Chapter Text
Diesel doesn’t think of himself as a bad person, which is important. Bad people lie, manipulate, promise things they never intend to give. He doesn’t promise anything. He simply exists in moments and lets other people decide what those moments mean, and if they misunderstand, that isn’t technically his fault. At least, that’s what he tells himself when someone looks at him like they expected more.
The music in the club is loud enough to feel in his ribs, a steady pulse that replaces thinking with instinct. The lights flash across faces that blur together after a while, glitter and sweat and perfume mixing into something almost sweet. Diesel stands near the bar with his sleeves pushed up, not because he’s hot but because he knows the gesture makes people look twice. He doesn’t need to hunt; someone always approaches eventually.
Tonight it’s a girl with sharp eyeliner and confidence that borders on challenge. She leans close enough that her voice brushes his ear and asks if he’s always this quiet, and he tilts his head like he’s considering the question seriously. He tells her he prefers listening, which sounds thoughtful enough to impress her, even though it isn’t entirely true. He listens because it means he doesn’t have to offer anything back.
She touches his wrist first, testing. He lets her. He always lets them make the first obvious move because it gives him plausible innocence later. When she suggests somewhere quieter, he doesn’t hesitate, just nods like he’d been waiting for the idea all along. There is a rhythm to this, and he knows every beat of it.
In the dim hallway behind the club, she kisses him with urgency that feels almost competitive. Diesel matches her pace automatically, hands steady at her waist, mouth sure and practiced, the kind of confidence that makes people feel chosen. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t linger either; he understands exactly how much intensity to give before it becomes too much. When she pulls back and tells him he’s dangerous, he laughs softly and says she’s exaggerating.
Later, in his car, the air is quieter but thicker. She studies him like she’s trying to solve something, tracing a finger along his collarbone while asking why he doesn’t date. Diesel glances at her briefly before looking back at the windshield, city lights stretching into long reflections across the glass. He tells her he gets bored easily, and he means it in a way that isn’t entirely about people.
She goes still at that, just for a second, and he notices but doesn’t adjust. He could soften it; he could say he just hasn’t met the right person or that he’s busy with school or work. Instead, he shrugs slightly and lets the silence settle, because correcting himself would feel like lying. If the truth sounds harsh, that’s not his responsibility.
The next morning, her message comes before he’s fully awake. He stares at it while brushing his teeth, foam bitter in his mouth as he considers whether to respond at all. She suggests brunch, adds a smiley face, leaves
She suggests brunch, adds a smiley face, leaves just enough room for hope. Diesel stares at the screen for a few seconds longer than necessary, thumb hovering as if hesitation might magically turn into desire. He doesn’t feel dread, exactly — just a faint heaviness behind his ribs, the kind that comes when something threatens to extend beyond its allotted timeframe. Finally, he types back, “Can’t. Got stuff to do.” It isn’t entirely untrue; there is always something to do, even if that something is nothing.
She replies almost instantly. “Rain check?”
He exhales slowly, watching his reflection in the dark screen for a second before answering. “Maybe.” It’s a soft word, flexible and noncommittal, one he uses often because it sounds kinder than no. He knows what it does — how it leaves the door cracked open just enough for someone to stand there waiting — but he sends it anyway and flips the phone face down on his desk.
Diesel tells himself he prefers clarity, but what he really prefers is distance without confrontation. If someone asks directly, he’ll answer directly; he doesn’t dodge questions, doesn’t invent fake emergencies. He just doesn’t volunteer anything more than required. People fill in the blanks on their own, and when they realize they’ve misread him, they look at him like he tricked them.
At parties, his name carries a certain tone. Not scandalous — he’s not cruel enough for that — but knowing. Someone always nudges someone else and says, “That’s Diesel,” like it explains everything. He hears the whispers sometimes: “Don’t expect him to stay.” “He’s not boyfriend material.” “He’s fun, though.” He doesn’t mind the last one. The others feel like assumptions he never agreed to but doesn’t bother correcting.
