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“That was clean, boys. That was beautiful !”
Jake is grinning like they just won Champions instead of a scrim block on a random weekday, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head. His voice echoes a bit too loudly in the practice room, which is how Austin knows he’s genuinely pleased. Jake doesn’t do quiet happiness : he does broadcast.
Kaajak groans, head dropping onto his desk.
“I can’t feel my eyes,” he mumbles into the wood. “I’m seeing mini-maps when I blink.”
“Good,” Alfa says, like he’s offering a compliment. “That means you’re learning.”
“I hate you,” Kaajak answers, muffled. “Respectfully.”
Veqaj laughs from the other side, still too energetic for someone who’s been staring at a screen for eight hours. He’s integrating well, in that “he keeps laughing at everything like it might be a test” kind of way.
Austin swivels his chair a quarter turn, stretching his shoulders, trying not to look at the clock on the wall. It’s not that he wants to leave ; it’s that his body keeps checking - like it’s expecting someone to tap him on the shoulder and say, alright, time’s up, get out.
Jake is still talking, rolling through the final rounds like he’s narrating a story.
“And then we just- we wait,” he says, pointing at the screen. “We don’t panic. We don’t sprint into site like-” he makes a sound that is supposed to be the concept of panic given human form, “-like headless chickens. We breathe. We hit together. Lovely.”
Austin snorts. “Headless chickens is crazy.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s you,” Austin corrects, because if he doesn’t keep up, Jake will. “You’re the chicken.”
Jake gasps, hand going to his chest dramatically. “Austin ! How dare you ? I am an elegant swan.”
“You’re loud,” Alfa says immediately. “Swans are quiet.”
“Swans are aggressive,” Milan adds from the doorway, where he’s been hovering with his laptop like he’s about to ask a question and also like he’s reconsidering his life choices.
Jake points at him like he’s won. “Thank you. Aggressive swan. Exactly.”
Austin smiles despite himself.
It’s normal. It’s easy. It’s ... nice.
He still checks the clock again when he thinks no one’s looking. 9:12pm. It’s late. It’s fine ; it’s not even late for them, not really. But it’s late in the way that means the office starts to quiet down, and people start to peel off, and you can feel the world closing its doors.
Jake claps his hands once. “Right. No extra VOD review tonight. We’re not going to be those people who pretend they’re productive when they’re actually just tired.”
“Thank you,” Kaajak says instantly, sitting up. “I was about to cry.”
“I would have filmed that,” Alfa says. “For content.”
“I hate you,” Kaajak repeats, but with more feeling.
Jake stands, stretching, still buzzing. “We meet tomorrow at-” he pauses, squints at Milan. “What time is tomorrow?”
Milan doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “Media at ten. Review at noon. Then scrims.”
“Media at ten,” Jake repeats, louder, as if the walls didn’t hear the first time. “We all look presentable. Which means, Austin, you don’t show up looking like you crawled out of a trash can.”
Austin shoots him a look. “I look fine.”
“You look like you fight sleep for sport,” Yinsu’s voice cuts in from the hallway.
Austin’s head turns so fast it almost gives him whiplash.
She’s leaning against the doorframe like she owns the building, jacket still on, hair pulled back, phone in hand. She looks like she came straight from broadcast - polished in the way that makes everyone in the room look like they’ve been living in a cave.
Jake’s face lights up immediately, like someone turned his volume dial up again.
“Hello, darling !” he says, crossing the room in about two steps. “How was the desk ? Did you roast anyone ?”
Yinsu lifts her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I always like to know.”
She tilts her head at him. “You were very loud on my timeline today, by the way.”
“That’s called supporting my girlfriend,” Jake says, offended on principle.
“You wrote ‘SHE’S COOKING’ in all caps.”
“I was emotionally overwhelmed.”
Yinsu makes a face like she’s trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it,” Jake says, and then he kisses her like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Quick, familiar. Not shy, not performed. Just .. easy.
Austin looks away automatically, like he’s giving them privacy, like he’s not allowed to watch something that soft. Then Jake turns his head slightly, still close to Yinsu, and catches Austin’s eyes like it’s a joke.
“Stop pretending you’re not watching,” Jake says.
“I wasn’t !” Austin answers immediately.
Yinsu’s gaze slides to him, amused. “He lies like it’s breathing.”
Austin huffs. “I was literally- I was looking at ... Milan.”
Milan doesn’t even blink. “Please don’t look at me.”
Jake laughs, then - like it’s nothing - hooks two fingers into the collar of Austin’s hoodie and tugs him close. Austin goes with it because resisting Jake is like trying to argue with weather.
Jake kisses him.
It’s not long. Not dramatic. Still normal.
Still, it hits Austin low in his stomach like a surprised inhale : like his body hasn’t adjusted to how quickly warmth can happen.
Jake’s lips are warm, a little chapped, and he tastes faintly like whatever energy drink he’s been inhaling since noon. Austin’s hands hover for half a second - his brain does the old reflex, don’t cling, don’t be needy, don’t-
Then Jake’s palm presses lightly to the back of his neck, steadying him like it’s an anchor, and Austin’s hands land on Jake’s waist like they were always meant to be there.
When Jake pulls back, his grin is stupidly pleased.
“See ?” he says. “He’s fine.”
Yinsu looks Austin over like she’s appraising him for a job interview. “He’s fine in the way a raccoon is fine.”
Austin blinks. “A raccoon ?”
“You know,” she says, very serious. “Cute. Functional. Probably carrying three diseases. Always looks like he just committed a crime.”
Austin stares at her. “That’s insane.”
Jake throws his head back laughing. “That’s so accurate.”
“It’s not accurate !” Austin protests, even though his mouth is twitching. “I’m not carrying diseases.”
“You’re carrying emotional damage,” Yinsu corrects immediately.
Kaajak makes a noise like he just witnessed a homicide.
Alfa leans back in his chair. “She’s good.”
Austin points at Yinsu. “Okay. That was rude.”
Yinsu smiles like she’s proud of herself. “Thank you.”
Jake slings an arm around Austin’s shoulders like he’s claiming him for the evening. “Right. We’re going home. You’re coming.”
Austin’s chest tightens, small and stupid. He knows Jake means it casually. Like, of course you’re coming, you always do, what else would you do. That’s the problem.
“Yeah,” Austin says, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t make his ribs feel too small. “Yeah, sure.”
