Archive of Our Own

Calum knew something was off the moment he saw the rent price.

There was no earthly way an apartment this good should cost less than four figures a month. It was situated in a great neighborhood, surrounded by everything he needed and was located a mere fifteen-minute commute from his job. The place itself ticked every single box on his minimalist checklist: a separate sleeping area, a functional kitchen and a private bathroom with decent water pressure.

At the time, he’d convinced himself he’d simply gotten lucky, a reward from the universe for being a decent guy.

On his very first night, he realized luck had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Calum had a very normal job. It wasn’t exciting by any stretch of imagination. Selling electronics all day wasn’t exactly the kind of thing people dreamed about doing as kids, but he liked it well enough. It was stable, the pay was decent, and, at the end of every month, he had enough money left over to spend on his hobbies. More importantly, it fit neatly into the rigid routine he’d built for himself over the years due to his upbringing.

Calum liked routines. He thrived on them.

He woke up at seven every morning. He had a run at least thrice a week early in the morning. He went to work. He came home. He made a healthy dinner, watched a few episodes of whatever anime or show he was currently obsessed with and went to bed at precisely eleven most times. And as far as Calum was concerned, there was absolutely no reason for any of that to change.

He had been drifting comfortably in the deep, heavy sleep of someone who had spent the day lifting heavy moving boxes. Then, a shout exploded through the wall right beside his head.

What do you mean we lost drake?!

Calum shot upright, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Drake? The fucking rapper? He thought to himself incredulously. It didn't make sense so, for one terrifying, half asleep second, his brain supplied several apocalyptic possibilities.

The same voice continued, muffled but fiercely aggressive. Yeah, sure! Blame mid lane all you want! This is on you!

Calum blinked into the pitch-black room.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, squinting against the blinding glare of the screen. His stomach dropped when he saw 4:03 AM staring back at him. A miserable groan escaped him as he fell backward onto the mattress, pulling the pillow over his face, but it did nothing to drown out the noise.

I can’t believe you missed smite, oh my god! You are literal garbage!

Then came the frantic, machine gun clatter of what sounded like a keyboard being brutalized, followed by a heavy thud that vibrated through the floorboards.

Calum stared blankly at the wall. He had moved into this building less than twelve hours ago. Already, the mystery of the affordable rent was solved; thin walls. And his neighbor was a human hurricane.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The next morning, the second Calum opened the shop door and stepped inside, Ashton looked up from behind the counter. His eyes immediately landed on the dark, swollen circles beneath Calum's.

Ashton let out a low whistle. "Dude. What the hell happened to you? Your bags have eyebags!" he asked, abandoning the inventory clipboard and hurrying over.

Calum looked like he’d been dragged through the mud. His curly hair was a messy, unbrushed nest, his shoulders were hunched with tension and his face carried the unmistakable look of pure exhaustion.

For a  moment, he just stood by the door, trying to think of a way to explain it without sounding entirely insane. In the end, he gave up.

"My neighbor," he muttered, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. "My neighbor happened."

Ashton blinked. "...That's it? That's the explanation? Is he a convicted felon?"

Calum sighed heavily at the assumption, trudging towards the back breakroom. The morning sunlight spilling through the front glass windows felt like a personal insult to his tired eyes. He hung his jacket on a hook and placed his keys in their usual spot. Before putting his phone away, he switched it to vibrate, shoving it deep into his pocket.

The memory of the late night shouting — and those aggressive loud desk slams — made his temples throb. He’d spent the endless hours after waking up staring at the ceiling, his brain stubbornly refusing to shut back down. By the time he’d finally drifted off, his alarm had blared more loud than usual in Calum's perspective.

"I got maybe two hours," Calum groaned, returning to the storefront.

Ashton’s eyes widened. "Seriously? Damn. Was your neighbor throwing a party or something?"

Calum leaned heavily against the glass counter, resting his chin in his hand. "Fuck. I wish it was a party. Maybe I could've joined and actually gotten a drink out of it instead of staring into the void."

Ashton frowned, genuinely puzzled now. "Then what was it?"

Calum stared at him, wondering if the words would even make sense out loud. "My neighbor was playing video games."

Ashton repeated. "That's it?"

Calum's left eye gave a distinct twitch. "That's it? Ash, he was screaming about drakes and smiting things at four in the morning. It sounded like a tactical war room on the other side of my bed!"

Ashton burst out laughing, a loud, booming sound that made Calum wince. "Oh, man. You got yourself a League player. You're doomed. They don't sleep, Cal. They just consume energy drinks and rage."

"Well, he’s going to sleep tonight," Calum muttered grimly, gripping the edge of the counter. "Because if he wakes me up again, I'll break down his door and shove the missing drake up his ass."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Calum spent the rest of his shift in a hazy, caffeine fueled autopilot, counting down the minutes until six o'clock. When he finally got back to his apartment building that evening, he felt a sickening dread in his stomach.

He made dinner in total silence, took a hot shower, brushed his teeth and climbed into bed at exactly 10:45 PM, a mere fifteen minutes earlier than usual to make sure he'd be asleep by eleven o'clock with how tired he felt. He turned off the lights. He closed his eyes. He prayed to whatever gods of apartment living existed that tonight would be different.

It wasn't.

At 1:14 AM, the wall rattled.

Are you actual trash? If he's invading, invade him back!

Calum’s eyes snapped open. The exhaustion in his body instantly curdled into pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Not tonight, he thought. Absolutely not tonight.

Angry, he threw off his duvet, not even bothering to put on a shirt or grab his phone. In just his gray sweatpants and bare feet, he marched out of his apartment, crossed the small space between his door and apartment 2B and slammed his fist against the door. Three loud, booming knocks.

The shouting inside cut off instantly.

For a  moment, there was dead silence. Calum stood there, chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He was ready to tear this guy a new one. He had a whole speech prepared about tenant rights, noise ordinances, and basic human decency.

Then, the heavy click of a deadbolt turned. The door swung open.

The guy standing there looked like a walking, sleep deprived cartoon. He had a massive pair of headphones resting around his neck, a faded, oversized Nirvana t shirt and a head full of unruly hair that was an aggressive, bright neon green. He didn't look remorseful at all; he looked deeply annoyed to be pulled away from whatever he was screaming at.

He looked Calum up and down, eyes lingering on Calum’s tanned bare chest for a few more seconds than needed and messy hair, before letting out a loud, dramatic sigh and meeting Calum's eyes.

"Look, man, whatever you’re selling, I don't want it," the guy snapped, leaning heavily against the doorframe. His voice was a low, scratchy drawl. "And if you’re here to complain about the Wi-Fi — trust me, it happens a lot around here —, it’s not my fault the landlord runs this place on a potato."

Calum blinked. Who the fuck would sell something at 1 AM?

His carefully rehearsed speech immediately derailed. He wasn't expecting his neighbor to say something so out of pocket. "Selling stuff at 1AM?” Calum asked incredulously and then continued “I’m not here about the Wi-Fi, either. You're loud. It’s one in the morning and I can hear you screaming through the wall."

The guy rolled his eyes so hard Calum thought they might get stuck. "Oh my god. Are you serious? I am in the literal trenches right now. I have a hardstuck emerald jungler, who is my friend Luke by the way, who doesn't know how to use his map and gets invaded left and right and you're coming over here to give me a noise complaint?"

"What the fuck? I don't know what a jungler is and I honestly don't care about your stupid game," Calum said, crossing his arms and tightening his posture. "I work. I have to be up in a few hours. Can you just shut up and stop typing like you're trying to murder your keyboard?"

The guy let out a sharp, amused and loud bark of a laugh. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in even stupider directions.

