice. “You don’t sound well.”

“It’s nothing,” Roark lied automatically. He swallowed, wincing as a stubborn tickle rose at the back of his throat. “I hate to ask, but do you have any Tylenol? I can’t shake this headache.”

“I think so?” Steven replied, his voice going distant for a moment.

Roark listened, eyes closed, as the faint sounds filtered through the speaker—the scrape of a drawer, the rustle of plastic, the soft thud of something being moved on a table.

“Yeah, I found some,” Steven said after a few seconds. His tone was decisive now. “I’ll be there in a minute. Do you need anything else?”

“No,” Roark managed. The word was barely out before the tickle in his throat exploded into a harsh burst of coughing. He turned his head into his arm, muffling the sound, his entire chest protesting the effort.

When the fit passed, the silence on the line told him everything he needed to know.

Steven had already hung up.

Roark had only a moment to gather himself before a soft knock sounded at the door. It was gentle, but insistent enough to cut through his haze.

He groaned under his breath, forcing himself upright. The blankets slipped from his shoulders, and cold air assaulted his overheated skin. He caught the comforter and dragged it around himself, wrapping it like a shield.

The walk to the door felt far longer than it actually was. Each step was slow, unsteady, as if the carpet were shifting beneath his feet.

The doorknob felt oddly heavy in his hand, as if its weight had doubled since the afternoon.

He didn’t have to ask who it was.

He knew.

He cracked the door open and stepped aside, letting Steven slip quietly into the room.

Steven’s presence felt like a rush of fresh air. Roark’s gaze tracked him as he moved inside with his usual, unhurried grace. In one hand, Steven carried a small, travel-sized white bottle; in the other, a bottle of water. A sleek black bag, about the size of a book, hung over his shoulder.

Roark blinked, taken off guard.

Steven wasn’t in his usual polished attire. Instead, he wore what could only be described as pajamas—soft, faded sweatpants that hung loosely around his hips and a snug, well-worn t-shirt bearing a logo Roark didn’t recognize, though he guessed it belonged to some university in Hoenn. It clung comfortably to him, hinting at old familiarity rather than the crisp formality Roark was used to seeing.

His hair, immaculately styled as always, was still perfectly in place, proof that he hadn’t been asleep when Roark called. He’d simply stopped what he was doing and come.

“Roark?”

The warmth in Steven’s voice snapped Roark out of his daze.

Without realizing it, Roark had drifted closer. Steven closed the last bit of distance between them and lifted his hand, palm open and gentle, then laid it against Roark’s forehead.

His touch was cool. It sent a faint shiver through Roark’s overheated skin.

Steven’s eyes tightened almost immediately. “Goodness,” he said softly, sympathy threading through every syllable. “I was worried about this earlier, but with the heat we’ve been exposed to, it was hard to tell.”

Roark couldn’t help himself. He leaned ever so slightly into Steven’s hand, greedily soaking up the comfort and coolness. The simple contact, the quiet certainty in Steven’s voice, loosened something tight inside him.

For the first time all day, he believed things might actually be okay.

“Why don’t we get you back to bed?” Steven suggested gently as he placed a small white bottle on the nightstand along with the water. He slid his arm around Roark’s shoulders in a careful, supportive gesture, mindful of Roark’s oversensitive skin. This time, he moved slowly enough to give Roark time to lean into the contact—or pull away.

Roark did neither. He simply let himself be guided.

Steven steadied him as they crossed the short distance back to the bed. The mattress dipped as Roark sat, then lay back, tension easing bit by bit as he sank into the now familiar softness. Steven pulled the blankets up, tucking them around him without fuss.

He picked up the white bottle, rattled it once to confirm the contents, then shook two tablets into his hand. “This will help with your fever,” he said, offering the pills and water.

Roark’s hand shook slightly as he took them. He swallowed the tablets with small, careful sips, the cool water sliding down his burning throat like relief made tangible.

Guilt pricked at him as Steven reached out and brushed a few damp strands of hair away from his forehead. The light, lingering touch made his skin tingle.

“You don’t have to stay,” Roark murmured, his voice catching on the edges of his words. The tremor in it betrayed how raw he felt. “Really. I’ll be okay.”

“I want to,” Steven replied quietly, without even a moment’s hesitation. His tone was soft but certain.

He settled on the edge of the bed, posture relaxed but attentive, his presence a steady line of warmth at Roark’s side. Then, with a kind of tentative tenderness that felt almost too intimate, he let his fingers slide gently through Roark’s tousled hair.

The gesture was unfamiliar between them, but it didn’t feel wrong. It felt… safe. Honest. Laden with something unspoken that neither quite dared to name.

“I need to know that you’re safe,” Steven added softly.

Roark’s eyelids fluttered, heavy with fever and medication. The fog in his mind thickened, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. The words reached him, but only partially, as if from a distance.

Steven watched as Roark slowly surrendered to sleep once more. A pang of helplessness lanced through him. He could sense how far away Roark was drifting, beyond the reach of conversation or reassurance. But it was good that he was resting.

As the lines of Roark’s face softened, Steven leaned down. A faint smile tugged at his lips, tinged with both affection and worry. He brushed his lips lightly against Roark’s forehead—a brief, careful kiss, barely more than a whisper of contact.

“I’m right here, so rest easy,” he murmured as he slipped Roark’s glasses from his face and placed them carefully on the nightstand.