He stands, gathering his things in the same neat way he always does: headset coiled, mouse tucked away, phone charged. He moves like someone who expects to leave quickly if he needs to.
Jake doesn’t pack anything. Jake just throws his bag over his shoulder like he’s immune to consequences.
Yinsu watches Austin for a second too long, like she sees the way he stacks his life into a portable shape.
Austin pretends not to notice.
They leave the office all together, the Berlin night cold in a way that makes Austin miss California in his bones. Jake talks the whole time, narrating their walk like he’s on stream.
“And then Veqaj swings like a madman,” he says, gesturing wildly. “And I’m thinking, this guy. This guy has no fear. He’s insane.”
Veqaj laughs, shoulders hunched against the cold. “You love it.”
“I do love it,” Jake admits, bright.
Austin walks on Jake’s other side, hands in his pockets, listening more than he talks. He’s used to being quiet in groups. It’s easier, it’s safer. Jake fills silence like it’s his job.
Yinsu threads her arm through Jake’s. Then, without looking, she reaches out and nudges Austin’s wrist with her fingertips-subtle, like she’s checking that he’s still there.
Austin’s breath catches anyway.
He hates that his body reacts to things like that. A touch, a small inclusion, like he’s starving for it.
He shouldn’t be.
He’s fine.
He’s always been fine.
Jake’s building is only a few streets away, close enough that Austin could have walked home to his own place if he wanted to. Which he tells himself, repeatedly, for no reason.
I could leave anytime. I’m choosing to stay.
He repeats it like it makes the choice lighter.
Jake’s apartment is warm, lit low, full of the kind of lived-in mess that says two people actually exist here : a hoodie tossed over a chair, a mug left by the sink, an EMEA cue sheet on the counter next to a half-eaten chocolate bar.
Austin steps inside and automatically takes his shoes off neatly by the door. Jake kicks his off like he’s committing a sin.
Yinsu locks the door, then leans her back against it and watches Jake and Austin with that amused look again, like she’s watching a show she paid for.
Jake drops his bag, stretches, and immediately goes for the kitchen.
“I’m hungry,” he declares, like it’s a news headline.
“You are always hungry,” Yinsu says.
“That’s because I’m a growing boy.”
Austin snorts. “You’re thirty.”
Jake turns, offended. “I’m youthful. Vibrant. Full of life.”
“You’re loud,” Austin repeats.
“And you love it,” Jake says, pointing at him.
Austin opens his mouth to deny it out of habit, then closes it. He does. That’s the stupid part.
Jake rummages through the fridge like he’s on a scavenger hunt. “We have ... cheese. We have ... eggs. We have ...” he squints. “Why do we have seventeen sauces ?”
Yinsu walks over, peeks inside. “Because you keep buying them.”
“I like options.”
“You like chaos.”
Austin leans against the counter, watching them move around each other. It’s easy. Familiar. They’re a couple in the way that makes the air around them softer.
And Austin is here. Inside it. He tries not to think about that too hard.
“Do you want something ?” Jake asks, glancing back at him.
Austin’s first instinct is no. Always no. Don’t be a burden. Don’t take up space. Don’t ask for anything.
He shrugs instead, casual. “I’m good.”
Jake narrows his eyes. “That wasn’t an answer.”
Austin lifts his hands like he’s surrendering. “I’m not that hungry.”
Jake stares at him for a second, then tosses him a packet of crackers anyway. “Eat.”
Austin catches it, startled.
Yinsu watches, then says, “He’s like a cat.”
Austin frowns. “I’m not a cat.”
Jake’s eyes light up immediately. “Oh my god.”
“No,” Austin says instantly. “Don’t start.”
“I’m starting,” Jake announces. “Austin is a cat. He pretends he doesn’t want food, but if you leave it near him, he will eat it.”
Austin points at Yinsu. “You started this.”
Yinsu smiles innocently. “Did I ?”
Jake is already pulling out cheese and cutting it like he’s hosting a charcuterie segment. “Come here, kitty. Snacks.”
Austin rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost painful, but he does open the crackers. He eats one. Then another. He hates that Jake is right.
They end up eating at the counter, the three of them close enough that shoulders brush. Jake talks about tomorrow’s media like it’s a personal offense.
“They’re going to ask me about ‘expectations’,” he complains. “I hate that word.”
Yinsu hums. “Just say ‘we’re taking it one game at a time’ like everyone else.”
“That’s boring.”
“It’s media.”
Austin bites into a cracker, listening, and for a minute it feels like something he’s not allowed to have : normal.
Then his phone buzzes. It's the group chat, something from the team. A meme. Kaajak spamming a picture of a raccoon with Austin’s face badly edited onto it.
Austin chokes on a laugh.
Jake leans over to see. “OH MY GOD !”
Yinsu peers, then snorts. “That’s you.”
“It’s not me,” Austin insists, but he’s smiling, and it’s real.
Jake bumps his shoulder. “It is. Our little criminal.”
Austin shakes his head, then, before he can stop himself, says, “I could go home if you guys want to sleep. You have broadcast stuff, and we have media, and-”
The words come out too quickly, too automatic, like he’s been practicing them his whole life.
Jake pauses, cheese knife mid-air, brows knitting for half a second.
Yinsu’s expression doesn’t change much, but her eyes sharpen, like she just heard something important.
Austin regrets it instantly. He hates that his mouth does this. He hates that he makes things weird.
Jake recovers first, like he always does. He grins, bright and easy.
“Mate,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You’re already here.”
Austin’s throat feels tight. He swallows around it. “Yeah, I know. I just-”
Yinsu interrupts, tone light but not joking. “We’ll tell you if we want you to leave.”
Austin laughs, small and forced. “Okay.”
Jake reaches out, taps Austin’s knee under the counter, gentle. “And we don’t.”
Austin nods like he heard it. Like it didn’t land directly in his chest.
He finishes the cracker. Opens another one. Keeps his hands busy.
Because if he doesn’t, he might start shaking.
Later, when they’re brushing their teeth and Jake is still talking, Austin stands in the doorway of the bedroom with his bag in his hand like a reflex.
He doesn’t need the bag. He has things here already - clothes, a charger, a hoodie Jake stole and never gave back. But his body doesn’t know how to arrive somewhere without also preparing to leave it.
Jake catches the bag and makes a face. “Why do you carry that like you’re about to evacuate ?”
Austin shrugs, noncommittal. “Habit.”
