Chapter Text
The event hums like a hive dipped in champagne. Cameras flare, guests sparkle, and Joss glides through the choreography with practiced warmth. The brand reps adore him, the fans adore him, and the press is eating up every sculpted angle he offers.
His phone buzzes once.
He ignores it.
The second buzz nudges against his thigh with more insistence.
Another unknown number.
Probably another spam call. Or worse, someone pretending to be someone.
He silences it and pockets the thought.
During the photowall rotation, the phone vibrates again, harsher, longer, as though it refuses to be dismissed this time. Joss’s manager, standing behind a velvet divider, notices the flicker of irritation cross his face and extends her hand.
“I’ll take it,” she whispers, already slipping into her backstage efficiency.
Joss hands over the phone without breaking his smile for the cameras. The moment passes. The event moves on. His manager’s figure blurs into the backstage bustle.
He doesn’t hear her conversation.
He doesn’t even notice her absence.
There’s too much noise. Too much light.
He performs. He shakes hands, answers questions, signs a few carefully controlled fan items. The professional mask never cracks.
Only at the end, when the final curtain of applause falls and he’s ushered toward the private changing room, does he catch the manager’s expression waiting for him by the door.
Her face isn’t shocked.
It’s controlled.
Too controlled.
A strange tension coils under his ribs.
But she doesn’t speak. Not yet.
Just nods him toward the dressing room.
Inside, the room is quiet. Cool. The only sound is the muffled throb of music two floors below. Joss loosens his tie, unguided hands working at the knot. He changes into a black tee and jeans, letting the event armor slide off his shoulders piece by piece.
His manager waits until he’s seated to unspool her breath.
“Joss… we need to talk before you go home.”
He freezes halfway through tying his shoe.
She sits across from him, notepad in hand but untouched. “That call earlier. I didn’t interrupt the event because I wasn’t sure what to make of it yet. But… it wasn’t a scam.”
Joss’s brow tightens. “What kind of call?”
She hesitates, and that alone sends a cold flick through him.
“It was from social services.”
He stares. The words don’t fit the shape of his evening. “Why would they call me?”
“They said there was an accident. A woman… passed away earlier today.”
His heartbeat gives a single, deep thud. But still—this isn’t enough information. It isn’t anything yet.
“And?” His voice stays level, though it edges toward sharpness.
“The woman has a child. A boy, about two years old.”
Something prickles down his arms. Social services? A child? How does that involve him?
He waits for the punchline. The real reason. The mistake.
His manager’s voice softens. “Your name was listed under paternal information.”
The room stills.
Joss’s first reaction isn’t panic.
Or guilt.
Or revelation.
It’s suspicion—clean, sharp, and deeply ingrained from years of being a public figure.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he says, leaning back slowly. “People pull things like this all the time. Use my name. Forge documents. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I know,” she says. “Which is why I didn’t tell you immediately. I asked them for verification. They’re sending over official documents and requesting a DNA test as soon as possible.”
He exhales through his nose, tension flaring behind his eyes. “So they want me to come in.”
“They do. And Joss…” She hesitates again. “They said there are no other known relatives. The child’s been alone since the accident.”
He rubs his forehead. A two-year-old. Alone. And someone used his name. Or… someone didn’t?
His thoughts scrape against half-buried memories. Nothing clear. Nothing certain. Faces blur together in his mind, threaded with years of events, travels, brief connections that never took root.
“You don’t think this is real, do you?” His voice is low.
“I think,” she says carefully, “that the documents looked real enough to warrant checking ourselves. And that the child needs someone to show up until things are confirmed.”
Silence settles between them, softer this time. Not heavy. Just waiting.
Joss’s breath slips out, long and controlled.
“I’ll go,” he says eventually. “But I’m not assuming anything until we see the paperwork. Or the test.”
“Of course. I’ve already called the car around.”
He nods, but inside, something uneasy ripples.
Not fear.
Not acceptance.
Just a strange pull in his chest he can’t quite explain.
A child.
A claim.
His name.
None of it fits.
But the night suddenly feels colder.
—
The car ride is too silent.
Joss sits in the back seat, phone in hand but untouched, the city passing by in streaks of yellow and white. His manager sits beside him, scrolling through emails from the agency, reviewing documents that look official enough to tighten the knot in her expression.
“Remember,” she says softly, the way one might approach a skittish animal, “we’re just here to look at the documentation. Confirm identities. Nothing is binding yet.”