He knew he shouldn’t be this affected. He knew he should keep a clearer distance. But the protectiveness swelling in his chest overrode caution as he kept a vigilant watch over the man who meant so much to him.

Even as the weight of his concern pressed between them like a third presence in the room, Steven held his position. He was determined to be an anchor in the churning storm of Roark’s fear and fever.

Once he felt reasonably sure that Roark had slipped into a deeper, steadier sleep—his breathing even, his forehead a touch cooler already beneath Steven’s fingers—Steven carefully withdrew his hand and reached into his pocket for his phone.

He eased himself back against the polished wooden headboard. The cool, smooth surface pressed against the back of his head and shoulders, grounding him slightly. In his rush to get to Roark, he’d left his laptop behind—a mistake that now sat like a small weight in the back of his mind. There was work to be done, reports to finish, League matters that would not wait simply because he was tired and worried.

The flood of unread emails and missed messages on his phone only confirmed it.

He began working through them, one by one. His fingers moved quickly over the screen, drafting replies, flagging items for later, forwarding information where it needed to go. All the while, the low, steady sound of Roark’s breathing filled the quiet room.

When at last he had dealt with the most pressing matters, he let the phone drop gently to his lap and leaned his head fully back. A wave of discomfort washed through him.

To say he felt sore would have been an understatement.

The bed, though plush, wasn’t his. The way it dipped, the way the frame creaked softly with every shift, felt foreign. Every tiny sound seemed loud in the otherwise still room, and every move he made felt like a risk of disturbing the sleeping figure beside him.

So he forced himself to stay still.

He stared at the ceiling, counted his breaths, listened to the even, reassuring rhythm of Roark’s.

Slowly, his own eyelids began to droop. The exhaustion he’d been holding at bay all day crept up on him with quiet persistence. The cadence of Roark’s breath, the soft warmth at his shoulder, wove together into an unexpected lullaby.

Just as he felt himself starting to drift, a subtle shift in the mattress pulled him back.

Half asleep, he became aware of movement. Roark stirred, murmuring something unintelligible. Then, instinctively, he shifted closer, his fever-warm body pressing against Steven’s side as though seeking out the nearest source of comfort.

A small smile, unbidden and soft, curved Steven’s lips. Without thinking, his hand dropped to Roark’s hair again, fingers threading gently through the soft, slightly damp strands.

The tension that had hummed in his body all day began to ease. His heartbeat slowed. The constant litany of worries faded into the background.

At some point, without meaning to, Steven let his eyes close.

He surrendered to sleep not alone, but with Roark’s weight against him and his hand still resting protectively in Roark’s hair.

The peace didn’t last.

At first, Steven only half-registered the small movements—the twitch of a leg, the shift of a shoulder. Then the bed shook slightly, and Roark’s breathing, once steady, grew ragged.

Roark’s body began to tremble, tremors building into full-body shudders as he tossed and turned. His features twisted in distress, brows knitting together, lips parting as broken fragments of words slipped out.

Steven woke fully, heart leaping into his throat.

“Roark,” he whispered, sitting up slightly, careful not to jostle him too much. “Hey… hey.”

But Roark seemed trapped somewhere else entirely, caught in the grip of a nightmare. His arms jerked, his hand clawing weakly at the bedding as if trying to escape something he couldn’t see.

Steven reached out and caught Roark’s wrist, gently but firmly. The skin beneath his fingers was hot, the tendons taut with tension.

Roark recoiled, trying to tug away, eyes flying open—but the look in them was wild, unfocused, as if he were still halfway inside whatever horror his mind had conjured.

“Shh, hey, you’re okay,” Steven murmured, his voice a low, steady whisper. “You’re safe. I’m here. It’s just a dream.”

He repeated the words like a mantra, his thumb stroking slow, reassuring circles over the inside of Roark’s wrist. Little by little, the frantic strength bled out of Roark’s struggling.

His breathing eased. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. The terror in his eyes dimmed to confusion, then to exhaustion.

For a moment, a heavy silence settled over them.

Roark slid away slowly, putting physical distance between them as though he needed the space to remember where he was. He drew his knees up to his chest and scooted back until he sat propped against the headboard on the opposite side of the bed.

Steven let him go, making no move to follow.

He understood.

Respecting the unspoken need for space, Steven shifted slightly to give him room. He kept his posture relaxed, his hands resting loosely against his thighs, not reaching out again.

Still visibly shaken, Roark curled his legs tighter to his chest. His arms wrapped around them, and he rested his chin on his knees, staring at some unseen point on the far wall.

Time stretched in the smothering silence of the room. The clock ticked softly; the HVAC hummed; neither of them spoke.

Finally, Steven broke the silence.

“Why don’t you sip on this,” he suggested gently, reaching for the bottle of water. The plastic was still cool in his hand as he extended it across the space between them. “You need to stay hydrated.”

Roark glanced at the bottle, then at Steven. After a moment, he nodded and accepted it with both hands, his fingers brushing Steven’s briefly.

He twisted the cap off with a faint crackle and took a small, cautious sip. The water slid down his sore throat, soothing some of the dryness and calming the lingering tightness in his chest.