Yinsu spits, rinses, then points her toothbrush at him like a threat. “Unlearn it.”
Austin huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
Jake flops onto the bed like he’s been shot, arms spread dramatically. “I’m dead.”
“You say that every night,” Yinsu says, climbing in beside him.
“And every night it’s true.”
Austin sets his bag down by the dresser, careful. He changes quickly, back turned, because he still can’t shake the weird instinct to be polite about taking up space.
When he climbs into bed, he stays on his side. A little stiff. Not fully relaxed.
Jake, of course, immediately rolls toward him, half-asleep already, arm draping over Austin’s waist like it’s automatic.
Austin goes still. Then he exhales, slow, and lets himself settle.
Yinsu turns off the light. The room goes quiet except for the distant city sounds and Jake’s breathing already slowing. Austin stares at the ceiling for a moment, listening to the weight of Jake’s arm, the warmth of Yinsu’s leg brushing his, the soft familiarity of two people who are not going anywhere.
His chest aches with something he refuses to name.
He tells himself, one more time, like a prayer : Don’t get used to it.
And then, because he’s tired and warm and Jake is heavy in the best way- His eyes close anyway.
Austin wakes up before the alarm. Truth is, he always does.
For a second, he doesn’t remember where he is. The room is dim, early Berlin grey leaking through the curtains, and there’s weight everywhere - warmth pressed along his back, a leg tangled with his, an arm heavy across his stomach.
Then he does remember.
Jake.
Yinsu.
He goes very still.
Jake’s arm is slung over him like it fell there by accident, hand resting just under Austin’s ribs. Yinsu is behind him, close enough that he can feel her breathing against the back of his neck, slow and even. He's scared of letting himself feel how good this all is.
He shouldn’t move. If he moves, they’ll wake up. If they wake up, they’ll realize he’s awake. If they realize he’s awake-
That thought doesn’t even make sense, and he knows it, but his body reacts like it does.
He shifts slightly anyway.
Jake makes a small, annoyed noise in his sleep and tightens his arm.
“Don’t,” he mumbles.
Austin freezes.
“I’m not,” he whispers automatically, even though Jake is barely conscious.
Jake exhales, face pressing into Austin’s shoulder like he’s trying to burrow into him. It’s warm.
Austin stares at the wall and tells himself this is normal : this is what couples do ; this is what they do. He's not intruding.
Yinsu’s hand moves next. Not abrupt, not clumsy. Just deliberate. Her fingers slide lightly over his wrist where it rests on the mattress, almost absentminded.
He thinks she’s asleep ; then she says, very quietly, “You’re thinking too loud.”
He closes his eyes. “I’m not thinking.”
“Liar.”
There’s no accusation in it. Just fond certainty.
Jake makes another noise, more awake now, and lifts his head enough to blink at Austin.
“Why are you awake ?” he asks, voice rough and soft at the same time.
“I just woke up,” Austin answers.
“It’s illegal,” Jake informs him. “Before the alarm is illegal.”
Austin huffs. “You’re dramatic.”
Jake squints at him, then leans in and presses a slow kiss just below Austin’s ear.
It’s not rushed, it’s not playful. It’s warm and lingering, like he’s marking something. Austin inhales sharply despite himself, and Jake notices immediately.He always does.
He smiles against Austin’s skin. “See ?”
“See what ?” Austin mutters, already feeling heat crawl up his neck.
“You make that sound every time,” Jake says, pleased.
“I do not.”
“You do,” Yinsu confirms from behind him, voice muffled against his shoulder. “It’s very consistent.”
Austin groans. “You’re both insane.”
Jake lifts his head enough to look at him properly now. The morning light catches in his hair, messy and unfairly soft. He looks younger like this. Less leader. More ... just Jake.
He brushes his thumb lightly along Austin’s jaw.
“You’re allowed to relax, you know.” he says, quieter now.
Austin swallows. “I am relaxed.”
Jake raises an eyebrow.
Yinsu’s fingers tap lightly against Austin’s wrist. “You sleep like you’re on public transport.”
Austin blinks. “What does that even mean ?”
“It means,” she says patiently, “you don’t lean fully into anything.”
He doesn’t answer that.
Jake watches him for a second longer, then leans in again, this time for his mouth.
The kiss is slower than last night’s. Less spark, more weight. Jake’s hand stays at the side of his face, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone like he’s memorizing something. Austin’s brain stutters for a second, then quiets. He kisses back ; of course he always does. Jake’s lips part just slightly, and Austin feels the small, electric pull of it - not desperate, not urgent. Just curious ; warm ; new enough that his body still reacts like it’s the first time, even though it’s not. It’s been weeks, and yet it still makes his stomach flip.
Jake pulls back eventually, resting his forehead against Austin’s.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
Austin’s voice is softer than he intends when he answers. “Morning.”
Behind him, Yinsu shifts and leans forward, pressing a kiss to Austin’s shoulder blade, just above the edge of his t-shirt.
“Media day,” she says. “Try not to say anything that gets clipped out of context.”
“That’s literally my job,” Jake says.
Austin huffs a laugh.
For a few seconds, it feels easy. Too easy.
He slips out of bed first, because that part is habit. He doesn’t wait for them to untangle. He moves quietly, careful not to disturb the space he’s been allowed into.
Jake groans as the warmth disappears.
“Rude,” he says into the pillow.
“You have to be up in twenty minutes,” Austin reminds him.
“That’s future Jake’s problem.”
“You are future Jake.”
Jake makes a wounded sound.
The kitchen is bright by the time Austin finishes making coffee. He doesn’t ask, he just does it. Mugs lined up. Sugar where it always is. Milk poured evenly. It feels ... nice, knowing where things go. He tells himself it’s just convenience : he’s been here enough to learn the layout. That’s all.
Yinsu walks in first, hair tied up now, wearing one of Jake’s hoodies. She takes her mug without asking which one is hers.
“Thank you,” she says.
He shrugs. “You would have done it.”
“I would have,” she agrees easily.
Jake stumbles in next, still half-asleep, and wraps his arms around Austin from behind without warning.
Austin stiffens automatically for half a second before he forces himself to relax into it.
Jake rests his chin on his shoulder. “He makes coffee. He’s perfect.”
Yinsu snorts. “That’s a low bar.”
“It’s not a low bar,” Jake protests. “It’s a foundational bar.”