“Good,” he mutters.
He means it.
He wants clarity, not chaos.
The building isn’t dramatic. Just a squat government structure with fading paint and a sign that has seen too many storms. There’s no red carpet here, no waiting fans, no curated lighting. For the first time that evening, Joss feels… out of place.
Staff greet them quietly, politely, ushering them through a reception area that smells faintly of disinfectant and crayons. A clipboard is handed over. A badge is clipped to his shirt. His name looks strange on it.
They lead him through a hallway lined with bulletin boards and children’s artwork. He studies the drawings without meaning to—lopsided smiles, stick figures with too many fingers, suns with eyelashes. Innocent things. Soft things.
It presses something faint and uncomfortable inside his ribs.
A door opens ahead of them.
“Mr. Sangngern,” the caseworker says, “we have the paperwork ready for your review. And… the child is resting in the playroom if you’d like to see him after.”
He stiffens. “We’re just here for documents.”
“Of course.” The woman doesn’t push. Just gestures toward a small office.
Inside, a stack of papers waits. Neatly arranged. Too neatly.
His name is on them.
Father: Joss Way-ar Sangngern.
Typed clearly. Unambiguously.
He frowns. “This doesn’t prove anything. Anyone can write my name.”
“Yes,” the caseworker agrees gently, “which is why we’re not assuming paternal identity until tests are complete. But the mother listed your name on multiple forms, including medical records.” She lifts one page. “Signed digitally. Cross-referenced with the number she used for contact. The number matches an old one you had in our records from… three years ago.”
He feels a small, unpleasant jolt.
Three years ago.
That… narrows things down in a way he doesn’t like.
He keeps his voice steady. “It could still be fraudulent.”
“Absolutely,” she says. “We are not drawing conclusions. But until legal paternity is clarified, we’re responsible for securing temporary guardianship. With no other relatives on file, we are obligated to notify the listed parent.”
His jaw tightens.
This isn’t real.
This can’t be real.
But the caseworker’s tone is too calm, too practiced, too grounded in procedure to be a scam. It feels institutional. Boring. Bureaucratic.
Scams rarely feel bureaucratic.
His manager steps closer. “We’d like to proceed with the DNA test as soon as possible.”
“We can arrange that later today,” the caseworker says. “But… the child has been asking for his mother. He’s confused. If you’re willing, seeing him might help calm him.”
Joss opens his mouth to say no.
He doesn’t owe emotional labor for a mistake.
He shouldn’t make contact with a child who might not be his.
He isn’t ready for that kind of moment, that kind of weight.
But the caseworker adds, gently, “He’s been alone since the accident. He hasn’t spoken much. Even a brief presence could help.”
And something in those words—alone since the accident—clips his breath.
He nods. Once. Sharply. “Just to see.”
—
The playroom door is half open.
He hears nothing at first. Just the soft rustle of toys being moved, the faint squeak of foam mats under small feet.
Then the caseworker pushes the door fully open, and the room expands into color.
A sea of pastel blocks. A tiny table. A stuffed dinosaur. Tubs of crayons.
And in the center of it all…
A child.
Small. Curled on the padded floor, drawing something that looks like a circle wearing a hat. His hair is dark, fine, sticking up a little as if he’s been rubbing his head with his hands. He wears a shirt a size too big, sleeves dangling at his wrists. Little socks with stars.
He doesn’t look up immediately.
He doesn’t react dramatically.
He just keeps drawing, quiet and self-contained.
Joss studies him with a strange tightness in his chest.
He doesn’t recognize him.
Why would he?
But the child lifts his head at the sound of footsteps.
And for a moment, something tiny—no louder than a whisper—shifts in the air.
Not resemblance.
Not certainty.
Just… a tug.
The boy’s eyes are round, slightly glossy from recent tears. He stares at Joss with a steadiness small children often have when assessing danger.
Joss doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They feel too big in this soft room.
The caseworker kneels. “Sweetheart, this is Joss. He came to see how you’re doing.”
The child doesn’t speak.
He just holds the crayon a little tighter.
Then—hesitantly—he pushes the drawing toward Joss. Not close, just slightly forward. As if offering something from afar.
Joss’s breath stutters.
His heart does something traitorous and unfamiliar.
A subtle tilt.
A softening he refuses to name.
He crouches slowly, careful not to crowd him.