"I'm putting these noobs in their place, alright?" he said, though his tone lost a tiny bit of its bite. He sighed, adjusting the headphones around his neck. "Look, I'm Michael. And I’m sorry my rage is vibrating through your wall but it’s a ranked match. It's life or death."

"There's going to be an actual death if you wake me up again," Calum muttered grimly.

Michael chuckled, a rough, lazy sound. He tilted his head, giving Calum a mockingly sympathetic look. "Alright, alright, calm down, Hulk. I'll change to another keyboard and speak lower so my loud voice doesn't shatter your fragile eardrums. Happy?"

Of course he has more than one keyboard, Calum thought to himself and rolled his eyes.

"Extremely."

"Great. Go put a shirt on, neighbor. You're making me cold just looking at you," Michael said with a smirk. He gave Calum a lazy, sarcastic two finger salute. "Get some sleep—" he paused, uncertain.

“Calum.” Calum completed.

“Calum.” Michael repeated before slamming the door shut, the deadbolt clicking into place before Calum could even process the shirt comment.

Calum stood alone in the dimly lit hallway, his bare feet freezing against the marble porcelain tile. He stared at the chipped paint on door 2B, his mind a mix of lingering irritation and utter bewilderment. Michael was arrogant, incredibly rude and completely bizarre but the hall was finally quiet.

He marched back to his own apartment, muttering under his breath about neon haired psychos. He climbed back into his bed and pulled the duvet up to his chin. The apartment across the hall remained completely silent, just like he wanted.

Calum closed his eyes and finally drifted off to sleep, completely unaware that his loud, sarcastic neighbor was about to turn his predictable life completely upside down.

When Luke first announced that he wanted to pursue professional gaming, Michael laughed. He laughed until tears pricked his eyes and his stomach ached. He genuinely thought it was a joke, but as the seconds ticked by and Luke’s expression remained stone cold serious, Michael realized he'd misread the room.

"Wait... you're serious?" Michael asked incredulously.

They had been playing League of Legends together since around it came out, 2009 to be more specific. It had always been their favorite way to waste time together. Michael had always taken it more seriously, though — spending his lunch money on the newest skins and watching legendary players like Faker with a literal sparkle in his eyes, dreaming of making it big.

"Well, yes!" Luke whined. "I've been practicing, but I'm so shit. I feel like whatever I do in the game is completely useless."

Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They still played ranked solo/duo together, and truth be told, Michael carried Luke through every single match. He didn't mind it; he loved spending time with Luke. It reminded him of the days they used to sneak out of school to play until their parents grounded them for a week. He didn't even mind having to level up smurf accounts just to queue with him, considering Michael was Grandmaster and Luke was stuck in Emerald (which, let's be real, should be silver or low gold).

"That's because you never listen to me!" Michael retorted. "If I tell you to freeze the wave, you freeze it, instead of mindlessly hitting the minions like a bronze player."

Luke gasped, looking deeply offended. "Whatever! I just thought I could start locally, you know? Join a small amateur team. But I need your help."

Michael hesitated, pondering it. He had actually made it to the big leagues a few years back, making his professional debut in 2022 with 5SOS, being a new rookie but promising team at its time. His ultimate dream was to pull an imported player move, like Rekkles did once and leave the LEC to join a team in Korea's LCK, specifically T1. It was a dream out of reach, really, but he was satisfied with his career. And really, really grateful.

"Okay, Luke. I'll help you," Michael relented. "It'll be good practice for me, too."

"Oh my god, I love you forever!"

As it turned out, training Luke was infinitely harder than Michael could have ever anticipated. Luke had always played support, sticking comfortably to champions like Soraka, Sona, and the occasional Yuumi. That was fine. What was not fine was Luke suddenly deciding he wanted to roleswap to jungle for the first time in his life.

To say he sucked was a massive understatement. The man couldn't even clear his camps properly on Master Yi, a champion literally recommended for beginners.

Which brought Michael to his current predicament, a few weeks later, still trying to teach Luke the basics and ending up talking a bit louder than needed at ungodly hours.

Michael slammed his bedroom door and bolted to his desk. He was already too late; the monitor was glowing with the giant, red DEFEAT screen. Huffing, he threw his headphones on and clicked the unmute button on Discord.

"Dude, fuck. What happened?" Michael groaned.

"What do you think happened? They ff’ed because you took too fucking long," Luke shot back. Michael could practically hear the pout in his friend's voice. "Now I'm down 20 LP."

"My new neighbor knocked on my door. Apparently, I was being too loud."

"Oh! New neighbor? The one who moved in yesterday?" Luke asked, his irritation  momentarily derailed by gossip.

"Yeah. We share a wall, and he's already a pain. And because I’m stupid, I panicked and told him I’d switch to a silent keyboard. I don't even own one!" Michael whined, letting his forehead hit the desk with a dull thud.

There was a brief pause on the line. "Michael," Luke said, his tone deadpan. "Did you gay panic?"

Michael froze, thinking back to the interaction. The guy — Calum — was genuinely gorgeous. Michael’s eyes had definitely lingered a bit too long on his tanned chest, entirely captivated by the dark ink sprawling across his skin. The messy bedhead curls hadn't helped either.

"No," Michael lied.

Luke let out a loud, mocking laugh.

"Okay, yes!" Michael admitted, throwing his hands up.

"That's what I thought. Maybe stop screaming at me and talk like a normal human being for once, then no one will complain."

"You're so infuriating, and you're so bad at this game, oh my god," Michael groaned.

Luke just kept laughing. 

"Now I have to buy a new keyboard," Michael muttered.

"You know, you could just hit /mutealland everything would fix itself," Luke pointed out.

"Never! If I can't type and flame back, what's the point? It's a part of who I am," Michael insisted. "Plus, I really don't want to annoy Calum. Who knows, he could make my life a living hell."

"Calum, eh?" Luke teased. "But fair enough. Your keyboard is loud as hell anyway. It’s annoying."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'll buy one tomorrow."

"Queue for another?"

"Yeah. Let's go."

They played until 5:00 AM. Every time Luke missed a major objective or botched a gank, Michael bit his tongue, resisting the urge to scream every expletive in his vocabulary for Calum's sake. When their teammates flamed Luke in the chat, Michael still defended his friend's honor — only he was allowed to flame Luke, thank you very much — but he typed at an agonizingly slow pace, gently tapping the keys so the sound wouldn't echo through the walls.

Unfortunately, typing like a grandma meant he kept missing minion waves and game changing plays. 

Tomorrow, the silent keyboard was non-negotiable.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"Hey, look up. New customer. Your turn. I’m taking my break now." Ashton whispered loudly, a massive, shit eating grin spreading across his face.

Calum rolled his eyes. They always did this. If Ashton helped a customer, Calum had to help the next one. It was a tedious, unspoken rule of their shifts.

He blinked, pulling his gaze away from the inventory screen, and looked toward the entrance, fully expecting some random person looking for a printer cable.

Instead, Calum froze.

Sure enough, walking through the glass doors of the shop was Michael. In the daylight, his aggressive, bright neon green hair practically glowed. He immediately marched straight toward the keyboard aisle, completely oblivious to Calum’s existence.

"Looking for something specific, Michael?" Calum asked, crossing his arms.

Michael practically jumped out of his skin, dropping the box he was holding. He scrambled to catch it, his face instantly flushing a bright, mortified crimson that clashed horribly with his green hair. He stared at Calum, his eyes darting to Calum's black tech store polo, then to his face, and then back to the keyboards.

"Calum?" Michael squeaked, his scratchy, low drawl cracking slightly. "You... you work here?"

"I do," Calum said, his tone flat, though his eyebrows rose in genuine confusion. He looked at the display, then back to his neighbor. "Are you buying a backup? Because last night at one in the morning, you told me you were going to switch to another keyboard. Implying you already owned one."