Austin shakes his head, but he leans back slightly anyway, letting Jake’s weight settle against him.
Jake kisses the side of his neck, slow and lazy.
“Stop,” Austin says, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Make me.”
Yinsu rolls her eyes. “If you’re going to flirt, at least do it efficiently. We’re on a schedule.”
Jake lets go with a dramatic sigh. “Fine.”
They move around each other easily, collecting jackets, phones, keys.
Austin grabs his bag from the chair by the door.
Jake notices immediately.
“You know you can leave it here, right ?” he says lightly.
Austin shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“It’s safe here.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t leave it, and slings it over his shoulder anyway. Yinsu watches the exchange without commenting, just tucks her phone into her coat pocket and opens the door.
The hallway is cold. The world is loud again.
They walk to the office together. Jake and Austin peel off at the entrance to the practice room, Yinsu heading toward the studio side of the building.
“Don’t embarrass me,” she says over her shoulder.
“Impossible,” Jake answers.
She points at Austin instead. “You. Keep him in check.”
Austin raises his hands. “I try.”
She steps closer before she leaves, presses a quick kiss to Jake’s mouth, then - without hesitation - another to Austin’s cheek. It’s quick. Still, it lingers.
“See you later,” she says.
Austin watches her go, then looks away before Jake can catch him doing it.
“Media,” Jake says, clapping once. “Let’s go be charming.”
The day passes in a blur of cameras and controlled answers. Jake is effortless ; Austin is measured. He’s used to this part : the performance, the version of himself that fits neatly into answers and stats and expectations.
“Expectations ?” the interviewer asks.
“We’re taking it one game at a time,” Jake says smoothly.
Austin almost laughs.
After media, scrims start. It’s loud, focused, familiar.
And in between rounds, when Jake leans back and says, “Nice trade,” Austin feels something settle in his chest that has nothing to do with the game.
They work well together.
That part has never been in doubt.
It’s everything else that feels fragile.
That night, they end up back at Jake and Yinsu’s again without anyone really discussing it. It just ... happens.
Dinner is takeout. Too much of it, as often. Austin sits cross-legged on the floor while Jake argues with Alfa over something pointless in voice chat. Yinsu scrolls through her phone, occasionally interjecting with commentary sharp enough to cut.
At some point, Austin realizes he’s been here three nights in a row. He doesn’t know when that happened. He should probably go home.
He checks the time, and Jake notices.
“You have somewhere to be ?” he asks casually.
“No,” Austin says quickly. “Just checking.”
Jake studies him for half a second longer than necessary, then nods and goes back to arguing about agent comps.
Austin exhales slowly. He doesn’t leave.
Later, when the lights are low and the city outside is quieter, they end up in bed again. This time, Austin doesn’t hover at the edge ; not entirely.
He’s still careful. Still aware.
But when Jake’s hand finds his waist and Yinsu’s fingers curl loosely into his shirt, he doesn’t pull away. He lets himself settle. Just a little more than last night.
It’s small.
It matters.
And he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
The next day, they get home later than they mean to.
It’s not even because something happened. No big plans, no night out. Just one of those evenings that stretches - a debrief that turns into a detour, a detour that turns into standing in the hallway talking while Jake refuses to stop narrating his own life.
Austin’s phone says 00:41 by the time the door shuts behind them.
Yinsu flicks the lock with the kind of practiced motion that says she’s done this a thousand times and still does it carefully anyway. Jake drops his keys into the bowl on the counter like a magician finishing a trick.
“Right,” Jake announces, loud enough that the neighbors probably hear. “We survived another day.”
Austin kicks his shoes off neatly. Jake kicks his off like he’s trying to start a shoe fight.
Yinsu turns her head to look at Austin’s shoes lined up, then at Jake’s shoes halfway across the hallway, then back at Austin.
“You’re going to end up resenting him,” she says with a calm certainty that makes Austin bark a laugh.
“I already do,” Austin answers.
Jake gasps like he’s been stabbed. “That’s horrible.”
Austin shrugs. “That’s honesty.”
Yinsu walks past Jake and bumps Austin’s shoulder with hers. “We’re building a foundation of trust.”
Jake follows them into the living room, still dramatic. “I can’t believe this. Betrayed in my own home.”
“It’s not your home,” Yinsu says instantly.
Jake freezes. “It’s ... our home.”
Yinsu nods, satisfied. “Better.”
Jake looks like he’s fighting a smile. “You are so-” he makes a sound of reverence, “-powerful.”
Austin watches them for a second too long. It’s stupid how easy they are. They move around each other like they’ve mapped out the space. Even when they’re arguing, it’s warm.
And he’s here.
He tells himself, again, it’s just ... a few weeks. It’s still new. It’s still the part where things are bright because they’re bright. That’s how it works. New things always feel like this.
They don’t last.
He doesn’t say that out loud.
Instead, he follows them into the kitchen and opens the fridge like he belongs there, because pretending is easier than hovering.
Jake leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone. “We should eat something.”
“It’s one in the morning,” Austin says.
“And ?” Jake replies, like time is a suggestion.
Yinsu walks to the cupboard and pulls out three glasses without asking. “We can eat something small.”
Jake points at her like he’s vindicated. “See ?”
Austin opens his mouth to object out of habit, then closes it again. He doesn’t actually want to object. He just likes saying no first. It makes him feel like he’s controlling something.
He grabs a packet of crackers again, because Jake has apparently decided that’s his designated food now. He starts arranging them on a plate because he can’t stand doing things halfway. Yinsu watches him do it.
“You’re nesting,” she says.
Austin pauses. “I’m not nesting.”
Jake looks up from his phone, interest piqued immediately. “Oh my god.”
“Don't” Austin says, already tired. “Do not.”
Jake steps closer, peering at the plate like it’s evidence. “He’s making a little snack plate. He’s nesting.”
“I’m making a plate,” Austin says flatly.
Yinsu hums. “He’s making it neat.”
“It’s a plate,” Austin repeats.
Jake puts a hand on his shoulder, patting like he’s praising a pet. “Good kitty.”
Austin smacks his hand away, but his mouth twitches anyway. “You’re insane.”
“And yet,” Jake says, leaning in, voice dropping a fraction, “you’re still here.”
Austin’s chest tightens. He hates that it does that. He hates that it’s not even Jake saying anything deep. It’s not romantic poetry. It’s just ... a fact.
You’re still here.
Like Jake assumes he will be.