“It’s… nice,” he says quietly, unsure why his voice has gone softer. “Is that a hat?”
The boy blinks once. Twice. Then nods.
A small, simple nod.
Something inside Joss fractures at the edges. Not breaking.
Just… opening.
His manager watches him with widening eyes.
He ignores it.
The child goes back to coloring, but this time, he sits closer than before. Not touching distance. Just close enough to acknowledge Joss’s presence.
As if something in him recognized something in Joss.
Not as a father.
Not yet.
Just as someone who came when called.
And that alone is enough to make the room feel too small for Joss’s ribs.
—
The clinic room inside the facility is too clean. Too bright. The kind of sterile white that makes everything feel louder than it is.
Joss sits in a chair opposite the caseworker while a medical technician prepares the materials.
Alcohol wipes.
Two vials.
A butterfly needle.
His own test is simple. Quick. The technician ties a tourniquet around his arm, finds the vein, and draws the samples with practiced speed. Joss watches without flinching.
He’s used to this part of the world: health checks, physicals, the occasional blood test for insurance or filming requirements. It’s familiar.
What isn’t familiar is the tiny pair of eyes watching from the corner.
The toddler sits on a small chair, legs dangling, clutching the stuffed dinosaur from the playroom. His expression is wary—tracking every movement in the room with quiet animal alertness.
Then the technician turns toward him.
And fear sparks.
The child’s hands tighten around the dinosaur. His lower lip starts to tremble before a sound even forms. When the technician approaches with the small pediatric butterfly needle, the boy lets out a soft, high, wounded sound.
It is not a dramatic tantrum.
It is not a violent meltdown.
It is worse.
A silent cry that pulls itself inward until it has nowhere left to go.
The first tear slips down his cheek as the technician holds out a reassuring hand. “It will be quick, sweetheart. Just a tiny poke.”
The toddler shakes his head hard—tiny, frantic, desperate movements. His chest hiccups. The dinosaur drops from his grip.
Joss feels something twist sharply in his stomach.
The technician tries again. “We just need a little bit, okay? You’ll get a sticker after.”
The boy tries to climb off the chair, but his knees give out from fear. A whimper crawls out of his throat. He reaches for something—anything—not knowing what or who he’s reaching toward.
Before Joss even decides to move, he’s already on his feet.
“Wait,” he says.
The technician pauses.
Joss crouches beside the toddler, slowly, carefully, making himself small. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower than he knew he could make it. “They’re not trying to hurt you.”
The boy sniffles hard, trying to swallow his own sobs. His tiny hands hover uncertainly, reaching toward Joss before pulling back again.
Joss extends a hand—not touching, just offering a presence.
“You’re okay,” he says gently. “I’m right here.”
The child looks at him with eyes that are too big and too wet, the kind of eyes that search for safety on instinct alone.
And then—one heartbreaking beat later—he lunges forward.
Small arms wrap around Joss’s neck. The boy buries his face against his shoulder and cries with that shuddering, breathless abandon only toddlers have. His body shakes. His tears seep hot through Joss’s shirt.
Joss freezes. Completely.
Not from discomfort.
From the sheer, disorienting force of something warm and protective slamming into his chest.
He gathers the child up with a steadiness he didn’t know he possessed, one hand cradling the small back, the other cupping the boy’s head. “You’re okay,” he whispers, softer now. “I’ve got you.”
A sound breaks out of him—almost a breath, almost something else—when the child curls into him like he belongs there.
The technician approaches again, hesitating. “Mr. Sangngern…?”
Joss gives a small nod. “While I’m holding him. Just… make it quick.”
They draw the blood carefully. The boy flinches, whimpers, but doesn’t pull away—not while Joss anchors him, murmuring quiet reassurances into his hair.
When it’s over, the technician steps back. “All done. He was very brave.”
Brave isn’t the word Joss would use.
He feels the trembling fade against his chest, little by little.
The sobs soften into hiccups.
Small fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt as if to confirm he hasn’t disappeared.
And Joss—Joss Way-ar Sangngern, who walked in tonight convinced this was a mistaken identity, a bureaucratic accident—feels something dangerously soft bloom inside him.
This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
This was supposed to be mechanical. Procedural.
A name cleared. A misunderstanding resolved.
But this tiny human curled against him isn’t a theory.
He’s warm.
He’s frightened.
He chose Joss as the one who made the room feel safe.