He found himself studying Steven’s face as he drank—the steady concern there, the absence of irritation or judgment, the small lines of worry that hadn’t faded since earlier.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Roark said finally, his voice a rough whisper. He stared at the bottle instead of at Steven. “I’m not sure why I called you.”

A soft light flickered across Steven’s features, his expression softening. “It’s no bother at all,” he replied easily, and meant it. Warmth laced through his words. “In fact, I’m glad you did.” The words came out softer as he handed Roark his glasses.

Roark’s eyes snapped up, widening. His heart kicked into a faster rhythm, suddenly too loud in his own ears. “You… are?” he managed, the words stumbling out.

He couldn’t quite process it—couldn’t reconcile the idea that Steven might have wanted him to reach out, that his presence here wasn’t just an obligation or reflex.

Steven’s laughter came then, low and gentle. It wasn’t mocking; it was fond. The sound wrapped around Roark like something he wanted to cling to forever.

“Yes, I am,” Steven said. But as the admission left his lips, a subtle shift crept into his expression.

The brightness in his eyes dimmed, giving way to something more introspective. His gaze drifted slightly, no longer quite so light.

Roark watched the change with a tightening in his chest.

“Do you get nightmares often?” Steven asked, his voice dropping into a quiet murmur. The question was soft —as though he already suspected the answer and was bracing himself for it.

Roark hesitated. The weight of the question pressed against the raw edges of his mind, stirring memories he’d tried not to think about.

“Not really,” he whispered at last. It wasn’t entirely true, but not quite a lie either. “Though… I do sometimes dream about the cave-in.”

The admission felt like dropping a stone into still water. The ripples spread outward, touching places in him he’d been avoiding.

His gaze skittered away, fixing on a random patch of wall to avoid the full intensity of Steven’s.

Surely someone like Steven—strong, gentle, composed even in crisis—would hear that and find it… trivial. Foolish. Childish. Roark braced himself for the faintest hint of judgment.

It never came.

Instead, Steven nodded slowly, understanding flickering in his eyes. A bittersweet smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I do too,” he admitted quietly.

The honesty in his tone was like a key turning in a lock.

Roark’s heart skipped. “About the accident?” he asked, his voice hushed. He wanted to understand—wanted to know if Steven carried the same shadows he did.

“About a lot of things,” Steven replied, gaze drifting as if he were looking back at private ghosts only he could see. “It’s hard to sleep most nights.”

There was a vulnerability there, naked and raw. For a moment—just a moment—it made Steven seem less like the unshakeable Champion and more like someone Roark could reach for.

“I didn’t know that,” Roark mumbled. The realization sent a surge of empathy through him, mingled with a protective urge he didn’t quite know what to do with.

He wanted to move closer, to say something that would help—but the words tangled and died before they could form.

Steven let out a soft chuckle, the sound lighter than the subject but not dismissive. “Well, it’s not something I advertise,” he said.

The faint humor in his voice wrapped around the heavy truth of his confession, easing the weight without erasing it. In that small space between their vulnerabilities, something warm flickered to life.

An unexpected heat pricked behind Roark’s eyes.

He ducked his head quickly, hoping to hide the way his face crumpled for a second under the strain of everything he was feeling. It infuriated him—being seen like this. Exposed. Weak.

It infuriated him even more that it was Steven seeing him this way. This was only exacerbated by the confusing nature of Steven’s actions; every word spoken felt full of hidden meanings that he struggled to decipher.

For months now, ever since the accident, he’d been wrestling with feelings he’d tried desperately to bury. A fondness for Steven had been there long before, quiet and contained, but the cave-in had cracked something open.

That fondness had grown in the aftermath, taking root in the spaces where gratitude, fear, and admiration overlapped.

He had sworn, silently, never to indulge. Not while Steven was still with Wallace. Not when there was nothing good that could come from it.

And yet, nothing he did made those feelings fade and he was being forced to confront the truth.

If anything, they deepened.

What made it worse, more confusing, was the way Steven himself had changed. The attentiveness. The protective edge in his behavior. The subtle, lingering touches that seemed to hover on the border of friendship and something more.

Every look, every soft word, every moment of concern fed a tiny, treacherous hope inside him.

But no—he told himself. That couldn’t be right. He had to be imagining it. Seeing what he wanted to see.

Didn’t he?

His thoughts spun, tangled and desperate.

And then, without warning, the world narrowed around him.

Steven’s lips pressed against his.

The kiss landed with a sudden, fervent heat, cutting cleanly through Roark’s spiraling thoughts. For one stunned heartbeat, he froze.

Steven’s hand slid around his hip, firm and sure, pulling him closer. Their bodies met in a rush of warmth, the connection immediate and intense. Roark’s fingers clenched in the fabric of Steven’s shirt, clinging like a man afraid of being pulled out to sea.

The kiss itself was brief—seconds only—but for Roark, it stretched into something far longer. Every second expanded, packed with the dizzying realization that this was real. That Steven’s lips were actually on his. That this wasn’t some fever dream.

When Steven finally pulled back, he didn’t retreat fully. He rested their foreheads together, the cool smoothness of his skin a stark contrast to Roark’s feverish heat.

Roark squeezed his eyes shut, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt. Tears threatened, hot and insistent, blurring the edges of everything.

“We—” His voice cracked, rough and unsteady, the word catching in his throat. “We can’t…”

With slow, deliberate care, Steven reached out and hooked a finger under Roark’s chin, tipping his face up.