One evening, a girl corners him near the exit before he can leave, her arms crossed in a way that suggests she’s rehearsed this confrontation. “You could’ve just told me you weren’t interested,” she says, not angry exactly, but wounded in a way that makes him uncomfortable. Diesel rubs the back of his neck and frowns slightly, because from his perspective, he had told her. He had never asked for exclusivity, never implied permanence, never said anything beyond the moment they were in.
“I didn’t think I led you on,” he replies carefully. It isn’t sugarcoated, but it’s gentler than blunt.
She laughs without humor. “You didn’t stop me from thinking there was more.”
He pauses at that, genuinely considering it. “I didn’t say there wasn’t,” he answers, which is technically accurate and absolutely the wrong thing to say.
Her face shifts, disappointment overtaking whatever hope had been there. “That’s the problem,” she says quietly. Diesel doesn’t chase her when she walks away. He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets, replaying the conversation like it might suddenly reveal where he misstepped. He doesn’t think he lied. He doesn’t think he promised. But there’s a pattern forming, one he’s starting to recognize even if he refuses to name it.
There are moments, usually in the quiet after everything physical has faded, when something almost uncomfortable creeps in. Someone’s head resting on his chest, their breathing slowing as they drift off, their hand loosely gripping his shirt like they’re afraid he’ll disappear. He feels it then — not attraction, not satisfaction, but a strange awareness of warmth that has nothing to do with bodies. It lingers for a few seconds too long, and that’s usually when he shifts carefully, easing himself out from under them.
Morning light makes everything honest in ways night doesn’t. In daylight, questions surface that darkness keeps hidden. “Can I stay?” someone will murmur sleepily, and Diesel will hesitate just long enough to notice before replying, “I’ve got to head out soon.” It sounds responsible. It sounds practical. It sounds better than admitting he doesn’t know how to exist next to someone without a countdown ticking in his head.
He tells himself this is easier. Simpler. Cleaner. And yet lately, when he leaves, the quiet feels louder than it used to.
The thing about repetition is that it works until it doesn’t. Diesel doesn’t wake up one morning with an epiphany, doesn’t suddenly decide he’s empty or unfulfilled. It’s smaller than that, subtler, like background noise that slowly becomes noticeable once you stop talking over it.
At another party — different apartment, same crowd, same cheap alcohol sweating in plastic cups — he finds himself leaning against the kitchen counter while a girl traces the rim of his glass with her finger. She’s pretty in the polished, intentional way that photographs well, and she’s looking at him like he’s already won something. He gives her the half-smile he knows people like and says, “You’re staring.”
She laughs. “You don’t mind.”
“No,” he agrees easily. “I don’t.”
It progresses the way it always does. Light touches. Teasing remarks. Her friends whispering and pretending not to watch. Diesel stays relaxed, measured, giving just enough to keep the energy tilted toward him without ever leaning fully in. He’s good at that balance — close, but not reachable.
Later, when she presses him lightly against the hallway wall and kisses him like she’s proving a point, he responds automatically. His hands settle at her waist, his mouth moves with practiced confidence, and for a few minutes, everything is simple. Physicality has rules. It has cues. It doesn’t require explanations. She pulls back, flushed, eyes bright. “You’re trouble,” she says, smiling like she enjoys the risk.
He considers correcting her but decides against it. “If you say so.”
The problem is that halfway through, something shifts — not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice. It’s just that faint awareness again, that sense of performance. He’s saying the right things, touching the right places, but internally there’s a strange detachment, like he’s watching himself execute muscle memory.
When she suggests leaving together, he hesitates for the first time in months.
It’s barely a second, but it’s there.
“Actually,” he says, adjusting his tone just enough to soften it, “I think I’m going to head home.”
She blinks at him, confused. “You were just—”
“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, not frustrated with her, just with the situation. “I’m not really in the mood anymore.”
There’s no good way to say that. No phrasing that doesn’t sound like rejection, even when it isn’t personal.
Her shoulders stiffen slightly. “Did I do something?”
“No.” He answers immediately, because that part is true. “You didn’t.”
It doesn’t help.
He leaves anyway.