Michael froze. He opened his mouth, but only a pathetic, strangled sound came out.

"So. You don't have another keyboard." Calum concluded.

"I don't have another keyboard," Michael admitted, utterly defeated. He ran a hand through his green hair, "My current one has blue switches. It literally sounds like a typewriter on steroids. Last night... I panicked and just said the first thing that came to my head so you'd leave. I was in a rush."

Calum blinked, the memory of Michael's arrogant smirk from the night before flashing through his mind. Seeing the dramatic, loud gamer completely stripped of his confidence and blushing in the middle of a tech store was entirely unexpected. A small, amused smirk tugged at the corner of Calum's lips.

"Right. So you lied to my face," Calum said, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice.

"I didn't want you to think I was a total asshole!" Michael defended himself, his natural loudness flaring up for a second before he shrank back down. "And I don't want you knocking on my door again or bother you."

Calum blinked, processing the words. A small wave of surprise hit him. Michael had actually panicked? The loud, arrogant guy from last night had been so rattled that he lied on the spot and then actually dragged his sleep deprived self to the store just to replace his gear? Calum hadn't expected the guy to care that much. 

"Right. So you lied to my face," Calum said. His tone remained dry, but the harsh edge was gone.

"I didn't want you to think I was a total asshole!" Michael defended himself, his natural loudness flaring up for a second before he shrank back down under Calum's cool gaze. "And I don't want you knocking on my door again. I told you I was in the trenches last night."

Calum let out a short, faint huff of amusement, not quite a laugh, but the tight line of his mouth softened.

"Alright," Calum said, reaching past Michael to pull a sleek, matte black box off the top shelf. He handed it over, their fingers brushing slightly. "Try this one. It's a custom build with silent linear switches and internal dampeners. It's so quiet you'll think it's broken. You can type all night and I won't hear a thing."

Michael took the box, looking down at it, then up at Calum. A lazy, familiar smirk finally crawled back onto his face, his confidence returning. "Wow. Look at you, being a helpful neighbor. Does this mean you're not going to murder me tonight?"

"Only if you actually buy it," Calum replied coldly, already turning on his heel and stepping back toward the register. "Come on, I'll ring you up.” Michael nodded

"I’m so fucking stupid" Michael mumbled, following close behind. 

Calum pretended to not hear but a glint of dark amusement remained in his eyes as he tapped the screen to scan the purchase.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Later that afternoon, Michael practically kicked his apartment door open, tossing the retail bag onto his bed with a dramatic groan. He was still radiating a mild, lingering heat from the sheer embarrassment of the encounter.

Normally, Michael didn't do panicky. He was a professional esports player for fucks sake. He had played on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans, dealt with thousands of toxic viewers in Twitch chats, and could confidently talk back to anyone without missing a beat. He was cocky, loud and used to controlling the room.

But Calum? Calum was a completely different breed of infuriating. He was just so entirely unfazed. Even when Michael had been snapping at him at one in the morning, Calum had stood there in the drafty hallway with this cold, grounded calmness that made Michael feel like a toddler throwing a tantrum. And today at the store, Calum hadn't even laughed at him maliciously; he'd just given him that chill, deadpan look that made Michael's brain short circuit.

Of all the tech stores in the city, he had to work at that one. Michael had literally searched Google Maps for the absolute closest shop just so he could be quick about it. Seeing it was only fifteen minutes away, he had thrown on his hoodie and left immediately, confident he'd be in and out in no time. Instead, it felt like he’d walked straight into a trap.

He ripped open the packaging of the new keyboard, plugging the USB cable into his tower. He pressed a few keys. Calum wasn't lying — the switches were buttery smooth, emitting nothing more than a faint, muffled thwip even when Michael slammed his fingers down.

"Unbelievable," Michael muttered, staring at the matte black deck. "The corporate slave actually knows his stuff."

He fired up Discord, the familiar green circle lighting up instantly as Luke joined the call.

"Did you get it?" Luke's voice boomed through the headset. "Did you buy it?"

"I got it," Michael sighed, pulling the microphone closer to his mouth. "And you will never guess who sold it to me."

"No way. Your ex?"

"Worse. Calum."

A beat of dead silence stretched over the voice channel, followed by the sound of Luke inhaling so sharply he practically choked on his own spit. "The hot neighbor?!"

"He works at the tech place that is like, a few minutes away" Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands. Usually, Michael would have turned a story like this into a joke to brag about, but he was still genuinely rattled. "And I absolutely outed my entire lie right across the sales floor. I had to admit I didn't own a second keyboard. I totally lost my cool, Luke."

"This is the greatest day of my life," Luke wheezed, pounding his fist against his desk. "The great, unshakeable 5SOS Michael got flustered by a guy in a retail polo. Please tell me you squeaked."

"I did not squeak!" Michael fired back, though his burning ears suggested otherwise. "Anyway, look, I'm ready to queue. And this time, I can actually type at full speed without worrying about getting evicted or dealing with my neighbor"

"Good, because I’ve been practicing my jungle clears," Luke said proudly. "I watched a YouTube guide. I'm basically a pro now."

Five minutes into their first match, Luke's claimed pro skills vanished into thin air. He accidentally dragged the blue buff across the camp border, almost resetting its health entirely, while the enemy jungler walked in, smited the objective and killed Luke under his own tower.

Michael’s jaw clenched. The familiar, toxic heat of competitive rage bubbled up in his chest. In the past, he would have roared an expletive loud enough to shake the wall. Instead, he forced his mouth shut, targeted his aggression entirely into his hands, his fingers flying across the new keys like a focused concert pianist.

[Team] 5SOS Michael (Zed): look at the map luke please i am begging u on my hands and knees there is a giant glowing yellow ping there u are playing master yi not lee sin u are not blind

He stopped, holding his breath, and tilted his head toward the shared wall.

He leaned back in his gaming chair, testing a few more aggressive keystrokes just to be sure. The dampened linear switches absorbed the impact perfectly.

"Well, damn," Michael whispered to himself, his usual confidence rushing back to replace the morning's panic, though a strange, fluttery feeling still twisted in his stomach. "Thanks, neighbor."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

For the next three days, Calum’s cherished routine returned to him like an old, comfortable pair of shoes. 

He woke up at seven. He did his run. He went to the shop, sold excessively expensive curved screen monitors to people who probably didn't need them, came home, made chicken and rice, watched Naruto and slept at eleven.

Apartment 2B was entirely silent. It was beautiful. Calum knew his keyboard recommendation was good because the wall stopped vibrating, which he was thankful for. Calum’s dark eye circles began to fade and Ashton stopped making fun of him at work. Everything was exactly as it should be.

Until Thursday evening.

Calum was standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta sauce, when a sudden, loud pop echoed from the hallway, followed immediately by the entire kitchen plunging into total darkness.

The stove clicked off and the hum of the refrigerator died.

Calum sighed heavily into the dark, leaving the wooden spoon in the pot. He groped his way to the living room, grabbed his phone, and turned on the flashlight. He checked his phone’s Wi-Fi connection — completely gone.

"Great," he muttered. "Fantastic."

He opened his front door, planning to head down to the basement to find the building's main breaker panel. But the  moment he stepped into the hallway, he was met with the sight of apartment 2B’s door swinging open violently.

Michael stood in the doorway, illuminated only by the frantic, strobe like flashing of a red emergency light embedded in his headphones, which were currently running on backup battery power. He looked completely unhinged.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Michael yelled at the empty hallway, grabbing his neon green hair. "Right during the drake soul fight! Are you actually kidding me?!"