Their eyes met—steel-blue locked with deep cordovan brown. The conflict, the longing, the fear, the hope—everything they’d both been holding back seemed to collide in that gaze.

“Why not?” Steven asked softly. There was no impatience, only gentle urgency. “I thought you wanted this.”

The words cut straight through Roark’s defenses.

His heart raced as he bit down on his lower lip, a nervous habit that only heightened his awareness of how close they still were. “I do, but…” The words tangled in his throat, sharp and painful, refusing to form cleanly.

“But?” Steven prompted gently, his voice a soothing caress, as if yearning to unravel the tightly wound bundle of Roark’s doubts and fears.

“But you’re… with Wallace,” Roark finally admitted, the words escaping his lips in a choked whisper, a confession laced with the bitter taste of reality. The name tasted like ash on his tongue.

Saying it aloud felt like tearing open a wound he’d carefully stitched shut. The reality of it crashed over him, threatening to drown the fragile, beautiful possibility of whatever had just sparked between them.

His gaze dropped, the fragile scaffolding of their moment crumbling. He pressed his forehead against Steven’s chest, shutting his eyes as if he could hide from the hurt there.

The steady rhythm of Steven’s heartbeat thudded against his ear.

“Roark, please look at me.”

There was a note of seriousness in Steven’s voice that broke through Roark’s spiraling despair. It was sharper, clearer than before, carrying an urgency that made Roark’s breath catch. Only a moment ago, he had been gentle and calming.

Reluctantly, he lifted his head. Fear and hope collided violently in his chest as he met Steven’s gaze.

“I’m not with Wallace,” Steven said, voice steady. “I haven’t been for some time now.”

The words hit Roark like a shock.

For a heartbeat, he could only stare. Then relief flooded him—hot, overwhelming, almost painful in its intensity. It was like someone had lifted a crushing weight off his chest, like chains he hadn’t realized were digging into him had suddenly shattered.

He searched Steven’s face desperately for any hint of doubt or deception.

He found none.

Steven’s eyes were clear, unwavering. Honest. A promise of no betrayal.

Steven lifted his hand again, his thumb brushing gently across Roark’s cheek. His fingers were cool against Roark’s overheated skin, catching stray tears that had escaped despite Roark’s best efforts to contain them.

“Please don’t cry,” he murmured. His voice was barely above a whisper, but every word was rich with care.

“I’m… not meaning to,” Roark stammered. Emotion clogged his throat, making it difficult to form even simple sentences. “I can’t stop.”

He folded in against Steven’s chest again, burying his face in the warm, comforting presence there. It was mortifying, being reduced to tears like this, clinging like a child. It stung as it mingled with a residual fear. He loathed being seen like this.

But he couldn’t pull away as the tears fell freely, as if they had been waiting for an unseen dam to break,

“Shh, shh. Oh honey, it’s okay. You’re still sick,” Steven soothed, the term of endearment slipping out without thought.

He wrapped his arms around Roark, drawing him in close as if to shield him from all of the worries of the world, both real and imaginative. One hand came to rest between Roark’s shoulder blades, the other resuming its slow, comforting path through his hair.

“You’ll only make yourself worse if you keep this up,” Steven continued gently, his heart aching as he watched Roark in distress. “You need to rest.”

With a gentle tug, Steven untangled Roark’s clinging hand from the fabric of his shirt, one careful finger at a time. Roark’s knuckles were pale from the force of his grip, the skin hot and slightly damp with sweat. Steven’s thumb brushed over the back of Roark’s hand in a slow, soothing arc before he finally freed himself.

He guided Roark back against the pillows, helping him nestle into the plush comfort of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath Roark’s slight weight, the blankets swallowing him up in layers of soft warmth that felt almost obscenely gentle compared to the chill draft creeping in beneath the door. Wrapped in the cocoon of blankets, he looked smaller somehow, younger.

Steven lingered for a moment, watching Roark’s chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven breaths. A stray lock of hair clung damply to Roark’s temple, and Steven resisted the urge to brush it back, uncertain if the contact would comfort or startle him. His own shoulders felt heavy, as though each breath had to push through a dense fog of worry before it could fully leave his lungs.

He turned to leave, intending to fetch some fresh water from the bathroom sink to help soothe Roark’s raw, overworked throat. The room was dim, lit by a single lamp that cast long shadows along the walls, and as Steven moved, his own shadow stretched and distorted, momentarily blotting out the soft light around Roark’s bed. He’d only taken a single step when something warm and sudden closed around his wrist.

Roark’s fingers slipped over Steven’s skin with startling urgency, his grip clamping down with a strength born less from physical power and more from absolute desperation. His hand trembled, the fine shake running from his fingertips up through Steven’s arm. Steven froze mid-stride, the faint jingle of the bottle on the bedside table the only sound in the stillness.

“Please don’t go!”

Roark’s voice was a desperate whisper, hoarse and frayed, barely more than a breath. Yet the words seemed to slice cleanly through the quiet, reverberating in the small space between them. The plea was laced with an aching, almost childlike fear that dug straight beneath Steven’s ribs and took hold there, tugging at something deep and unguarded. Each syllable shivered with the threat of breaking, as if speaking at all cost Roark more effort than he had to spare.