Yinsu slides a glass toward Austin and bumps it lightly against his wrist so he has to take it.
“Hydrate,” she says.
Austin takes it. “Yes, boss.”
“Correct,” she replies.
Jake laughs, then moves behind Austin to grab something from the fridge, and as he passes, his fingers brush the small of Austin’s back. Not groping ; not deliberate in a sexual way ; just a touch that says I’m moving around you.
Austin’s whole body registers it anyway. He doesn’t move ; he lets it happen. That might be the scariest part.
They sit on the couch after, food balanced on knees, the TV on but muted. It’s one of those quiet nights where none of them are actually watching anything. Jake is talking, Yinsu is occasionally interjecting to roast him, and Austin is half listening, half floating.
Jake’s voice fills the room like it always does.
“And then,” Jake says, gesturing with a cracker like he’s holding a microphone, “they asked me if I think we’re going to win Kickoff.”
Austin snorts. “What did you say ?”
“What do you think I said ? I said yes.”
Yinsu turns her head toward him. “You did not.”
Jake looks offended. “I did.”
“You said ‘we’re taking it one game at a time,’” Yinsu corrects, “because I watched the clip.”
Jake points at her. “That’s a legal requirement. You’re not allowed to say yes, you’ll win. You have to pretend you’re humble.”
Austin smirks. “Are you humble ?”
Jake stares at him like he’s considering a serious question. “No.”
Yinsu laughs, short and bright. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“I’m very self-aware,” Jake insists. “I know exactly who I am.”
“Loud,” Austin supplies.
Jake leans toward him immediately, grin sharp. “And loved.”
Austin’s throat tightens. Again. He covers it by taking a sip of water.
Yinsu shifts closer to Austin on the couch, tucking her feet up under her. Her knee brushes his thigh ; she doesn’t move away. Austin tries not to react ; he fails. Not visibly nor dramatically, just in the way his whole body stays very still, like he’s afraid the contact will break if he acknowledges it.
Jake keeps talking. Something about scrims, about a weird comp, about how Alfa refuses to buy into any plan that isn’t “shoot them.”
Austin laughs at the right places. He’s good at that. He’s good at being present in a way that doesn’t take up too much space.
At some point, Yinsu nudges his shoulder gently.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
Austin shrugs. “Just tired.”
Jake looks at him then, really looks. The smile on his face softens, like it always does when the room gets quieter.
“We can go to bed,” Jake offers.
Austin’s first instinct is to say, no, it’s fine, I’m good, I can go home-
He doesn’t.
He nods instead.
“Yeah,” he says. “Bed’s good.”
The words taste weird in his mouth. Like he’s claiming something that isn’t his.
Jake stands, stretching, then leans down to press a quick kiss to Yinsu’s forehead, then to Austin’s temple. Austin’s eyes close for half a second at the contact. It’s still new enough that his body doesn’t know what to do with it. Still new enough that it sends a small pulse of heat through him, like a startled heartbeat.
Jake pulls back, satisfied. “Come on then.”
They move through the apartment like this is routine. It’s becoming routine. That thought makes Austin’s stomach dip.
In the bathroom, Jake is brushing his teeth and talking through a mouthful of foam, which is disgusting and also completely on brand.
“-and then I told them, I said, listen, if you want content, you have to-”
Yinsu cuts him off, deadpan. “Stop talking.”
Jake looks affronted around the toothbrush. “I can multitask.”
“You can’t,” Austin says, and he means it.
Jake points the toothbrush at him like a weapon. “I’m offended.”
“Be offended quietly,” Yinsu says, spitting and rinsing.
Austin washes his hands, stares at his reflection for a second longer than necessary. He looks fine. He looks normal. He looks like someone who belongs in this bathroom.
He doesn’t feel like it.
He turns away before he starts thinking too hard.
Jake finishes first because he does everything like he’s speedrunning life. He grabs Austin’s wrist as Austin walks past him. Austin pauses. Jake’s eyes flick up to his face. “You okay?”
Austin forces his mouth into a smirk. “Yeah.”
Jake looks like he doesn’t fully buy it, but he doesn’t push. He just squeezes Austin’s wrist gently and lets go.
Yinsu watches the exchange in the mirror. Austin pretends he doesn’t see.
In the bedroom, the lighting is soft. The sheets are rumpled, the air warm. Austin stands by the dresser with his bag in his hand like it’s an accessory he doesn’t know how to put down. Jake notices immediately, because of course he does.
“Austin,” Jake says, not annoyed, not teasing. Just ... noticing.
Austin clears his throat. “I’ll just- I’m going to grab-”
“What are you grabbing ?” Yinsu asks, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up around her waist.
Austin looks down at the bag like it’s betrayed him. “Nothing.”
Jake walks over and takes the bag from him without asking, sets it down on the floor by the dresser.
“There,” he says. “Now it can rest too.”
Austin huffs a laugh that doesn’t fully reach his chest. “It’s a bag.”
“It’s tired,” Jake insists.
Yinsu pats the bed on Austin’s side. “Come here.”
Austin’s brain does the old thing - you’re taking too long, you’re making it weird, just do it, just get in-
He changes quickly, back turned, like politeness can keep him from feeling too seen.
When he climbs into bed, he still starts on the edge. Not because they’ve ever asked him to ; not because there isn’t space ; just because his body remembers being temporary.
Jake, naturally, ruins that within seconds by rolling closer until he’s pressed against Austin’s side.
“Move,” Austin mutters.
Jake makes a sound like a purr. “No.”
Yinsu reaches across Austin’s chest to flick Jake’s forehead lightly. “Let him breathe.”
Jake reacts like she’s attacked him. “I am letting him breathe ! He’s breathing. Look.”
Austin exhales sharply. “I hate you both.”
“No you don’t,” Yinsu says.
Jake kisses Austin’s shoulder, slow and warm. “You love us.”
Austin’s mouth opens automatically to deny it. But nothing comes out.
He hates that.
He stares at the ceiling and lets himself sink into the mattress, inch by inch, like testing whether it’ll hold him. Jake is still talking, quieter now. Not the full stage voice. Just ... Jake. He tells a story about something stupid that happened earlier at the office - Kaajak trying to make a joke that didn’t land, Milan looking like he wanted to disappear, Alfa refusing to cooperate with a content shoot like it was a personal affront Austin laughs softly at the right places.