Outside, the air is cooler, quieter. The bass from the party muffles behind the apartment walls as he walks to his car alone. His phone buzzes once — a different name this time, someone from last week.
You busy tonight?
He stares at the notification and feels… nothing. No anticipation. No irritation. Just a blank space where excitement used to slot itself neatly.
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he drives with the windows cracked, letting the city noise fill the silence. At a red light, he glances at himself in the rearview mirror and studies the faint smudge of lipstick near his collar. It looks like evidence of something successful, something desirable. By all visible standards, he’s winning. People want him. He can have almost anyone in a room if he tries.
So why does it feel like he keeps leaving before the part he actually wants?
The thought irritates him immediately. He doesn’t even know what that means. He’s not sentimental. He’s not the type to crave long conversations or morning routines. He likes things uncomplicated, likes knowing there’s an exit available whenever he needs it.
And yet, when he gets home and the door clicks shut behind him, the apartment feels larger than usual. Quieter. The silence doesn’t feel peaceful; it feels unfinished.
He tosses his keys onto the counter and stands there for a moment longer than necessary, as if expecting something to interrupt the stillness. Nothing does.
His fridge is nearly empty, which isn’t unusual. He rarely cooks, rarely plans ahead, rarely thinks about anything beyond the next night out. He grabs a bottle of water instead and leans against the counter, scrolling through old messages he never answered. There are fragments of half-started conversations, invitations he ignored, attempts at closeness he sidestepped without fully shutting down.
He isn’t cruel.
But he isn’t staying, either.
The next evening, he tells himself he’ll skip going out. He lasts until nine before restlessness creeps in, subtle but persistent. Sitting alone feels heavier than loud rooms, even if loud rooms are starting to lose their shine.
So he goes. Not to a club this time. Just a small apartment gathering mutual friends, too many shoes at the entrance, music playing from someone’s phone instead of professional speakers. It’s less chaotic, more intimate, the kind of setting where conversations linger instead of blur.
Diesel stands near the balcony at first, hands in his pockets, scanning the room without consciously selecting anyone. He isn’t searching. Not exactly.
He just doesn’t want to stand still long enough to think.
Inside, someone laughs — not sharp, not performative, just unfiltered and bright in a way that cuts cleanly through the layered noise of the room. Diesel doesn’t turn immediately. But he notices.
He notices because it doesn’t sound like it’s trying to be heard. The laugh isn’t pitched upward for attention or dragged out for effect; it’s brief, unguarded, and followed by an immediate, “No, that doesn’t make sense,” in a voice that carries without meaning to. Diesel shifts slightly where he stands, curiosity nudging at him before interest fully forms, and finally glances over his shoulder toward the kitchen.
There’s a guy leaning against the counter, still in what looks like a work uniform — dark pants, slightly wrinkled button-up, name tag clipped crookedly like he forgot it was there. His sleeves are rolled up unevenly, exposing forearms dusted faintly with flour or sugar, and there’s a faint grease stain near the hem of his shirt. He looks tired in a physical way, like someone who’s been on his feet all day, but not drained — his eyes are sharp, alert, focused entirely on whoever he’s talking to.
“I’m just saying,” the guy continues, gesturing with a plastic cup, “if you complain about being broke but order delivery every night, that’s on you.”
Someone groans. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“I do, actually,” he replies calmly. “Because you keep acting surprised.” There’s no malice in it. No teasing edge. Just straightforward delivery, like he genuinely doesn’t see another way to phrase it.
Diesel watches for a few seconds longer than necessary.
The guy reaches up absentmindedly and tugs the name tag off his shirt, tossing it onto the counter. Diesel catches the name briefly before it flips facedown.
Day.
He files it away without meaning to.
Someone asks him, “You just got off work?”
Day nods once. “Yeah. Double shift. I smell like fryer oil, so if anyone’s judging, that’s fine.”
A girl laughs. “You could’ve changed first.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it. This is clean enough.”
There’s something about the lack of apology that makes Diesel’s mouth twitch faintly. Most people would soften that, dress it up with self-deprecation. Day doesn’t seem to care whether anyone’s impressed.