Steven turned back fully, his gaze dropping to where Roark’s fingers were locked around his wrist. The imprint of that grip felt like a brand, hot and unyielding. He could see the slight tremor running through Roark’s hand, the way his nails pressed just shy of painful into Steven’s skin. Slowly, Steven lifted his eyes to Roark’s face.

Those glistening eyes, rimmed red and glassy with unshed tears, met his in a raw, unguarded stare. Fear clung there like a shadow, thick and immovable, threaded with exhaustion and something dangerously close to panic. Steven’s chest tightened; it was as though someone had reached inside and clenched a fist around his heart.

He offered a sad, gentle smile, the expression pulling at his mouth but never quite reaching the worry etched between his brows. His heart ached for Roark’s pain, for the way even the simple prospect of being alone for a moment could send him spiraling. The sight of that fragile, desperate expression, the barely-contained tremor in Roark’s lower lip, pulled at every instinct Steven had to protect, to shield, to stay.

Carefully, he shifted his hand, his thumb brushing once more over the back of Roark’s fingers. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low and steady, as if speaking too loudly might shatter what thin control Roark still held. With painstaking care, he began to ease Roark’s hand away from his wrist. He didn’t pull, didn’t jerk, just peeled each finger back one by one, pausing at every hitch of Roark’s breath to keep the moment as gentle, as unthreatening, as he could.

“I won’t,” he said quietly. “I’m just getting you some more water.” The words came out slow and deliberate, each word a soft promise shaped for Roark alone. He held Roark’s gaze as he spoke, letting the reassurance settle, trying to make it clear that this wasn’t an excuse to slip away, that there was no door quietly closing between them.

“Promise?” Roark’s voice wavered, the single word catching somewhere in his raw throat. He sniffed, the sound small and unsteady. His eyes were still glistening with tears that hadn’t yet fallen, hovering there as if too afraid to breach the surface. The vulnerability in his expression laid him utterly bare; there was no pretense, no walls, only the stark, unvarnished fear of being left behind.

He searched Steven’s face with a kind of fierce intensity, as though memorizing every line, every flicker of expression, trying to gauge whether this promise would hold where others might have broken. His fingers, now resting against Steven’s palm instead of clinging around his wrist, curled faintly, as if ready to grab hold again at the slightest hint of retreat.

“I promise,” Steven replied softly

He made quick work of filling the empty water bottle before returning to the bed. The rush of water from the tap was a brief, hollow roar in the otherwise quiet room, fading into a steady trickle as he tightened the cap. His bare feet whispered against the floorboards on the way back, that small, familiar sound a reassurance even to himself.

“See,” he started gently as he lowered himself back onto the mattress, careful not to jostle it too much, “I didn’t go anywhere.”

He hated seeing Roark so upset. The fear in Roark’s eyes—too bright, too glassy with fever—twisted something in his chest. He carded his fingers slowly through Roark’s damp hair, separating the sweaty strands and smoothing them back from his forehead. Roark inched closer with a soft, broken sound, curling into him until his nose was pressed against Steven’s sternum. Steven shifted his arm to cradle him more securely, letting the other man settle with his ear over Steven’s heartbeat. They stayed like that, breathing in time, until Roark began to shiver once more.

The tremors started small, just a faint vibration against Steven’s ribs, then grew more insistent. Thinking on his feet, Steven shifted his weight and maneuvered them both back under the blankets, guiding Roark down without breaking contact. The sheets were cool against Steven’s skin, but they trapped Roark’s feverish warmth quickly, turning the little pocket of space beneath the covers into a stuffy cocoon.

Roark seemed content with this, his fingers curling weakly in the fabric of Steven’s T‑shirt as if afraid he might slip away again. His breaths came in shallow puffs against Steven’s chest, each exhale hot and damp, and every so often a soft, sleep-slurred mumble escaped him. The heat radiating off Roark, though, was relentless, a heavy, suffocating blanket layered over the actual one. Sweat began to prickle at the back of Steven’s neck and gather between his shoulder blades, making the cotton cling to his skin and the pillow feel uncomfortably warm.

His instinct was to peel himself away, to throw the covers back and let the cooler air of the room wash over him. His body ached for space, for a breath that didn’t taste like fever and stale air. Still, despite that, he stayed planted in place with Roark on his chest, one hand resting between Roark’s shoulder blades, the other still combing through his hair in slow, steady passes. Every time he thought about shifting even an inch, Roark’s fingers tightened in his shirt, the small, unconscious plea enough to keep him still.

Once they were like that, cocooned together beneath the blankets, it didn’t take long for Roark’s shivering to ease. The tremors smoothed out into the occasional twitch, his breathing evening into a more rhythmic rise and fall. Steven focused on that rhythm, counting each inhale and exhale, using it as an anchor against the oppressive heat. The room settled into a hushed quiet broken only by Roark’s soft breathing and the faint creak of the room settling around them, and Steven let his eyes drift half-closed, content to be nothing more than a steady surface for Roark to cling to.

Once Roark’s fever had finally broken, Steven was at last able to sleep, surrendering fully to the clutches of exhaustion. For hours he had sat at Roark’s side, counting the seconds between each labored breath, watching the thin sheen of sweat gather and break across his brow. The room had felt unbearably small, the air thick with the sour tang of medicine and damp cloth, and every faint rustle or change in Roark’s breathing had sent a sharp jolt of fear through Steven’s chest.