Yinsu hums occasionally. Adds a comment. Roasts Jake once, affectionately. Jake protests, loudly, then quiets again, curling closer.
The room gets warmer, as Austin’s body gets heavier.
He’s aware of Jake’s arm draped across his waist, hand resting flat against his stomach like it belongs there. He’s aware of Yinsu’s fingers tracing lazy shapes on his forearm, not constant, just there. Like she’s anchoring him without making a point of it.
It’s too much.
It’s also exactly enough.
Austin’s mind tries to do the thing it always does - catalog the moment, store it, prepare for the loss of it.
Don’t get used to it.
He thinks it, then immediately feels stupid for thinking it. Because Jake is here, warm and breathing, and Yinsu is here, steady and close, and nothing is asking him to leave.
He shifts slightly, trying to find a better position. Jake tightens his arm automatically, pulling him closer. Austin’s breath catches, and Jake feels it.
“Stop doing that,” Jake murmurs, half-asleep.
Austin blinks. “Doing what ?”
“That,” Jake says, voice muffled against his shoulder. “That little ...” he makes a soft sound that is not quite a laugh, “-that little inhale like I’ve shocked you.”
Austin’s cheeks heat in the dark. “I don’t-”
“Yes you do,” Yinsu says, voice lazy. “It’s cute.”
“I'm not-” Austin mutters.
“It’s cute,” Jake insists, and then he lifts his head enough to find Austin’s mouth.
The kiss is slow.
Not because Jake is trying to be gentle - though he is - but because Jake has always been a little reverent about kissing, like he treats it as something worth taking time for even when everything else in his life is loud.
His lips are warm and soft, a little firm at first, then easing when Austin kisses back. Jake’s hand slides from Austin’s stomach to his side, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like he’s holding him in place. Austin’s heart does something embarrassing ; he tries not to think about it. He focuses on the kiss instead - the way Jake tastes faintly like toothpaste and whatever sauce he ate earlier, the way his breath is warm against Austin’s upper lip, the way he pauses like he’s waiting for Austin to meet him halfway every time.
Austin does.
That might be the worst part. Because he wants to.
Jake’s thumb brushes lightly over Austin’s hip, absentminded, and Austin has to swallow a sound.
Jake pulls back just enough to murmur, “Good.”
Austin’s eyes snap open. “What ?”
Jake smiles in the dark. “You’re here.”
Austin’s throat tightens so hard it hurts. “Yeah.”
Jake kisses him again, shorter this time, then drops his forehead to Austin’s shoulder like he’s done for the night.
Yinsu shifts closer behind Austin, draping herself along his back like a warm line. She presses a kiss to the nape of his neck, quick but real.
“Sleep,” she says.
Austin tries.
He does try.
He stares at the ceiling for what feels like a long time, listening to their breathing change as they sink deeper. Jake’s gets slower first. Yinsu’s follows.
Austin’s mind keeps skittering, like it doesn’t know how to settle.
He thinks about tomorrow’s schedule. About scrims. About what he needs to do. About whether he left his laundry in the dryer at home.
He thinks about how he should probably go home in the morning. He’s been here a lot this week. He doesn’t want to be too much.
He thinks about how Jake said, you’re here, like it was a good thing.
He thinks about how Yinsu didn’t hesitate to kiss him, like it was normal.
He thinks about how his chest hurts in a way that feels like it’s filling up too fast.
His eyelids get heavy.
He shifts again, just a little, and this time he doesn’t stop himself from curling closer. He tucks his face nearer to Jake’s shoulder. He lets his hand rest on Jake’s forearm where it’s wrapped around him.
It’s small. It feels dangerous.
Jake makes a soft, content noise in his sleep, and his arm tightens slightly like he noticed.
Austin’s body, finally, gives up ; his thoughts blur. The last thing he registers is Yinsu’s fingers sliding into his hair, slow, careful, like she’s petting a skittish animal that might bolt.
Then-
Nothing.
Jake wakes up in the middle of the night the way he always does when something is off.
Not off bad. Off different.
The room is dark. Quiet. The city outside is distant. He blinks slowly, orienting himself, and the first thing he registers is warmth.
Austin is pressed into him. Properly pressed. Not hovering at the edge, not stiff, not braced like he’s preparing to move. Curled in, fully settled, breathing deep and slow.
Jake goes very still. He can feel Austin’s hand on his forearm, fingers relaxed. He can feel the weight of Austin’s head against his shoulder, the soft exhale of his breath warming the fabric of Jake’s shirt.
He’s asleep.
Not pretending.
Not resting lightly.
Deep asleep.
Jake’s chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with breathing. He turns his head carefully, trying not to wake him, and looks past Austin to Yinsu.
She’s awake too. Of course she is. Her eyes are open in the dark, watching. Not tense, not worried, just present.
Jake mouths silently : Look.
Yinsu’s gaze drops to Austin.
Her expression changes immediately, tiny and soft - like something in her unclenches. She doesn’t smile big. She doesn’t make a face. She just exhales, the smallest sound of relief.
Jake’s throat feels tight. He shifts carefully, lifting his hand to brush Austin’s hair back from his forehead. His fingers move slowly, like the touch matters. Austin doesn’t flinch ; he just sighs and sinks deeper, pressing closer without even waking. Jake’s eyes sting, stupidly.
He looks at Yinsu again, and this time he whispers, barely audible, “Oh my god.”
Yinsu’s voice is equally quiet. “Yeah.”
“He’s ... he’s actually comfortable.”
Yinsu’s hand reaches forward, careful, and she rests her fingertips lightly on Austin’s shoulder, like she’s confirming he’s real.
“He feels safe,” she murmurs.
Jake’s chest swells so fast he almost laughs.
“He stayed,” he whispers back, like it’s a secret.
Yinsu’s eyes flick to Jake, then back to Austin. “He always stays.”
Jake shakes his head, almost imperceptible. “No. He stays like he’s visiting.”
Yinsu’s mouth twitches. “And tonight ?”
Jake looks down at Austin again. Austin’s face is turned toward Jake’s chest, mouth slightly open, breathing steady. His hand is still on Jake’s arm like it belongs there. Like he forgot to be careful.
“Tonight,” Jake says, voice soft with something like awe, “he stayed like he lives here.”
Yinsu’s eyes soften further. She reaches out again, this time brushing her thumb lightly over Austin’s knuckles where his hand rests on Jake.