Diesel turns back toward the balcony for a moment, staring out at the city lights, but the conversation inside keeps bleeding into his awareness.
“You’re brutal,” someone tells Day.
“No?" Day answers evenly.
A beat of silence follows, and then a small ripple of laughter.
Diesel exhales through his nose, almost amused. Accurate. That’s one word for it.
He pushes off the railing after a minute and heads back inside, weaving through clusters of people. A girl he vaguely recognizes brushes his arm and smiles in invitation, and instinctively he mirrors it, leaning slightly closer.
“You disappeared last week,” she says.
“Got busy,” he replies, easy and smooth.
“With what?”
He tilts his head. “Life.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s vague.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
She laughs, stepping into his space like the script demands. Diesel lets the rhythm take over, lets his hand settle at her waist, lets the conversation narrow into something private. He can feel the shift happening already — the subtle awareness of being watched, of being evaluated in that way people do when attraction sharpens.
Across the room, Day glances over.
Not long. Not intensely.
Just noticing.
Diesel catches it mid-sentence and holds the look for half a second too long.
Day doesn’t look away quickly like most people do when they’re caught staring. He just tilts his head slightly, assessing, like he’s cataloging something. There’s no jealousy there, no interest that reads romantic — just observation.
It unsettles Diesel more than it should.
The girl at his waist says something he misses, and he blinks back to her.
“Sorry,” he says, this time meaning it.
“What?”
She smiles. “I said you look distracted.”
He almost laughs at the irony. "Not at all,” he replies, though the words feel thinner than usual.
Across the kitchen, Day is now listening to someone complain about a manager cutting hours.
“Then quit,” Day says plainly.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“I need the money.”
“So find another job first,” Day replies, as if it’s obvious. “Complaining won’t fix it. There’s no harshness in his tone, just practical clarity.
Diesel finds himself watching again.
The girl in front of him follows his gaze this time and frowns slightly. “Do you know him?”
“Not really,” Diesel answers. He doesn’t know why that feels like something incomplete.
From across the room, Day looks over again — this time directly at Diesel — and holds his gaze for a full second before speaking to someone else.
There’s no flirtation in it.
No challenge.
Just acknowledgment.
And for reasons Diesel can’t immediately articulate, that feels more disruptive than any come-on ever has.
Diesel tells himself he isn’t interested. Plus he's straight, all the people he has hooked up with were girls, he wasn't gay or anything, it was interest.
Interest is deliberate. Intentional. Directed. This is just curiosity, he decides — the kind that fades once satisfied. But curiosity doesn’t usually make him tune out someone actively touching his arm, doesn’t usually make him respond a second too late because he’s tracking the way someone else speaks across the room.
Day isn’t charismatic in the traditional way. He isn’t trying to hold attention; in fact, he looks like he’d rather be sitting down somewhere quiet. There’s a faint stiffness in his shoulders that suggests exhaustion, the kind that comes from standing for eight hours straight under fluorescent lights.
When someone asks what he does, he answers plainly, “Convenience store. Evening shifts mostly.” No embellishment. No apology. Like it’s neither impressive nor shameful — just fact.
The girl in front of Diesel squeezes his wrist gently. “You’re zoning out again.”
He blinks back to her. “Sorry.”
“You don’t seem very into this tonight.”
Normally, that would offend him. Or at least trigger an automatic reassurance. Instead, he glances past her shoulder again and says, almost absentmindedly, “Maybe I’m just bored.”
She stiffens slightly. “With me?”
He hesitates. He could fix this. He could smooth it out. "Not with you,” he clarifies, though it sounds weaker than usual. “Just… in general.”
That doesn’t help.
She withdraws her hand slowly, pride stepping in where flirtation had been. “Okay,” she says, tone flattening.
Diesel watches her walk away without chasing. He doesn’t feel guilty. Just… redirected.
Across the room, Day has finally sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows resting loosely on his knees as he listens to someone rant about a breakup. He isn’t offering comfort in the traditional sense — no soft murmurs, no exaggerated sympathy.
He just listens, nods occasionally, and when there’s a pause, he says, “You ignored the red flags.”