He stopped when his eyes caught the beam of Calum’s phone flashlight. Michael blinked against the light, his face twisting into a scowl.

"Did you do this?" Michael demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Calum. "Did you break the grid because you were running a treadmill or a toaster or something? Tell me the truth, Calum!"

Calum lowered the flashlight slightly, so he wasn't blinding the guy. "Why would I intentionally blow the power to my own apartment while I'm cooking dinner?"

"I don't know, maybe you're deeply vindictive and wanted to sabotage my rank!" Michael snapped, though there was a hint of dramatic exaggeration in his voice. He leaned heavily against his doorframe, letting out a groan that sounded like a dying animal. "I'm going to get penalized for abandoning the match. I’m going to get a queue ban. My life is literally over."

"It's a power outage, Michael. It happens," Calum said, completely unfazed by the theatrical display. He started walking toward the stairs. "I'm going to find the breaker. You coming or are you just going to mourn your internet points in the dark?"

Michael pouted — an actual, honest to god pout — but kicked his feet into a pair of checkered Vans he had by the door and trudged after him. "They aren't points, it's called MMR and it dictates my social standing in society."

"You don't have a social standing, you live in a dark room and play games the whole day and night," Calum countered smoothly as they descended the concrete stairs to the basement.

Michael let out a sharp, offended gasp and said quietly “Well, I mean, it's my job, so…” 

Calum sensed the subtle shift in Michael’s mood, catching the brief flicker of embarrassment that crossed his face.

Of course, Michael would never actually admit to it. His parents might have finally come around to accepting it now, but for years, they were fiercely against the idea of him trying to make a living by playing video games. Even with their hard won approval, the lingering weight of their judgment was hard to shake, leaving him feeling just a bit out of place.

The basement was damp and smelled like sewage so Calum decided to ignore whatever happened to get out as soon as possible. He guided the flashlight beam across the wall until he found the rusted metal box housing the building's circuit breakers. He popped the latch open, revealing a chaotic mess of switches, half of them labeled in fading, illegible sharpie.

"Don't touch anything," Michael warned, suddenly standing way too close behind Calum to peer over his shoulder. The smell of energy drinks and mint gum drifted off him. "You look like the kind of guy who accidentally electrocutes himself and takes down the whole block."

"I sell electronics for a living," Calum said dryly, his fingers scanning the labels. "I think I can handle this."

"Selling an iPad doesn't make you Michael Faraday, Calum."

Calum ignored him, spotting a master switch that had flipped firmly to the 'OFF' position. He gripped the heavy plastic toggle and shoved it back up.

With a loud, metallic clunk, the fluorescent lights in the basement flickered to life, buzzing aggressively. Above them, they could hear the faint, collective sigh of the building’s appliances turning back on.

"See?" Calum said, turning around and dusting his hands off on his jeans. "No casualties."

Michael stared up at the buzzing lightbulb, then looked back at Calum. The sarcasm slipped off his face for a split second, replaced by a genuine, albeit reluctant, look of relief. "Okay. Fine. You saved the day. My computer is probably rebooting right now. I might only get a low priority queue instead of a full ban."

They walked back up the stairs in relative silence. When they reached their floor, Calum turned toward his door, ready to get back to his pasta sauce before it went cold.

"Hey," Michael called out.

Calum paused, turning back. Michael was standing in his doorway; his hands shoved deep into the pockets of an incredibly oversized black hoodie. He looked slightly awkward, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Thanks," Michael muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "For, you know. Not letting me rot in the dark.

"Don't worry about it," Calum said, reaching for his doorknob. "Just keep the keyboard quiet tonight."

"Wait," Michael said quickly. He disappeared into his apartment for a brief three seconds before popping back out, holding a slightly crumpled, unopened bag of extreme flavored barbecue chips and a cold can of generic soda. He thrust them toward Calum’s chest. "Here. A peace offering. For the last few days of me being a menace. And for the light thing."

Calum looked at the chips, then at Michael’s face. The gamer’s expression was an odd mix of defensive pride and genuine peace making.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Calum's mouth. He took the snacks. "Thanks, Michael."

"Don't get used to it," Michael flipped back into his usual sarcastic smirk, stepping backward into his apartment. "Next time the power goes out, I'm letting you starve."

The door clicked shut.

Calum stood in the hallway for a second, holding the bag of chips. He let out a soft huff of amusement, shaking his head as he walked back into his own place. Michael was a bizarre, abrasive guy but as Calum tossed the chips onto his counter and went back to his dinner, he realized something unexpected.

He was actually looking forward to whatever chaotic thing his neighbor was going to do next. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time Saturday rolled around, Calum had established that Michael was officially a permanent anomaly in his otherwise flawless schedule.

He didn't see the guy for forty eight hours, but he knew he was there. Occasionally, around midnight, if Michael spoke at all, it was nothing more than a low, careful murmur. Calum could hear the deliberate restraint in it, the way the guy was actively biting his tongue and keeping his naturally loud presence completely under wraps just to keep the peace.

It was a strange realization. Michael was a bizarre, abrasive guy, but knowing that the loud gamer was actually sitting over there in the dark, actively whispering for Calum's sake, brought a weirdly satisfying feeling to his chest. Michael was keeping his word. 

Calum ate the peace offering barbecue chips while watching Naruto on friday night and he had to admit, they were actually pretty good.

In the afternoon, Calum was in the middle of his sacred weekly deep clean. He had a laundry basket full of clean clothes waiting to be folded, his vacuum cleaner plugged into the outlet and a pair of old sweatpants on. He was right in the middle of wiping down his kitchen counters when a sharp, frantic knocking rattled his front door.

Calum paused, sponge in hand. He walked over, pulling the door open.

Michael stood on the welcome mat but he didn't look like his usual smug self. He looked utterly defeated. He was wearing a giant, faded grey hoodie that swallowed his hands and his green hair looked messier than usual.

"Calum," Michael said, his voice flat and tragic. "I am approaching in critical condition."

Calum leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Did you lose your internet again?"

"Kinda? but worse," Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands before looking up with wide, desperate eyes. "My Wi-Fi card literally fried itself. Ten minutes ago. Smoke came out of the back of the box, Calum. Actual, literal smoke. It smelled like burning plastic and my shattered dreams."

Calum bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Okay? Go to a repair shop." He said with an obvious tone.

"It's Saturday at 4:00 PM! Everywhere is closed and I have a tournament qualifiers match at eight!" Michael threw his hands up in the air. "I tried to tether my phone but my data provider is starting to feel like a scam and I’m getting three kilobytes per second. I can't even load a Google homepage, let alone hit fifty frames per second."

Calum shifted his weight, a terrible, sinking suspicion settling into his gut. "Michael. Why are you telling me this?"

Michael gave him a smile that was entirely too sweet to be genuine. It was a predatory, desperate kind of sweet. "You sell electronics, right? You're the tech guy. You have to have a spare ethernet cable or... something in that neat little apartment of yours. And, of course, the Wi-Fi?"

"I sell tablets and monitors, Michael. I don't keep a warehouse of PC components in my closet."

"Please," Michael begged, actually stepping across the threshold into Calum's apartment without being invited. He looked around, blinking at how ridiculously clean and organized everything was. "Holy hell, do you actually live here or is this a furniture catalog? Where is your clutter? Where are your empty cans?"

"I clean them up. Like a human being," Calum said, closing the front door and following him in. "And get your shoes off my rug."

Michael kicked his Vans off without breaking stride, wandering into Calum's living room. "Look, I’ll pay you. I’ll buy you more chips. I'll buy you a whole pizza. Just tell me you have a way to get me online. I am begging you on my hands and knees. Well, mentally on my knees. My joints are too stiff for the actual floor."