When the heat finally began to ease from Roark’s skin and his breathing settled into a steadier rhythm, the tension that had held Steven upright drained out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped; the ache in his back and neck flared as though his body were only now allowed to register how long it had been clenched. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, lids heavy and grainy, each blink slower than the last. He shifted against the headboard, feeling the stiffness in his legs and the pins and needles prickling at his feet as he tried to stretch.

Relief came in slow, uncertain waves. Part of him still didn’t trust it, still waited for Roark to stir or gasp or burn with fever again. Steven laid the back of his hand against Roark’s forehead one more time, just to be sure. The skin was warm, but no longer scorching. Roark’s face, so drawn and tight before, had softened into something closer to rest. Steven let out a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and allowed his hand to fall back to his lap.

He leaned his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes for what he told himself would only be a moment. The quiet hum of the room—Roark’s steady breathing, the faint creak of the building settling, the distant murmur of voices in the hallway—folded around him like a heavy blanket. Each sound blurred together, losing its sharp edges as his thoughts began to drift.

Even in that thick, hazy drift toward sleep, a sliver of awareness dug in at the back of his mind. Morning was coming, whether he was ready for it or not. They still had a long day ahead of them: more questions with no good answers, more careful watching, more pretending that everything was under control. He pictured the tasks waiting for him, the faces he’d have to meet, the explanations he’d need to come up with when someone inevitably asked where he had been all night.

He knew he would have to get up earlier than he’d planned, slipping out before anyone came looking for him. He would have to straighten his clothes, wipe the fatigue from his face as best he could, and make it back to his room in time to pretend that this night had been ordinary—that he had slept in his own bed, that Roark had never come close to the edge.

That thought hovered on the edge of his fading consciousness, a dim, nagging reminder of everything still waiting for him beyond this small pocket of quiet. But for the first time in hours, the fear was not sharp enough to keep him awake. Steven let his hand rest loosely on the edge of Roark’s blanket, as if to reassure himself that he was truly still there, truly still breathing. His breaths slowed to match Roark’s, the rise and fall of their chests almost synchronized in the low light.

At last, the weight behind his eyes became too heavy to fight. The room blurred, the edges of his thoughts softening into formless shapes. He felt himself sliding down into sleep, not with the clean, easy surrender of someone unburdened, but with the desperate collapse of a body that had been held too long on the edge. He clung to the fragile peace of the moment—the cooled skin beneath his fingertips, the steady rhythm of Roark’s breathing, the temporary stillness of the world around them—knowing that when he woke, it would all start again.

Sleep didn’t last long for Steven, unfortunately. The dim, grey light of early morning crept in through the thin hotel curtains, pooling in the corners of the room and dragging him back toward consciousness. His eyes blinked open to a hazy blur, and a low groan slipped past his lips as a dull ache began to throb behind his temples—one of those headaches that came from too little real sleep and too many racing thoughts.

Beside him, Roark was still sleeping peacefully. His breathing was slow and even, a soft puff of air with each exhale. At some point during Steven’s brief, shallow nap, Roark had managed to tangle them together; one of Roark’s legs was thrown over Steven’s, and an arm rested heavy and warm across his waist. It was clingy in a way that might have annoyed him under different circumstances, but now it just made something tight and fierce twist in his chest.

He shifted carefully, trying to untangle himself without jostling Roark too much. It was like peeling himself out of a particularly determined Octillery’s grip—appropriate, really, considering how Roark tended to cling in his sleep. Octillary might be more accurate, he thought wryly.

He moved painfully slowly, inching Roark’s arm off his waist and sliding his leg free one careful centimeter at a time. Every time Roark’s fingers flexed against his side, Steven froze, breath caught, willing him not to wake. The room was so quiet that the rustle of sheets sounded deafening to Steven’s ears.

He was almost free of the covers, toes brushing against the cool air beyond the warm cocoon of the bed, when Roark stirred. A faint frown tugged at Roark’s brow, and he shifted, the mattress dipping with the motion.

Steven went completely still. Maybe if he didn’t move, if he barely even breathed, Roark would sink back into sleep. He held his breath, counting down in his head.

It didn’t work.

Roark’s eyes fluttered open, lashes dark against his pale skin as they brushed his cheeks. He squinted blearily at the light seeping in around the curtains and raised the heel of his hand to rub at one eye, knuckles dragging sleep away. After a moment of sluggish blinking and reorienting himself, he turned his head toward Steven and offered a slow, lopsided, lazy grin “Mornin’.”

Steven hesitated, then let himself sink back onto the edge of the mattress instead of standing. The bed springs protested softly beneath his weight.

“Morning,” he answered, tone gentler than he intended. Leaning in, he pressed a light kiss to Roark’s forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat as he gauged the heat of his skin. Cooler than last night, at least. “How are you holding up?”

Roark paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he actually took stock of himself. His gaze went unfocused for a moment, as though he were running through a quick checklist—head, chest, limbs, the remnants of fever.

“Better,” he mumbled at last, his words running together. A yawn ambushed him mid-sentence, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle it. “Just… tired.” His heavy-lidded eyes flicked toward Steven. “Where are you going?”

“Back to my room,” Steven replied as he straightened, pushing himself fully upright this time. “I need to shower and change clothes.” He reached down and gently tapped Roark on the nose with a fingertip when Roark’s mouth parted, clearly preparing to argue. “You should try to get some more sleep. Don’t argue.”