Austin shifts, but he doesn’t wake. His fingers curl slightly, like he’s holding on without knowing he is.
Yinsu whispers, almost fond, “He doesn’t even know.”
Jake laughs silently, the sound caught in his chest. “He has no idea.”
Yinsu glances at Jake, then back to Austin. “Don’t wake him.”
“I won’t,” Jake promises immediately, like it’s the most serious vow in the world.
They go quiet again, both of them watching the slow rise and fall of Austin’s breathing like it’s the only thing that matters.
Jake’s hand stays in Austin’s hair, stroking gently, not constant - just enough to keep contact. Like reassurance is something you can give in your sleep.
Yinsu shifts closer behind Austin, pressing her body along his back carefully, making a small pocket of warmth around him.
Austin sighs again, deeper this time. He melts.
Jake feels it happen. Feels the last bit of tension leave Austin’s body, like he finally trusts the bed to hold him. Jake swallows hard.
Yinsu’s voice is barely a breath. “He’s home.”
Jake turns his head toward her. Even in the dark, he can see the truth in her face. The certainty. The protectiveness.
Jake’s own voice is shaky in a way he doesn’t like to admit. “Yeah.”
He presses a kiss to Austin’s hair, quick and soft, like punctuation.
Austin doesn’t wake ; he just stays.
And Jake lies there, holding him, thinking-content, delighted, stupidly full-
He feels safe with us.
It’s such a small thing.
It’s everything.
In the morning, Austin wakes up to sunlight and weight. Jake’s arm is still around him, Yinsu’s leg is still tangled with his. His own hand is-he looks down-
His own hand is curled around Jake’s forearm like he chose it.
He freezes.
His first instinct is to let go. To pull back. To reset.
But he doesn’t. Not immediately.
Because for one half-second, he feels something warm and stupid in his chest.
Comfort.
Then his brain catches up and panic flickers. He shifts carefully, trying to move without making it obvious that he was ... that relaxed. Jake makes a sound, half-asleep, and tightens his arm like a reflex, pulling Austin back in. Austin’s breath catches - there’s that inhale again, the one Jake keeps mocking - and he bites it down hard.
Yinsu’s voice is soft behind him, amused. “Good morning, raccoon.”
Austin closes his eyes. “Please stop calling me that.”
“Mm,” she hums. “No.”
Jake’s voice is rough with sleep. “Morning, kitty.”
Austin groans into the pillow.
Jake kisses the back of his neck, slow, and Austin hates the way his body reacts like it’s been waiting for it.
He can feel Jake smiling against his skin. He can feel Yinsu’s hand slide into his hair again, gentle.
Austin exhales, long and helpless. He lets himself stay one more second before he starts pretending again. Just one. Because it feels too good not to.
The week didn’t pause for them.
Mornings still came too early. Media days still demanded smiles. Scrims still stacked on top of scrims until the hours blurred together.
And most nights, Austin still fell asleep between them.
So when Fnatic loose their first game of the season, that loss sits in Austin’s chest longer than it should.
It’s not catastrophic. It’s not season-ending. But it lingers, because losses always do.
Jake takes them out loud. He gets animated. He rewinds rounds three times, points at the screen like he can physically grab the mistake and shake it.
“Why are we swinging there ?” he asks, not angry, just intense. “We have numbers. We have numbers.”
Alfa shrugs. “I thought-”
“I know what you thought,” Jake cuts in quickly, softer now. “I know. But we don’t need to be heroes every round.”
Austin doesn’t say much.
He rarely does after a loss.
He sits back in his chair, headset around his neck, watching the screen, cataloguing every micro-mistake like they’re debts he personally owes someone.
He replays his own decisions in his head.
The missed timing.
The slightly late rotate.
The util that landed just a fraction off.
None of it is huge. And yet, all of it feels enormous.
Jake’s voice fills the room anyway, recalibrating, reframing. “It’s fine. It’s fixable. We just clean it up.”
Austin nods automatically.
It’s fine.
It’s fixable.
He knows that.
He just also knows that losses make him feel smaller in a way he can’t fully explain.
When the review wraps, people peel off quickly. No one’s laughing the way they usually are. It’s not tense - just quieter.
Jake lingers, talking to Milan about scheduling. Yinsu is on the studio side today, and Austin doesn’t see her until he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder. He does it without thinking, the motion is automatic.
Pack up.
Reset.
Leave.
Jake notices. Of course he does.
“You heading out ?” Jake asks, casual.
Austin shrugs. “Yeah. Thought I’d ... go home.”
Jake’s brow furrows slightly. “We’re going home.”
Austin keeps his tone even. “Yeah. I just meant my place.”
There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough for Jake to register the difference.
“You don’t have to,” Jake says lightly, like it’s not a loaded sentence.
Austin looks down at his bag strap. “I know.”
He does know. That’s not the problem.
Jake studies him for a second, then glances over his shoulder toward the hallway where Yinsu just stepped into view, headset hanging around her neck. She takes one look at Austin’s posture and understands more than anyone says out loud.
“How bad was it ?” she asks Jake.
“Messy,” Jake replies. “Not tragic.”
Yinsu nods, then looks at Austin. “And you’re taking it personally.”
It’s not a question.
Austin huffs out a small breath that’s almost a laugh. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she says calmly.
Jake steps closer, not crowding, just ... there. “You didn’t even play badly.”
Austin shrugs again. “Could’ve been better.”
“It can always be better,” Jake says, firm but not sharp. “That’s not the same thing.”
Austin doesn’t answer.
He hates that they can read him this easily.
He hates that it makes something in his chest feel seen.
Yinsu crosses her arms. “Are you going home because you want to be alone, or because you think you should ?”
Austin looks at her. He opens his mouth. Closes it. And that’s answer enough.
Jake sighs softly. Not annoyed. Just ... understanding.
“We can just get food and crash,” Jake offers. “No VOD. No overthinking. Just quiet.”
Austin hesitates.
That’s the worst part.
He hesitates.
Because part of him wants it. Wants the warmth, the distraction, the softness of their apartment after a day that felt sharp.
And part of him thinks : You played badly. You don’t get comfort for that.
It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid.
He nods anyway. “Yeah. Alright.”
Jake’s mouth curves, relieved but subtle. “Cool.”
Yinsu walks past Austin on her way to the exit and nudges his elbow gently. “You’re not your ACS,” she says.
Austin huffs. “That’s cringe.”