Calum rubbed the bridge of his nose and huffed. Every single instinct in his body told him to kick the neon haired goblin out and go back to scrubbing his stove. It was Saturday. This was his quiet time.

But then he looked at Michael, who was genuinely chewing on his thumbnail, looking so stressed it was almost pathetic.

"I don't have a spare Wi-Fi card," Calum sighed heavily.

Michael’s shoulders slumped. "Death it is, then."

"But," Calum intercepted quickly, "I do have a fifty foot ethernet cable in my storage bin. I bought it when I moved in because I thought I’d need to hardwire my PC, but the router ended up being close enough."

Michael’s head snapped up. His eyes practically went wide with a manic, unholy light. "A fifty foot ethernet cable? Are you serious?"

"Yes, but —"

"Calum, you are an actual angel sent from heaven," Michael lunged forward, grabbing Calum by the shoulders. His grip was surprisingly tight, his hands cold against Calum's bare forearms. "Where is it? Give it to me. Let me worship it."

Calum frozen for a split second, his brain stuttering at the sudden invasion of personal space. Michael smelled like laundry detergent and cinnamon. It was weirdly nice. Calum stepped back, clearing his throat and shaking Michael's hands off.

"It's in the closet. But there's a catch," Calum said, pointing a stern finger at him. "The cable has to run from my router, out my front door, across the hallway, and into your apartment. Which means our doors are going to be cracked open all night. And that means if I hear one single syllable of gamer rage, I am pulling the plug from my wall. Do you understand me?"

Michael held up three fingers in a solemn vow. "I swear on my limited edition skin collection. I will be as silent as Zed. A ghost in the night."

"Whatever that means. Stay here," Calum muttered. Before walking to his hallway closet, he dropped the sponge on the counter.

Ten minutes later, the operation was complete. A thick, white ethernet cable was snake lining its way across the porcelain floor of the hallway, pinned down by a few strips of Calum’s masking tape so nobody would trip. It disappeared under Michael's door, which was propped open a mere two inches by a heavy textbook.

Calum stood in Michael’s doorway, watching Michael frantically plug the other end into the back of his massive, glowing computer tower through the gap in the door.

"We have a lifeline!" Michael’s voice echoed from his apartment, sounding ecstatic. "Oh my god, the ping is five. Five, Calum! Your internet is cracked. What provider do you have?”

"It's just standard fiber, not the one the landlord offers, though" Calum called back, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Are we done here?"

Michael popped his head out of his door, a massive grin on his face. "Yes. You have saved my career. To celebrate, you're coming over."

Calum blinked. "What? No, I’m cleaning."

"The cleaning can wait, Mr. Clean," Michael scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "You saved my life, the least I can do is make you some company. Plus, I ordered a family sized box of wings before the crisis hit. I can't eat thirty wings by myself. Come on."

Calum looked back at his apartment. His sponge was drying out on the counter. His vacuum was waiting. His routine and the anxiety of not completing it was practically screaming at him to stay inside, close the door and stick to his plans.

Then he looked at Michael, who was leaning against his doorframe, looking expectant and surprisingly welcoming.

"Fine," Calum grumbled, stepping out into the hall. "But only until seven. I got stuff to do."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Captain," Michael chuckled, stepping back to let him in. "Welcome to my rift.”

Step one across the threshold of Apartment 2B and Calum’s internal neat freak nearly had a stroke.

If Calum’s apartment was a minimalist sanctuary, Michael’s was a war room that had been hit by a localized tornado. The living room was almost entirely empty except for a massive, plush beanbag chair, a mountain of laundry that may or may not have been clean, and a sprawling L shaped desk that took up an entire wall. Three massive monitors glowed with blinding intensity, casting an eerie purple and blue hue over the entire space.

"Don't look at me like that," Michael said without turning around, already dropping into his heavily cushioned gaming chair and grabbing his mouse. "It’s controlled chaos."

"It's an eviction hazard," Calum corrected, though he carefully sat down on the edge of the beanbag chair, trying to avoid wrinkling his sweatpants. "Where are the wings?"

Michael gestured blindly with his left hand toward a massive, grease stained cardboard box sitting on a small side table. "Knock yourself out. Sauce is on the side. If you get sauce on my mousepad, I will end you."

Calum opened the box. The smell of spicy buffalo sauce and fried chicken immediately filled the room, making his stomach growl. He pulled over a stray paper towel, took a wing and settled back to watch.

For the first twenty minutes, Calum didn't understand a single thing happening on the screens. Michael’s fingers were flying across the mechanical keyboard with terrifying speed clack clack clacking away in a blur while his mouse clicked rapidly. On the main screen, a tiny cartoon character with a massive sword was sprinting through a forest, flashing bright colors and exploding other tiny blue characters.

What was more surprising, though, was Michael himself.

True to his word, Michael wasn't screaming. He was wearing his headset, speaking into the microphone in a low, focused murmur that Calum could barely hear. “Careful jungle… they’re invading… push the wave bot…”

The sharp, arrogant jerk from the hallway was completely gone. In his place was someone incredibly precise, completely locked in. The light from his screen caught the sharp angle of his jaw and his light eyes didn't blink for minutes at a time as he tracked a dozen different things on the screen at once.

Calum chewed on a chicken wing, finding himself strangely transfixed. He’d never watched anyone play video games like this before. It was like watching someone dismantle a bomb or play a high speed game of chess.

Suddenly, Michael let out a sharp, victorious laugh, throwing his hands in the air. The word VICTORY flashed across the screen in massive golden letters.

"And that," Michael spun his chair around to face Calum, a massive, smug grin splitting his face, "is how you carry a bunch of literal babies to a qualifier win. Please hold your applause."

Calum wiped his hands on a paper towel. "So… you won?"

"We absolutely decimated them," Michael corrected, sliding his headphones down to rest around his neck. He reached into the wing box and grabbed a piece of celery, pointing it at Calum. "Admit it. You were captivated by my raw, unadulterated talent."

"I was mostly captivated by how you haven't blinked in thirty minutes," Calum countered dryly. "Are your retinas okay?"

"Weakness disgusts me, Calum," Michael scoffed, but he laughed, sliding down in his chair until his knees hit the edge of the desk. He looked relaxed, the high stakes tension of the tournament completely draining out of him. "Anyway, thanks for the cable. Seriously. If I had missed that game, my team captain would have legally hunted me down."

"Don't mention it. Just consider it a payment for not making me deaf at four in the morning." Calum glanced down at his phone. It was 6:42 PM. His plans dictated that he should go back across the hall in exactly eighteen minutes to start prepping his dinner.

But for some reason, the thought of sitting alone in his pristine, silent kitchen felt a little… flat.

"Hey," Michael said, noticing Calum looking at his phone. "You don't have to bolt the exact second the clock strikes seven, you know. Unless your internal programming glitches out."

Calum looked up, scowling. "I don't glitch out."

"Sure you don't, Robo Cal," Michael teased, a wicked spark in his eyes. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sleek, black controller, tossing it directly at Calum’s chest. Calum caught it purely on instinct. "You ever play Mario Kart?"

Calum blinked down at the controller. "Yeah. Obviously. When I was a kid."

"Perfect. Then I’m going to absolutely destroy you," Michael said, hitting a few buttons on his keyboard to pull up an emulator on the center monitor. He grabbed a second controller, tilting his head with a challenging smirk. "Unless you're too scared of losing to a green neon haired goblin."

Calum’s jaw set. He was a competitive guy by nature — he didn't spend hours at the gym and running miles three days a week without a drive to win. He looked at Michael’s smug, arrogant face and the urge to knock him down completely overrode his anxiety to be on time.