Roark’s mouth snapped shut, then pressed together in a thin line. He shifted, pushing the blanket back and bracing his hands on either side of him to sit up straighter. The headboard creaked faintly as he leaned back against it, pillow squishing under his shoulders.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said quietly, eyes dropping to the twisted sheets pooled in his lap. “I was being needy and a burden.”

Steven paused midway through gathering his things from the nightstand—phone, watch, his small medicine bag draped over the chair. He glanced back at Roark, his expression softening.

“There’s no need for an apology,” Steven said. He slipped his watch onto his wrist with practiced ease. “You were running a fever. You were scared. I’m not upset with you.” He carded his fingers through Roark’s tangled hair as he added “Besides, you weren’t being needy, you were being human.”

Roark made a faint, disbelieving sound under his breath, shifting again as if he meant to get out of bed. He swung one leg over the side, feet searching for his boots, but Steven crossed the space between them in three quick, easy strides.

“Hey,” Steven said, and pressed a firm hand to Roark’s chest, stopping him before he could fully rise. The warmth beneath his palm was reassuring, no longer scalding as it had been the night before.

“I’m not thrilled with the idea of you going back into the cavern so soon after your fever’s broken,” Steven said calmly, though the firmness in his voice left little room for misinterpretation. He withdrew his hand and folded his arms across his chest, every inch of him composed, even if worry prickled along the edges of that composure.

Roark looked up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine. I swear.”

Steven exhaled slowly, a controlled breath that helped keep the irritation out of his tone. “I don’t have time to debate this with you,” he said, the words coming out on a sigh. “So I’m going to ask you to stay here, but the decision is yours.”

He held Roark’s gaze for a moment longer, as if trying to silently impress on him how serious he was, then turned and headed for the door. The soft click of it closing behind him left Roark alone with his thoughts and the faint lingering of Steven’s cologne.

Steven made quick work of showering, the hot water cascading down his back, a welcome change from the tension that had settled there overnight. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steam envelop him, trying to shake off the fatigue-induced headache that lay heavy behind his eyelids, a persistent reminder of his restless night.

He glanced in the mirror as he dressed, forgoing his usual meticulous style—pressed shirt, neatly fastened vest, polished shoes—for a more relaxed outfit of denim jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that hugged his frame. He pulled on sturdy boots, the kind that could withstand the wear of the rugged terrain he was about to face. The only touch of formality he maintained was the gleaming stick pin on his collar, a prized piece of jewelry that held his Metagrossite.

On his way out of the hotel, he passed through the modest breakfast area, the smell of coffee and toasted bread heavy in the air. He grabbed a muffin from the breakfast bar without really paying attention to what kind, barely glancing at the selection before moving on. It tasted vaguely of blueberries and cardboard as he ate it on the walk over, his mind already on the day ahead.

As he stepped into the lobby of the hotel, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread wafted seductively through the modest breakfast area. The sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the tables while patrons buzzed with quiet conversations. Steven grabbed a muffin from the breakfast bar, barely registering the flavor selection as his mind drifted ahead to the excavation site. He took a bite, the texture bland and vaguely reminiscent of blueberries mixed with cardboard, but he hardly registered it as he chewed, his thoughts focused elsewhere.

When he arrived at the excavation site, a familiar low hum of activity enveloped him. The sounds echoed softly off the rock walls, punctuated by the rhythmic clink of tools meeting stone and the distant whir of machinery as it carried out its duties. The scorching air of the cavern wrapped around him, hot and laden with the earthy scent of minerals and dust—a reminder of the potential treasures buried within. Dust motes floated like tiny stars in the beams of artificial lighting overhead, highlighting the industrious atmosphere.

However, any sense of excitement that might have stirred in him was quickly eclipsed by a wave of irritation upon spotting Roark. There he stood, amid the flurry of miners and heavy equipment, clad in his typical work gear: a hard hat snugly perched on his head, gloves laboriously pulled over calloused hands, and boots caked with dirt from the previous day’s work. The determined set of his shoulders revealed a man who was resolutely focused, issuing instructions with a voice that carried authority even through his illness. Yet, every so often, he paused to lift a hand to his temple, a silent testament to the throbbing headache that lurked behind his eyes.

A spike of irritation and worry lanced through Steven’s chest. He had asked him—no, he had practically begged him—to stay in bed. Of course Roark would be stubborn about it and dive headfirst back into their work. It was a quality Steven admired and detested in equal measure, and he couldn’t help but wonder how he could get his boyfriend — was that what they were?— to realize when it was okay to take a step back.

The day crawled by, each hour dragging more slowly than the last under the weight of Steven’s fading patience. He threw himself into his work—evaluating stone samples, checking stability reports, examining fossil fragments with a scrutinizing eye—but Roark’s presence tugged at the edge of his awareness like a persistent thread.

What made it worse were the glances. Timid, flicker-fast side glances from Roark, never lingering long enough to become outright staring. Every time Steven looked up from a particularly stubborn rock sample, he would catch Roark looking his way… only for the younger man to jerk his gaze aside, pretending to be focused on a clipboard or a conversation.

Whether those looks were fueled by nervousness, embarrassment, or fear of Steven’s anger, he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that the awkward silence stretching between them was becoming unbearable. They needed to talk about last night. About what had been said. About what it meant.