“Doesn’t make it wrong.”
He doesn’t argue.
The walk home is quieter than usual. Jake doesn’t fill the silence this time. Not because he can’t - because he chooses not to. He lets the air exist. And Austin appreciates that more than he can articulate.
They pass a bakery that’s closing, the warm smell of bread spilling onto the sidewalk. Yinsu points at it. “We should try that place.”
Jake nods. “After Kickoff.”
Austin’s brain catches on the phrasing automatically.
After Kickoff.
Not if.
Not depending on anything.
After.
He doesn’t say anything.
When they reach the apartment, Jake unlocks the door and gestures Austin inside like it’s obvious. Austin steps in without thinking about it. Well, that’s new.
Inside, the lights are low again. Familiar. Yinsu drops her bag by the couch and kicks her heels off, rubbing the back of her ankle, Jake heads to the kitchen, and Austin stands in the middle of the living room for a second, bag still on his shoulder. He feels out of place. Like the loss followed him here and is sitting heavy on his spine.
Jake comes back with three bottles of water and hands one to Austin without a word. Austin takes it.
“Talk to me,” Jake says, not confrontational. Just open.
Austin shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Jake says softly. “It’s fixable. That’s different.”
Yinsu sits on the couch and pats the spot beside her. Austin hesitates ; then he sits. He perches at first, shoulders tight. Jake drops down on his other side, close enough that their thighs touch ; no one comments on it. Austin stares at the coffee table.
“I should’ve rotated faster,” he mutters eventually.
Jake leans back into the couch, looking at him instead of the table. “Maybe.”
“In round 7, I should’ve held the angle instead of-”
“Maybe,” Jake repeats.
Austin finally looks up, frustrated. “You’re not going to argue ?”
Jake shrugs. “You want me to ?”
Austin falters “No.”
Jake nods once. “Okay.”
Silence again.
Yinsu reaches out and flicks Austin’s knee lightly. “You know what I saw on broadcast ?”
Austin groans. “Please don’t.”
“You looked calm,” she continues anyway. “You looked steady. You didn’t tilt.”
He frowns. “We lost.”
“And you didn’t tilt,” she repeats.
Jake nudges his shoulder gently. “That matters.”
Austin’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t feel like it matters.”
Jake studies him for a second, then shifts closer, resting his elbow on the back of the couch behind Austin’s shoulders.
“You don’t only get to exist here when you play perfectly,” Jake says quietly.
The words hit a lot harder than Austin expects. He looks away. He hates how direct Jake can be when he drops the bit.
Yinsu leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re allowed to have off days.”
“I didn’t even have an off day,” Austin says. “It was just-”
“Just what ?” Jake asks.
Austin hesitates.
He doesn’t have a clean word for it ; just not enough. Jake seems to understand anyway. He reaches over and takes Austin’s hand, not dramatically. Just sliding their fingers together like it’s normal. Austin’s first instinct is to pull away ; he doesn’t.
Jake squeezes gently. “We don’t keep you around because you frag.”
Austin’s chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.
“Jake,” he mutters, like that’s too much.
“I’m serious,” Jake says. “You think I’d put up with your personality if you weren’t good at Valorant ?”
Austin blinks, startled, then snorts despite himself. “That’s rude.”
“It’s honest,” Jake grins, then softens. “You’re here because you’re you.”
Yinsu tilts her head. “And because you make coffee.”
Austin rolls his eyes. “Low bar.”
“Foundational bar,” Jake corrects immediately.
Austin’s mouth twitches. He squeezes Jake’s hand back without thinking. That’s new too.
Later, they order food. Something greasy and unpretentious. They eat cross-legged on the floor again. Jake tells a story about a scrim from two years ago where everything went wrong in increasingly stupid ways. He’s not performing for an audience - just talking. Letting the edges of the loss soften.
Austin listens. He starts contributing slowly : a comment here, a dry observation there.
By the time the containers are empty, the heaviness in his chest has dulled. Not gone ; just quieter.
They end up on the couch again, closer this time. Not because someone asked, but because gravity did. Jake rests his head briefly against Austin’s shoulder.
“You’re not going home,” he says casually.
Austin blinks. “I-”
“You’re not,” Jake repeats, softer.
Yinsu leans her head against Austin’s other shoulder.
“You look like you’re about to bolt,” she says.
“I’m not,” Austin insists automatically.
Jake hums. “You do this thing.”
Austin sighs. “What thing ?”
“You lose,” Jake says gently, “and you start pulling away before anyone else can.”
Austin’s stomach drops.
“That’s not-”
“It is,” Yinsu says.
Austin looks between them, jaw tight.
He hates that they see it.
He hates that they’re not wrong.
Jake shifts so he’s fully facing Austin now, one knee pressed against his.
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” Jake says quietly.
Austin swallows. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jake studies him for a second, then nods slowly.
“Good.”
They don’t push further.
They don’t turn it into a lecture.
They just stay.
Later, when they’re in bed, the mood is different from the other nights. Not tense, just heavier.
Jake is quieter, more deliberate in the way he touches Austin.
He leans in and kisses him slowly, not playful this time, not teasing, just steady. Austin feels it all the way down.
Jake’s hand cups his jaw, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. He kisses him like he’s reminding him of something.
You’re here.
You’re wanted.
You’re not your last round.
Austin kisses back, slower than usual. He lets himself lean into it.
Yinsu presses close behind him, hand sliding over his waist.
“We’re still proud of you,” she murmurs against his shoulder.
Austin’s eyes sting. He hates that they do. He presses his forehead briefly to Jake’s, breathing uneven for half a second.
Jake notices ; he always does.
“You don’t only get to stay on the good days,” Jake says softly.
Austin closes his eyes. That sentence feels dangerous, because it’s the opposite of everything his brain has trained him to expect. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he does the only thing he can : he stays.
He lets Jake’s arm wrap around him.
He lets Yinsu’s fingers trace slow lines on his hip.
He lets himself sink into the mattress without immediately calculating his exit.
It’s not as unguarded as the night before, but it’s closer.
And somewhere between the loss and the warmth of their bodies pressed around him, something shifts again. Tiny ; but real.
When Jake wakes in the middle of the night this time, Austin isn’t as deeply asleep as before. But he’s still curled close. Still there. Just ... slightly braced.
Jake doesn’t comment. He just pulls him in a fraction closer. Austin exhales; and doesn’t move away.