"Fire it up," Calum said, shifting his position on the beanbag and gripping the controller tightly. "But don't cry when I put you in a wall."

Michael let out a loud, delighted bark of laughter. "Oh, it is on."

By the time Calum finally looked at his phone again, it was 9:30 PM. He had lost six races, won four and his hands were cramping from gripping the controller too hard. He hadn't made his planned dinner, his kitchen counter was still half wiped and his entire Saturday routine was in absolute tatters.

And as he walked back across the hallway to his own apartment, a stupid, reluctant grin plastered on his face, Calum realized he didn't care at all.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By Monday morning, Calum’s predictable life felt a little off center.

He was standing behind the glass counter at the electronics shop, idly polishing the screen of a display tablet, but his mind wasn't on inventory. It was stuck on Saturday night. He kept remembering the way Michael had actively bit his tongue every time he got frustrated, his naturally loud, scratchy drawl dropping into this quiet, intense murmur whenever he muttered strategy under his breath. It was a stark contrast to the obnoxious guy who had yelled through his wall a few nights prior.

It was annoying. Calum didn’t like having his thoughts hijacked, especially by a guy who thought a balanced diet consisted of buffalo wings and soda.

"Hey," Ashton’s voice broke through his trance. Ashton snapped his fingers right in front of Calum’s face. "Earth to Hood. You’ve been staring at that iPad like it owes you money for the last five minutes."

Calum blinked, dropping the microfiber cloth. "Just thinking."

Ashton leaned his elbows on the counter, a knowing, slightly amused smirk playing on his lips. "About what? You don't look exhausted today, so I guess the gamer neighbor didn't wake you up. Did you finally get a girl's number?"

"No," Calum said quickly, maybe a little too quickly. He cleared his throat, reaching for a stack of packing slips to look busy. "And he didn't wake me up because I was over there. We… hung out on Saturday."

Ashton’s eyebrows shot straight up into his hairline. "Wait. Hold on. You hung out with the demon?"

"He's not a demon," Calum muttered, feeling a weird, instinctual urge to defend him. "He's just… a lot. His name is Michael. He needed an ethernet cable for some tournament, so I lent him mine and then we ate wings while he played his game."

"Wow." Ashton let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Look at you, being a good neighbor. Did he actually shut up for once?"

"Surprisingly, yeah," Calum said, his tone flat but a small, thoughtful look crossing his features. "He actually restrained himself from yelling. He has this surprisingly low voice when he's not being an absolute psycho."

"Well, that’s good! You do need a new friend," Ashton teased, tapping the glass counter. "Though, if you stay up past midnight listening to bedtime stories from a gamer two weekends in a row, I think you legally turn into dust."

 Calum rolled his eyes and threw a crumpled up paper ball at Ashton's head.

When his shift ended at six, Calum went straight home. He did everything exactly by the book. He unlocked his apartment, changed into his gym shorts, made a perfectly balanced meal of steak and steamed broccoli and sat down on his couch.

But the silence in his apartment felt incredibly loud tonight.

Usually, Calum loved the quiet. Tonight, though, he kept finding himself glancing at the wall behind his TV. There was no noise coming from 2B. Michael was probably out or maybe he was asleep. It shouldn't have mattered to Calum, but his living room felt entirely too empty.

At 9:45 PM, Calum couldn't take the stillness anymore. He stood up, grabbed a clean tupperware container and filled it with a slice of the homemade banana bread he’d baked the day before. He didn't really have a reason to go over there but Michael had given him chips, right? This was just being a normal, polite neighbor, totally not an excuse.

He walked across the hallway and knocked.

A few seconds later, the deadbolt clicked and the door swung open. Michael stood there, wearing a pair of giant, fuzzy pajama pants covered in cartoon pizzas and a pink t shirt.

He looked down at the tupperware in Calum’s hand, then up at Calum’s face, a slow, teasing smirk spreading across his lips.

"Well, well, well," Michael drawled, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "If it isn't Robo Cal. Aren't you supposed to be powering down for the night? It’s almost eight."

"I brought you this," Calum said, ignoring the mockery and thrusting the container forward. "I made too much. Consider it interest on the barbecue chips."

Michael took the container, popping the lid open with one hand. The sweet scent of cinnamon and baked bananas wafted out. Michael’s eyes widened slightly, and without even asking, he pinched off a massive piece with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth.

"Holy shit," Michael mumbled around a mouthful of bread, his eyes rolling back dramatically. "Calum. Are you an angel? Did the landlord hire a Michelin star chef and just not tell me?"

"It's just banana bread, Michael."

"It's a spiritual experience," Michael corrected, swallowing and pointing a finger at him. "Seriously, if you're trying to win me over so I don't flame you in the hallway, it's working."

He stepped back, leaving the door wide open. "Come in. I’m just waiting for the new league patch to download. It's taking forever."

Calum hesitated for a fraction of a second. His bed was calling. His eleven o'clock curfew was approaching and he knew how miserable work is when you're running on a few hours of sleep.

But then Michael looked back over his shoulder, his light eyes bright and expectant under the neon hallway light, and Calum’s feet moved before his brain could stop them. He stepped inside, kicking his shoes off by the door.

"Don't look at the desk," Michael warned, walking over to the kitchen island to set the bread down. "I haven't thrown away my energy drink cans today. It’s an active crime scene. I’ll clean it tomorrow."

"I'm not looking," Calum lied, his eyes instantly tracking the mess. But as he sat down on the beanbag chair, watching Michael casually pick at the bread, Calum felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth settle in his chest.

By the next evening, Calum had to admit that his initial impression of Michael’s apartment might have been a bit dramatic.

When he walked across the hall on Tuesday night — this time under the pretense of retrieving his tupperware because he really really needed it — the previous active crime scene was completely gone, like Michael promised. The desk was meticulously organized, the monitor screens were spotless, and the only drink in sight was a massive glass of ice water. Michael wasn't lazy; he was just intensely focused when he had to be.

And then there was his hair.

Michael had dyed it, swapping out the chaotic neon green for a deep, vibrant  red. It changed his whole vibe. It made him look fierce.

"Nice hair," Calum said, leaning against the kitchen counter while Michael neatly folded a stray laundry basket of hoodies.

Michael paused, tossing a black sweatshirt onto the pile and looking up. A slight, pleased smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He ran a hand through the freshly dyed red strands, making it stick up in that familiar, unruly way. "Thanks. The green was giving 'radioactive goblin'. Luke won a bet and forced me to dye it neon green and I needed a change. Red makes me look faster, like a sports car… like Lightning McQueen!" he wiggled his eyebrows.

"It makes you look like a fire hydrant," Calum countered smoothly but a sudden flock of butterflies took flight in Calum's tummy. He shook his head, ignoring the tumultuous inside of him.

Michael let out a sharp, offended gasp, throwing a rolled up pair of socks directly at Calum’s chest. Calum caught them with one hand, laughing.

"You have zero appreciation for style," Michael scoffed, though his eyes were bright with amusement. He walked over, snatching the socks back and dropping them into the basket. "Anyway, I'm glad you're here. I actually need a favor that doesn't involve Wi-Fi and cables."

Calum raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Depends. How do you feel about heavy lifting?" Michael gestured toward a massive, flat packed cardboard box resting against his living room wall. "My new ergonomic gaming desk finally arrived. The delivery guy just dumped it in the lobby and I nearly threw my back out dragging it up the stairs. Help me assemble it?"

Calum looked at the box, then down at his phone. It was 7:30 PM. 

He looked back up at Michael. The red haired guy was watching him, tilting his head with a slight, challenging grin. "Unless, of course, it clashes with your highly classified, top secret evening schedule."