The realization lands quietly, like snowfall settling on bare skin.
Joss holds him tighter.
His manager watches with an expression halfway between confusion and something much deeper. The caseworker gives him a small, knowing nod.
But Joss doesn’t see them.
He’s too busy feeling the boy’s heartbeat calming against his own.
Too busy noticing the way the child’s hand grips his shirt even in sleepiness.
Too busy grappling with a truth he isn’t ready to acknowledge:
Even if the test says no—
even if this isn’t his child by blood—
something irreversible happened the moment the boy reached for him.
And Joss doesn’t know what to do with that.
—
The facility door closes behind him with a soft thunk, but it echoes in his skull all the way to the car.
Joss rides home without speaking.
His manager glances at him once, maybe twice, but doesn’t try to offer comfort. There is no comfort for this kind of confusion.
Not when the imprint of a toddler’s weight is still fresh in his arms.
Not when phantom fingers still clutch at the front of his shirt.
He doesn’t realize he’s gripping the fabric himself until they reach his building.
“Get some rest,” his manager says gently.
He nods, but he doesn’t look back.
Upstairs, the condo is dark when he enters.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
It should soothe him.
Instead, it rings hollow, like every piece of furniture has stepped back to give room for the storm sitting inside his chest.
He drops his keys on the console.
Takes off his shoes.
Walks straight to the couch and sits, elbows on his knees, hands covering half his face.
And for the first time since the call, he lets himself feel it.
The child’s eyes.
The tremble in those small hands.
The way he crawled into Joss’s arms as if he’d done it a hundred times before.
Joss’s breath breaks, shaky and uneven.
“This is insane,” he whispers to the floor. “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be feeling this way.”
He isn’t a father.
He doesn’t know if he’s a father.
And yet—
His chest tightens painfully at the thought of the boy sleeping in a strange place tonight. Crying. Searching the room for the woman who won’t come back. Reaching for a safety that doesn’t exist for him anymore.
And worst of all—
Reaching for Joss… even though Joss had to walk away.
A soft sound escapes him, something raw and quiet and not meant for any audience.
He drags both hands through his hair. “What am I supposed to do with this? What the hell am I supposed to do?”
The logistics alone are a nightmare.
Custody laws.
Media protocols.
Public scrutiny.
DNA processing timelines.
Filming schedules.
Brand deals.
Managers.
Contracts.
The sheer weight of restructuring a life overnight.
But none of that is what twists the knife.
It’s Gawin.
Sweet, steady, grounding Gawin.
What will he think?
Joss hasn’t betrayed him. The child—if he is his—was conceived long before they were ever anything beyond costars with inconvenient chemistry.
But taking a child in isn’t something that affects only him.
It affects their home.
Their relationship.
Their future.
And the fear is ugly, trembling, and honest:
“What if he thinks I’m dragging him into something he didn’t sign up for? What if this is too much?”
A sharp exhale cracks out of him.
He leans back, presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.
He doesn’t hear the door open.
He doesn’t hear the soft padding of familiar footsteps.
He only hears—
“Joss?”
The voice is gentle.
Concerned.
A little breathless, like Gawin rushed home the moment his schedule allowed.
Joss’s shoulders tense.
He doesn’t lift his head. Not yet.
He can’t.
“Hey,” Gawin says again, softer this time, stepping closer. “What happened?”
Joss lets his hands fall away from his face.
And the expression Gawin finds is one he’s never seen on Joss before.
Distress.
Fear.
And underneath it all—
A grief that doesn’t belong to him but feels like it does.
Gawin kneels in front of him immediately, one hand hovering near Joss’s knee but not touching yet, as if asking wordlessly for permission.
“Talk to me.”
Joss swallows hard.
A tremor shakes through him—not dramatic, not loud, just enough to make his breath wobble.
“There’s… a child,” he says quietly. “A boy.”
Gawin doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t gasp. He simply listens.
“They called me. Social services. Said my name was on the paperwork. I didn’t believe it. I still don’t know what to believe.”
His voice cracks, just once.
“I saw him.”
Gawin’s brows knit—but gently. “Is he okay?”
“No,” Joss whispers. “He’s alone. He’s… so small. And he was terrified. And he—”
Joss stops, breath catching.
Gawin waits.
“He crawled into my arms,” Joss says, voice breaking around the edges. “Like he knew me. Like he trusted me. And I felt… something. I felt something I wasn’t ready for.”