Cynthia’s gaze didn’t help matters. He could feel it on him—pointed, knowing, far too perceptive for his liking. At one point, when he let his shoulders sag and rubbed the bridge of his nose, he glanced up and caught her watching him with a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and sympathy.

He bit back the urge to groan and instead focused on the pile of stones waiting for his inspection. It seemed to grow faster than he could work through it, as if every time he cleared three samples, four more were dropped at his feet. He set his jaw and kept going, jotting down notes, sorting pieces according to type and potential significance.

By the time the day wound down and they were packing up, the muscles in his back ached from bending over tables and equipment all day. As he straightened and stretched, he couldn’t help but notice the way Roark was moving—efficient, rushed, like he was trying to escape before Steven could corner him. The younger man gathered his gear with almost frantic energy, avoiding eye contact with everyone, especially Steven.

Just as Roark was about to slip away down one of the side tunnels leading back toward the surface, Steven reached out and caught his wrist. His grip was firm, but not harsh, fingers wrapping around Roark’s work-roughened skin.

Roark’s steps halted mid-stride. He turned back, eyes wide, the surprise there quickly chased by a flicker of apprehension.

Steven stepped closer, closing the distance between them so that the murmur of the remaining workers faded into the background. He leaned in, his voice low enough that only Roark could hear.

“We need to talk about last night,” he whispered.

“O-okay…” Roark stuttered, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. His gaze darted around the cavern, flicking over the miners still gathering their tools and equipment. A few of them were watching with poorly disguised curiosity.

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Steven suggested, straightening and releasing Roark’s wrist. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching stiffly, a crack sounding faintly from somewhere in his neck. “It’s been a long day.”

Roark nodded, the movement quick and jerky, then fell into step behind Steven as they made their way out of the cavern. He kept his eyes on the rocky ground, trying his best to ignore the lingering looks from the miners as they passed. Gossip traveled fast down here, and the last thing he wanted was to fuel the rumor mill any further.

The walk back into town was mostly silent. The fading light of evening cast long shadows across the path, and the air held a lingering chill from the depths of the underground. Steven walked a half step ahead, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression drawn and contemplative.

Roark didn’t dare break the quiet. Every time he glanced sideways at Steven, he caught the same distant flicker of concentration crossing his face, like Steven was turning something over and over in his mind, weighing angles, replaying conversations.

By the time they reached the small restaurant, the low murmur of conversation and the clink of dishes felt almost jarringly loud after the hush of the tunnels. Warm light spilled through the windows, carrying with it the smell of grilled food and coffee.

As they stepped inside, Steven paused near the entrance and turned to Roark. “Is this okay?” he asked, tilting his head toward the booths lining the walls and the scattering of tables in the center of the room.

Roark silently nodded again, a quick, automatic motion. He wasn’t about to be picky; he would have agreed to just about anywhere if it meant Steven was still willing to sit with him, to talk to him. A small part of him was still surprised that Steven hadn’t just kept his distance altogether.

They were led to a small table near the window. The vinyl seats creaked softly as they slid into place across from each other. Steven picked up the menu, scanned it briefly, then set it aside.

When the server came by, Steven ordered a water, his voice even and polite. Roark, caught a bit off guard, just followed suit and asked for the same. The server nodded and left them alone again, the brief interaction doing nothing to dispel the awkwardness hanging between them.

They sat in silence for several long moments. Steven lightly traced the rim of his glass with one fingertip, eyes fixed somewhere on the table, lost in thought. Roark watched him from across the table, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Eventually, the pressure of the quiet became too much for Roark to take. His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee beneath the table, and he finally cleared his throat.

“So,” Roark started hesitantly, voice low. “What does this mean for us?”

Steven’s hand stilled. He set his cup down on the table with deliberate care, the faint clink of glass against wood punctuating the air between them. His lips pulled downward slightly as he thought, eyes lifting to meet Roark’s.

“What do you want it to mean?” he asked.

Roark shifted in his seat, the vinyl squeaking in protest. He twisted the napkin between his fingers, eyes dropping to the table for a moment before he forced himself to look back up.

“I didn’t think you would want anything to do with me after that,” he admitted, his voice quiet but honest. The memory of feverish rambling and clinging desperation flashed behind his eyes, making his stomach knot.

“Roark, I didn’t mind,” Steven said, his tone steady and reassuring. “I already told you that.” He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm, studying Roark with that same patient intensity he used on rare fossils. “We will make this work, if you really want this.”

He let the words hang for a moment, giving Roark space to breathe. “I just need to know what you want.”

Roark drew in a slow breath, feeling his pulse thrum in his ears. Underneath the lingering embarrassment and uncertainty, there was something else—something solid and insistent. He straightened a little in his chair, as if bracing himself.

“I want this,” Roark replied. For the first time since last night, his voice carried the same quiet confidence he usually had when he talked about the mine, or his work, or anything else he truly believed in.

Steven’s eyes softened at that. Roark felt heat rush to his cheeks when Steven leaned forward across the table, closing the distance just enough to press his lips lightly against Roark’s forehead. The touch was brief, chaste, but impossibly gentle.

“Then we will make it work,” Steven said.

And for the first time since the fever and the fear and the uncertainty, Roark believed him.