"I can spare an hour," Calum grumbled, though he was already walking over to the box and inspecting the plastic bands holding it together. "Do you even have a screwdriver or do you usually just yell at things until they assemble themselves?"

"I have a tool kit, thank you very much," Michael said proudly, marching over to his hall closet and pulling out a neat, organized plastic case. He popped the latches, revealing a perfectly sorted set of tools. "See? I’m an adult."

For the next two hours, the apartment was filled with the rhythmic clatter of metal screws and the soft thud of wooden panels fitting together.

Calum, being naturally precise and used to handling physical inventory at the shop, took charge of reading the confusing instruction manual. Michael was surprisingly good at following directions, holding the heavy steel legs in place while Calum tightened the bolts.

They worked together with a weird, easy rhythm. Every time Calum reached for a new screw, Michael handed it to him before he even had to ask.

"Hold this piece steady," Calum muttered, kneeling on the floor as he lined up the main tabletop.

Michael dropped to his knees right beside him, gripping the edge of the wood. Because they were sharing a tight space on the floor, Michael’s shoulder brushed firmly against Calum’s.

Calum didn't move away. He didn't even think about it. He just focused on the screw, turning the screwdriver with a steady hand.

"You're actually really good at this," Michael murmured, his voice dropping into that low, scratchy register that Calum was getting used to hearing. "If the electronics thing doesn't work out, you could definitely have a career in furniture assembly."

Calum huffed a laugh, keeping his eyes on his hands. "It's just logic, Mike. Follow the instructions.

"Yeah, well, I’m lazy," Michael said softly.

Calum turned his head to make a sarcastic comment, but the words died in his throat. They were both kneeling over the desk, with Michael being much closer than he expected, and Calum could see the tiny flecks of hazel in Michael's light eyes and the vibrant red of his hair was practically glowing under the living room light.

Michael didn't look away. He just looked at Calum, a calm, entirely steady expression on his face.

A strange, sudden stillness settled over the room. For a brief second, the usual sarcastic banter completely evaporated, replaced by a quiet weight that Calum couldn't quite define. His heart gave a funny, tight little thud against his ribs — not from anger and not from rushing around, it was just… there.

Calum cleared his throat, snapping his gaze back down to the instruction manual. "Right. Uh. Last step is just flipping it over."

"Yeah. Right," Michael said, his voice completely normal as he stood up, breaking the tension as quickly as it had arrived. "Let's lift on three."

They hoisted the massive new desk into place and it fit perfectly against the wall, looking sleek and modern. Michael clapped his hands together, looking thrilled. "Beautiful. Look at that cable management potential!"

Calum checked his phone as he wiped his dusty hands on his jeans. It was 9:45 PM.

"I should get going," Calum said, moving towards the front door. "Need to finish up some things.”

"Cool. Thanks for the muscle, Calum," Michael said, leaning against the new desk and giving him a small, genuine smile. "Seriously. I appreciate it."

"Anytime," Calum said, kicking his slides on and stepping out into the drafty hallway.

As he unlocked his own door and stepped into his quiet, dark apartment, Calum felt a bizarre restlessness humming under his skin. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and stared at the clean, empty counter.

He still had more than an hour before his bedtime. But as he looked around the pristine room, all he could think about was the vibrant flash of red hair, the solid weight of Michael's shoulder against his on the floor, and the strange, quiet way Michael had looked at him.

Calum shook his head, taking a slow sip of water. He was just tired from lifting the desk. That was all.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The rain didn't fall; it hovered, a suffocating, damp mist Calum had been trying to claw his way out of since dawn. By 8:00 AM, his apartment had morphed from a sanctuary into something that he couldn't stand being in. He really needed a decent cup of coffee and a change of scenery. But more than anything, he needed to stop staring at the shared wall between his living room and apartment 2B. 

Calum pulled his hoodie over his head, tugging the drawstrings tight and stepped out into the grey morning. He never visited the coffee shop but every time he came home from work the place was extremely inviting.

He pushed the door open, the brass bell chiming overhead and immediately stepped to the side to shake the moisture from his shoulders. He wiped his palms on his jeans, scanning the room out of habit.

And then his chest went tight.

In the far corner, tucked into the velvet booth Calum usually claimed, was Michael. Michael’s back to be more precise.

Michael, his neighbor. Michael, who played his stupid games. Michael, the only person who could make any hair color work and had a laugh that completely bypassed Calum’s defenses.

But Michael wasn't alone.

Sitting across from him was a man who looked like he had been genetically engineered in a lab for maximum perfection. He was tall, even sitting down, his broad shoulders and long torso were obvious with a jawline that could cut glass and a head of curly blonde hair. Calum caught the piercing, crystalline blue of his eyes from across the room.

Something hot and ugly clawed its way up Calum’s throat.

Why is he looking at him like that? Calum thought, his fists clenching inside his hoodie pockets. Why is Michael leaning in so close?

He watched, frozen, as the blonde man reached across the small wooden table and casually brushed a stray piece of lint off the collar of Michael’s jacket. Michael didn’t flinch. 

A sudden, sharp wave of nausea hit Calum, followed immediately by a spike of intense irritation. It was ridiculous. It was a Tuesday morning. Why was he standing here getting angry over his neighbor having a meeting? It was probably a business thing. Or a cousin. Or a friend.

Except men didn't look at their cousins with that kind of heavy, lingering intent.

Get a grip, Calum scolded himself, his jaw aching from how hard he was grinding his teeth. Why do you even care? It's weird. You're being weird.

Growing up where Calum did, how he did, things were supposed to be simple. You went to school, you found a nice girl, you built a life around it. You didn’t stand in the corner of a coffee shop with your stomach tied in knots because another man was smiling at a guy who lived in the same hall as you. It felt wrong. It felt uncomfortable, a jagged edge cutting into the neat, orderly box Calum had built for his life. He wasn't like that. Michael was just a friend.

Yeah. A friend. That's why his blood was boiling. Because this blonde guy looked smug. That had to be it.

"Next in line?" the barista called out, snapping Calum out of his spiral.

Calum blinked, realizing he’d been staring open mouthed. "Uh, yeah. Just a black coffee. To go."

He paid quickly, keeping his back turned to the corner booth, but his ears were hyper tuned to the ambient noise of the shop. Every time he heard a low laugh, his shoulders tensed, wondering if it belonged to the blonde guy. Wondering if Michael was blushing.

"Here you go, mate," the barista said, sliding the paper cup across the counter.

"Thanks," Calum muttered. He grabbed the cup, turning to make a swift exit, completely intent on burying his head under his pillows for the rest of the day.

"Calum?"

The voice was unmistakable. Calum stopped, his boots glued to the floor. He swallowed hard, forcing his features into what he hoped was a casual, indifferent expression before turning around.

Michael was looking over at him, waving a hand, a bright grin breaking across his face. "Hey! Didn't see you come in."

Calum cleared his throat, shifting his weight. "Hey, Michael. Yeah, just grabbing a quick coffee before work."

"Come over for a second, I want you to meet someone," Michael said, gesturing to the empty space at the end of the booth.

Every instinct in Calum’s body told him to run out into the rain, but his feet moved towards the table anyway, drawn by a magnetic pull he couldn't quite explain and desperately hated.

As he approached, those blue eyes were almost insulting. He gave Calum a polite, easy smile that felt entirely too confident.

"Calum, this is Luke," Michael said, his eyes bright as he looked between the two of them. "Luke, this is Calum. That's the neighbor I told you about."

"Nice to finally meet you, Calum," Luke said, his voice smooth as he extended a hand.

Luke? Oh. Oh, wait.