The friend looks scandalized. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s true.”
“You could’ve said it nicer.”
Day shrugs faintly. “Why?”
Diesel exhales a quiet laugh under his breath.
There’s something strangely grounding about the way Day speaks. No performance. No tailoring. Just whatever is present in his head at that exact moment.
Without fully deciding to, Diesel crosses the room.
He stops in front of the couch, hands in his pockets, and says, “You’re popular tonight.”
Day looks up at him without hesitation. His gaze is steady, assessing but not intrusive.
“Am I?” he asks.
“You’ve got an audience.”
“They’re just loud,” Day replies calmly.
Diesel studies him more closely now. Up close, the exhaustion is clearer — faint shadows under his eyes, a slight slump in posture that reads as physical fatigue rather than emotional weight. There’s something unguarded about him, not in a vulnerable way, but in a way that suggests he doesn’t see the point in pretending.
“You always talk like that?” Diesel asks, leaning slightly against the arm of the couch.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re delivering a report.”
Day considers that seriously. “I don’t think so.”
“You told him he ignored red flags.”
“He did.”
“You could’ve said it softer.”
“I didn’t think he needed soft.”
Diesel tilts his head, faint smile tugging at his mouth. “You don’t worry about people getting offended?”
Day meets his eyes evenly. “Should I?" There’s no challenge in it. Just a real question.
Diesel feels something shift again — that faint internal click, like a lock turning.
“I get offended,” he says lightly.
Day looks at him for a full second. “About what?”
“That.”
“What?”
“The way you say things.”
Day blinks once. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
“I know.” Diesel’s smile sharpens slightly. “Still.”
There’s a beat where most people would backtrack. Clarify. Apologize. Fluster.
Day doesn’t.
“Okay,” he says.
That’s it. Diesel almost laughs. “You’re not going to ask why?”
“Why would I?” Day replies. “If you’re offended, that’s yours.”
The bluntness isn’t aggressive. It’s just clean.
Diesel pushes a little further, because pushing is familiar territory. “So if I said you’re bad at reading a room, you wouldn’t care?”
Day pauses, genuinely thinking. “If it’s true, I’d adjust. If it’s not, I wouldn’t.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Diesel studies him more openly now. “You don’t assume people are flirting with you, do you?”
Day frowns faintly. “Are you?”
There’s no teasing in it. No coyness. Just clarification. Diesel’s stomach tightens in a way that feels inconvenient.
“Maybe,” he replies, letting the word stretch.
Day nods once. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Diesel echoes.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t… react?”
“To what?”
“To someone flirting with you.”
Day looks faintly puzzled. “People don’t.”
It isn’t self-pitying. It isn’t insecure. It’s observational.
Diesel feels irritation spike unexpectedly. “That’s not true.”
Day shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just absence. Like the concept never really applied to him, so he never built defenses around it.
Diesel shifts closer without fully realizing he is. “I am.”
Day looks at him again, steady and unreadable. “Flirting?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The question is direct enough to knock the rhythm out of him.
“Do I need a reason?”
“I don’t know,” Day answers honestly. "Usually people do.”
Diesel searches his face for mockery and finds none. No assumption. No excitement either. Just neutral processing. For the first time in a long time, Diesel doesn’t feel like he’s leading.
He feels like he’s being examined — not deeply, not dissected just seen at face value.
And somehow that feels more intimate than anything that happened in a dark hallway.
Diesel doesn’t like not knowing what position he’s standing in.
With most people, the ground is obvious. There’s tension or there isn’t. There’s attraction, ego, anticipation — something that gives shape to the interaction. With Day, it feels strangely level, like they’re standing on completely flat ground and Diesel is the only one trying to tilt it.
He shifts his weight slightly and lets his gaze drag in a way that has worked a hundred times before. “You’re not even curious?” he asks, voice lower now, deliberate. “About why I’d flirt with you?”
Day considers that, not flustered, not pleased. Just thinking. “I assumed you were bored.”
The answer lands with embarrassing precision.
“I’m not bored,” Diesel says automatically.