Gawin’s expression softens in a way that aches.
Joss looks at him finally—eyes glassy, face stripped raw.
“I don’t know if he’s mine. We’ll know in a few days. But Gawin…”
His voice falters.
“…if he is… what does that mean for us?”
For a moment, the question hangs there—fragile, trembling.
Joss’s greatest fear stripped bare:
“Will you stay? Or is this the thing that pushes you away?”
Something shifts in Gawin’s face—an emotion deep, steady, and quietly fierce.
—
The condo is so quiet it could be holding its breath.
Joss sits hunched on the couch, hands loose but trembling in his lap. Gawin stays kneeling in front of him, close enough to offer warmth, far enough not to overwhelm him. His eyes search Joss’s face with a tenderness so steady it feels like a hand pressed against a wound.
But he still hasn’t answered.
Not yet.
Not when Joss has just admitted something that sounds dangerously like:
I might be a father.
I might bring a child home.
I might break our future before it has even fully begun.
Gawin inhales through his nose, barely audible, like he needs air to absorb this new reality.
“Joss…” he starts, but the word dissolves. He presses his lips together, thinking.
Joss’s breath falters. “If it’s mine, he’s already lost so much. And I—”
He swallows, throat tight.
“I felt something, Win. The moment he looked at me. When he clung to me. It… it shook me. I thought I’d be able to walk away and treat this like a mistake until the results came out, but I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about him. And that terrifies me.”
Gawin’s jaw tenses, then softens again. Not anger. Never anger. Just the quiet effort of holding someone else’s pain carefully.
Joss drags in a breath that fractures halfway. “And I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want this to be the thing that—”
His voice gives out.
He looks down at his hands, as if ashamed of the shaking.
“Win… what if this changes everything?”
There.
The fear finally spoken.
Gawin lifts a hand slowly, pauses a heartbeat away from touching Joss’s knee.
“Can I?” he asks softly.
Joss nods.
Gawin places his palm gently over Joss’s knee, grounding him with that simple contact. His thumb moves once, slow and deliberate, like he’s soothing an old friend through a storm.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
Joss does. Reluctantly. Fearfully. Hopefully.
And Gawin holds that gaze like he’s holding onto something precious.
“Of course this changes everything,” he says quietly. “A child always does. Whether it’s one you planned for or one who lands in your arms out of nowhere.”
Joss’s face pinches. “Win—”
“But,” Gawin continues, voice warm and steady, “it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”
That stops Joss’s breath entirely.
“I’m surprised,” Gawin admits, eyes softening. “I’m confused. I’m worried—for you, for him, for what this means. I won’t pretend I understand all of it yet.”
He shifts closer on his knees, not breaking eye contact.
“But I saw you just now, Joss. I saw what this is doing to you. You’re not panicking because you don’t want him.”
He shakes his head a little, a sad, affectionate curve to his mouth.
“You’re panicking because part of you already cares.”
Joss looks away, blinking hard.
“And that’s who you are,” Gawin whispers. “That’s the man I’m with.”
Joss’s throat tightens. “You’re not… angry?”
Gawin almost laughs—a quiet, breathy sound, full of disbelief at the idea. “How could I be angry? You didn’t cheat. You didn’t lie. You didn’t even know. This is life being cruel to a child and confusing to us.”
His touch moves upward, fingers curling lightly around Joss’s wrist.
“And if the test comes back positive,” he continues, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Joss’s head snaps up, eyes wide.
Win’s grip tightens slightly, earnest and sure.
“We will figure it out. Together. The logistics. The privacy. The media. All of it.”
His voice softens into something almost reverent.
“I don’t want to be someone who stands beside you only when it’s easy.”
Joss’s breath stutters—somewhere between a gasp and a broken exhale.
Gawin leans forward, foreheads almost touching but not quite.
“We’ll wait for the results. And whatever they say… I’m here.”
Joss closes his eyes, and in the small space between their breaths, something in him unclenches for the first time since the call.
The fear is still there.
The uncertainty is still there.
The storm hasn’t passed.
But now he isn’t facing it alone.
—
For a moment, Joss doesn’t move.
He sits there, breathing unevenly, Gawin’s hand warm on his wrist, their foreheads hovering close like two planets shifting into the same orbit.
Then something inside him slips.