Day tilts his head. “You looked bored earlier.”
“With her?” Diesel asks, though he knows the answer.
“Yes.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Diesel opens his mouth, but nothing seem to come out that seemed cocky enough. Instead, what comes out is, “I wasn’t interested.”
“In her?”
“Yes.”
Day nods once, accepting that as sufficient. “Okay.”
There’s no follow-up. No fishing for what that implies. Diesel exhales quietly. “You’re supposed to ask why.”
“Why?”
“Why wasn’t I interested.”
Day blinks. “You just weren’t.”
The simplicity of it makes something in Diesel’s chest tighten. “You don’t want to know if it’s because of you?”
Day’s gaze stays steady. “If it is, you’ll say that.”
There’s no hopeful edge in his voice. No defensive one either. It’s like he genuinely doesn’t expect to be centered in anyone else’s decisions unless directly told.
Diesel studies him more closely now, noticing the way exhaustion clings to him in small ways — the slight slouch, the way his fingers flex absently like they’re still used to handling receipts or stocking shelves. He smells faintly like soap layered over fryer oil, like someone who washed up quickly in a store bathroom before clocking out.
“You came straight from work,” Diesel says.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even change.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Day shrugs lightly. “Didn’t feel like going home first.”
“You work all day and then come here?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not tired?”
“I am.”
The admission is simple, unembellished.
“Then why come?” Diesel presses.
Day looks at him like the answer should be obvious. “I was invited.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is.”
Diesel shakes his head faintly. “You could’ve said no.”
Day just gave a small shrug. Something about that — the lack of performance, the lack of hunger for validation — hooks deeper than Diesel expects. He’s used to being wanted. Used to seeing the moment attraction registers in someone’s expression. With Day, there’s nothing like that. No visible spike. No softening. Just steady presence.
“So what would you do,” Diesel asks slowly, “if I said I was actually interested?”
Day studies him carefully, not searching for hidden meaning but confirming clarity. “Interested how?”
“In you.”
A small silence settles between them, not heavy, just attentive.
Day doesn’t look flustered. He doesn’t look pleased either. He just looks like someone processing new information.
“I’d assume you meant it,” he says finally.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“No suspicion?”
“Why would I assume you’re lying?”
Diesel’s mouth curves faintly. “Because I have a reputation.”
“I’ve heard,” Day says calmly.
“And?”
“And what?”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
Day shakes his head once. “It’s not about me.”
That lands harder than criticism would have. Most people either ignore the rumors or challenge them. Day accepts them as background noise, separate from his own evaluation. He isn’t dazzled. He isn’t wary. He’s just… neutral.
Diesel steps a fraction closer without realizing, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re very calm.”
“I’m tired,” Day replies.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Day holds his gaze steadily. “You’re trying very hard.”
The observation is quiet, not accusatory.
Diesel’s jaw tightens slightly. “Trying what?”
“To get a reaction.”
The accuracy irritates him more than it should. “Maybe I just like talking to you.”
Day considers that seriously. “Okay.”
“You keep saying that.”
“It works.”
Diesel huffs out a short laugh despite himself.
This isn’t how it usually goes. There’s no spark catching fire, no obvious escalation. But there’s something else instead — something steady, something that doesn’t feel like it’s about winning or proving.
For the first time in a long while, Diesel isn’t thinking about how to leave.
He’s thinking about how to stay in the conversation a little longer.
The conversation doesn’t end awkwardly. It just… slows.
Someone across the room calls Day’s name, and he glances over instinctively, like he’s used to checking in when he hears it. There’s a brief flicker of awareness in his eyes — not distraction exactly, more like remembering something important.
He checks his phone.
Diesel watches the shift happen in real time. Day’s posture straightens slightly, shoulders tightening in a way that has nothing to do with social discomfort.
“I have to go,” Day says, standing up.
“That’s sudden,” Diesel replies, automatically rising with him.
“I told P’Ozone I wouldn’t be late.”
“P’Ozone?” Diesel repeats.
“My cousin.”
“You live together?”
“Yes.”
“And you have to be home by… what, curfew?” Diesel’s tone is teasing, but light.
Day shakes his head once. “No. He just doesn’t like when plans change.”
Diesel slips his hands into his pockets, following him toward the hallway where everyone’s shoes are scattered. “He’s older, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you the one rushing home to take care of him?”
It’s not said cruelly. It’s curious. Casual.
Day stops tying his laces. The shift is subtle but immediate. He straightens slowly, fingers still curled in the laces, and looks up at Diesel with that same steady gaze — except this time there’s something tighter behind it. "He’s older,” Day says carefully. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need help.”
“I didn’t say that,” Diesel replies.
“You implied it.”
“I just meant—”
“He has autism.”
The words are delivered plainly, without hesitation, but Day’s jaw tightens just slightly after. He forces a small smile — not because he finds anything funny, but because it keeps his tone from sharpening too much.
“He’s high-functioning,” Day continues, a little faster now. “He works. He’s independent. But routines matter. If I say I’ll be home at a certain time, I am. If I’m not, it throws him off. It’s not about age.”
Diesel blinks, caught off guard by the sudden intensity.
“I wasn’t judging,” he says, softer now.
“I know,” Day replies immediately — too immediately. “I just don’t like when people assume.”
“I wasn’t assuming.”
“You were,” Day says, but his tone isn’t angry. It’s firm. Controlled. “It’s fine. Most people do.”
There’s a faint flush creeping up his neck, and Diesel notices the way his fingers flex like he’s trying to regulate something internal. The small smile stays on his face, but it’s thinner now, more deliberate.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “That makes sense.”
Day exhales slowly, tension easing just a fraction. The faint smile becomes less forced.
There’s a beat of silence between them, not uncomfortable — just recalibrating.
Then Day slips his shoes on fully and reaches for the door.
“I should go,” he says again, softer this time. Diesel nods automatically, though something in him resists the ending. “Right.”
Day opens the door.
And that’s when Diesel notices the pen.
It’s clipped to the edge of the entry table, probably left there by whoever lives in the apartment. His gaze drops absently — and then freezes.
There’s ink on Day’s forearm.
Dark blue.
Messy.
A phone number.
His phone number.
Diesel’s brain takes half a second to catch up.
When Day had asked earlier, “Are you flirting?” and Diesel had said yes — there had been a moment, small and unceremonious, where Diesel had taken the pen from someone nearby and grabbed Day’s wrist lightly.
“Just in case you forget,” he’d said, writing quickly.
Day hadn’t reacted much. Just looked down at it and nodded once.
Now, seeing it again — slightly smudged but still clear — does something strange to Diesel’s pulse.
Day is already stepping into the hallway when Diesel moves.
“Wait,” he calls out, sharper than intended.
Day turns, one hand still on the doorframe. “What?”
Diesel crosses the distance in three quick steps, reaching for the pen without thinking. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“You’re going to wash that off.”
Day glances down at his arm like he forgot it was there. “Eventually.”
Diesel grabs his wrist gently — not forceful, just enough to steady it — and uncaps the pen.
“What are you doing?” Day asks.
“Fixing it.”
The last digit had smudged slightly.
Diesel rewrites it carefully.
09********
He presses a little harder this time, making sure the ink settles properly into skin.
Day watches him do it with quiet attention, not pulling away.
“You could’ve just texted me,” Day says.
“You didn’t give me your number,” Diesel replies.
“You didn’t ask.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just fact.
Diesel caps the pen slowly. “So I’m asking now.”
Day studies him for a second, eyes searching his face like he’s verifying sincerity rather than intention.
“You’re serious,” Day says.
“Yes.”
“You don’t seem bored.”
“I’m not.”
A small pause.
Then Day nods once.
“Okay.”
Diesel hesitates, still holding his wrist lightly.
“You’ll text?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After I get home.”
“You promise?”
Day’s brow furrows faintly. “I said I would.”
Right.
Diesel releases him slowly. Day steps back into the hallway, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.
“Goodnight,” he says.
And then he leaves.
Diesel stands there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the closed door.
For the first time in a very long time —
he hopes someone actually follows through.