A tiny crack, then a shudder, then everything he’s been holding back hits him all at once.
His breath hitches, sharp, and he presses a trembling hand to his mouth as if he can hold in the collapse. But the first quiet, broken sound escapes anyway—raw and desperate, pulled straight from somewhere he didn’t expect to be touched tonight.
Gawin slides up onto the couch beside him immediately, one arm wrapping around his shoulders, the other cupping the back of his neck.
“Hey,” Gawin whispers, voice steady even as his chest tightens at the sight. “I’ve got you. You’re allowed to feel this.”
Joss presses his face into Gawin’s collarbone and finally lets go.
Not loud sobs.
Not dramatic cries.
Just a man unraveling silently, breath shaking, fingers curling into Gawin’s shirt like he needs the anchor.
Gawin strokes his hair slowly, patiently, the way one might soothe a frightened animal.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmurs. “You didn’t cause any of this. You’re just trying to do the right thing.”
Joss’s voice is muffled against him. “I don’t know what the right thing is.”
“That’s why we’ll figure it out,” Gawin says, thumb tracing tiny circles at the base of Joss’s skull. “Together.”
Joss clings a little tighter.
After a long stretch of breathing, Joss finally exhales and pulls back enough to wipe at his face. He looks embarrassed, eyes red, shoulders tense.
Gawin gently moves his hand away. “Let me.”
He brushes Joss’s cheekbone with his thumb, incredibly soft. Caring in a way that steadies the room.
Joss’s throat moves as he swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Gawin says immediately, firm but warm. “You don’t apologize for being human with me.”
Joss’s eyes flicker—something grateful, something vulnerable.
After a moment, Gawin asks quietly, “What was he like?”
Joss draws in a slow breath, and the memory hits him with startling clarity.
“Small,” he says, voice thinner now. “He’s… so small, Win.”
Gawin listens, patient.
“He didn’t cry when he saw me. Just looked. Like he was trying to decide if I was safe.”
He exhales.
“And then he came to me. Just… trusted me.”
Gawin’s expression softens, sadness blooming behind his eyes. “He must’ve been so scared.”
Joss nods. “He shook when I held him. But he calmed down. Completely. Like my arms were enough.”
That confession makes something tender flicker in Gawin’s face.
“Joss?” he says gently. “Are you afraid he’s yours… or afraid he isn’t?”
Joss’s breath stutters.
Then, in a whisper:
“Both.”
Gawin slides his fingers between Joss’s, grounding him through the silence.
They end up in bed, lights off, the city a faint hum outside the window.
But sleep never arrives.
Joss lies on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it’s a screen replaying every moment from earlier.
Gawin feels the tension in his body, the way his breath evens out then spikes again—little storms rolling under his skin.
At 2 a.m., Joss reaches for his phone.
Not doomscrolling.
Not messaging.
He opens a browser and types:
“toddler sleep habits”
“healthy snacks for 2-year-olds”
“how to comfort a child during night terrors”
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until Gawin shifts beside him.
“Can’t sleep?” Gawin asks, voice gravelled by the hour but warm.
Joss lowers the phone slightly. “I… can’t stop thinking about him. What he’s doing right now. If he’s scared. If he slept at all after the test.”
He swallows.
“I shouldn’t feel this much. Not yet. Not before the results.”
Gawin slides closer and rests his head on Joss’s shoulder, an anchor without pressure.
“Feel what you feel,” he murmurs. “There’s no rulebook for something like this.”
Joss closes his eyes tight.
After a beat, Gawin says quietly, “We should prepare for both outcomes.”
Joss turns to him, startled. “Win…”
Gawin meets his gaze without flinching.
“If he’s yours, we’ll need to adjust everything. Home. Work. Structure. Privacy. We’ll do it slowly, but we should start thinking about it.”
Joss’s throat tightens.
“And if he isn’t?” he asks softly.
Gawin’s voice gentles even further.
“Then you’ll still need space to grieve. Because you already bonded with him a little today. That doesn’t disappear just because a test says no.”
Joss’s breath shakes.
Gawin squeezes his hand under the covers.
“Either way,” he says, “you don’t go through it alone.”
The words settle around Joss like a blanket—heavy, warm, protective.
He presses his forehead to Gawin’s shoulder, whispering, “Thank you.”
Gawin kisses the top of his head. “You don’t thank me for loving you.”
And just like that, the first sliver of peace finds them in the dark.