It was like a balloon popping in his chest — the heavy, suffocating anger instantly evaporating, replaced by a sharp, burning sting of embarrassment. He had spent the last ten minutes suffocating a monster of his own making, spiraling over a guy that was just his friend. Calum looked at the extended hand for a fraction of a second too long, his palms suddenly sweating from how deeply ashamed he felt, before finally gripping it. "Likewise."

"We're just talking strategy for our next league session," Michael explained, leaning his chin on his hand. There was an ease with the way Michael sat next to him, but the romantic tension Calum had entirely fabricated was completely gone. "We were just about to head out to have breakfast at another place. You want to join?"

"Oh. No," Calum said. The rejection came out a little too quickly, a little too sharply, the leftover adrenaline from his panic still buzzing under his skin. Michael’s smile faltered slightly at the tone, and Calum instantly felt a pang of guilt, followed immediately by a rush of defensive, internalized anger. Why should I join? I don't belong here. I don't do... whatever this is. He was a straight guy who had just thrown a silent, psychotic tantrum over his male neighbor's friend. He needed to get the hell out of there. "I have a lot of stuff to get through at home still and then I work. Busy day."

"Right. Work," Michael said softly, though his green eyes lingered on Calum’s face, searching for something in the sudden tenseness of his jaw. "Cool. Well, I'll see you later?"

"Yeah. S see ya." Calum didn't look at Luke again. He couldn't.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the coffee shop, the cold rain hitting his face the second he stepped onto the pavement. He took a massive gulp of his black coffee, the liquid burning his tongue but he barely felt it.

His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, chaotic rhythm. He felt entirely hollowed out by his own stupidity. He told himself he was just annoyed that his morning routine had been disrupted. He told himself he was just stressed.

But as he locked his door behind him and leaned his back against the wood, listening to the suffocating silence of his empty flat, the relief he’d felt when he realized Luke was just a friend refused to leave him alone. It was a terrifying, telling kind of relief.

Calum pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to crush the feeling down before he had to admit what that jealousy actually meant. 

Back in the velvet booth, the atmosphere shifted the  moment the coffee shop’s heavy glass door clicked shut behind Calum.

Michael’s hand dropped from his chin. His bright expression dissolved into a flat, perplexed frown as he stared at the empty space where his neighbor had just been standing. Calum’s abrupt, almost hostile rejection still hung in the air like a foul odor.

Across the table, Luke’s polite smile vanished, replaced instantly by a sharp, knowing grin. He leaned back against the velvet cushions, crossing his arms over his chest as his crystalline blue eyes locked onto Michael’s miserable face.

"Well," Luke began, his voice dripping with pure amusement. "He seems delightful."

"Shut up," Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands. His hair shifted wildly as he rubbed his temples. "He’s usually cold, okay? He’s a dry guy. But that... I don't know what that was. He looked like he wanted to murder you the second he walked over here."

"Oh, he absolutely wanted to murder me," Luke chuckled, completely unfazed. He reached across the table, tapping Michael’s wrist to get him to look up. "Michael, open your eyes. Did you see his jaw? I thought he was going to bite through his own teeth. And the way he looked at my hand when I offered to shake it? I thought he was going to chop it off."

Michael dropped his hands, scowling. "He’s just stressed. He works a lot. He told me he had a busy day."

"Michael, he is a retail worker, not a heart surgeon," Luke deadpaned, leaning forward over the wooden table. "And more importantly, he was looking at us. Before you called him over, I saw him by the counter. He was staring at the back of your head like he wanted to burn a hole through your skull."

Michael froze, his low drawl catching in his throat. "What?"

"He was jealous, you absolute idiot," Luke whispered loudly, a massive, shit eating grin spreading across his face. "He saw me brush that piece of fuzz off your shoulder and he looked like he was about to jump over the pastry display to tackle me."

"No way," Michael stammered, his face instantly flushing a hot, mortified crimson that clashed horribly with his hair. He tried to summon his usual hyper confident, cocky armor, but his brain was short circuiting. "Calum is... he’s just a straight guy. He likes his routine. He likes his quiet apartment. He only came over to my place because he felt bad about the power outage. He’s not... he’s not into me."

"Right. And I’m a Grandmaster jungler," Luke shot back automatically. "Look, I know men, Michael. And I know the specific way a guy looks at another guy when he thinks someone is moving in on his territory. He was spiraling."

Michael stared down at his lukewarm coffee, his heart doing a strange, frantic flip against his ribs. He remembered the intense, dark look in Calum's eyes just a minute ago — the tight line of his shoulders, the cold edge in his voice when he rejected the breakfast invite. Michael had assumed he’d done something to annoy him again, but Luke’s theory... Luke’s theory made his stomach twist into a completely different kind of knot.

"He looked really uncomfortable, Luke," Michael said softly, his voice losing all its usual bite. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the door Calum had vanished through. "Like, genuinely upset. If he was jealous, it didn't look like the fun kind. It looked like he hated himself for even standing there."

Luke’s smirk softened a fraction, his expression turning a bit more grounded and sympathetic. "Well, yeah. If he’s lived his whole life thinking he’s one way, and suddenly an ex green haired weirdo lives next door and ruins his entire internal map? That’s scary. It takes time to process."

Michael let out a rough, lazy sigh, leaning his head back against the booth. The brief wave of panic subsided, replaced by a lingering, fluttery warmth he couldn't quite shake.

"He's an idiot," Michael muttered, though a small, helpless smile finally crept onto his face.

"He's a hot idiot who is currently brooding in apartment 2A," Luke corrected, sliding his chair back as he stood up. "Come on. Let's get breakfast. You need to fuel up if you're going to keep playing silently tonight to keep your boy happy."

Michael rolled his eyes, but as he stood up and grabbed his jacket, his eyes instinctively darted toward the window, watching the rain pour down on the empty street outside, wondering if his neighbor got caught in the storm.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By nighttime on Friday, Calum was ready for his favorite part of the week: finally hitting the couch to unwind. It was usually the only day when he let himself relax and stay up a little later than usual. But tonight, his brain was running a mile per hour, refusing to give him any peace.

Ever since the coffee shop incident, a persistent, gnawing anxiety had settled deep in his chest. He was entirely on edge. Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the blinding flash of jealousy he’d felt seeing Luke brush that lint off Michael’s jacket, and the subsequent, suffocating waves of shame that followed. He was terrified that he’d been too obvious. He was terrified that Michael had seen right through him, or worse, that Luke was currently laughing at him. The sheer awkwardness of it made him want to dissolve into the floorboards.

To cope, Calum had thrown himself into a frantic cleaning frenzy. He had completed a grueling five-mile run, scrubbed his bathroom until the tiles gleamed, and prepped his meals for the upcoming week. Now, he was sitting on his couch in a pair of comfortable sweatpants, a steaming bowl of homemade ramen on the coffee table, trying to force his mind to focus on his show.

The apartment was peaceful. The hallway was quiet.

Then, his phone buzzed on the cushion next to him. Calum flinched, his heart instantly leaping into his throat.

He picked it up, his fingers slightly trembling as he expected a text from Ashton about his shift schedule. Instead, a message from an unknown number stared back at him.

Unknown: emergency. code red. (literally, because of my hair) 

Unknown: are u busy? 

Unknown: pls tell me ur not already in sleep mode

Calum stared at the screen, his chest tightening with a sudden, acute spike of nerves. He didn't even need to ask who it was. He quickly saved the contact as Michael, remembering he had slipped his number on a piece of paper when the power went out. His hands felt clammy as he typed back, trying to maintain his usual cold, detached front despite the frantic hammering in his ribs.

Calum: I’m eating dinner. What did you break this time? 

Michael: i didn't break anything… 

Michael: wow, the lack of faith is wounding 

Michael: open your door pls

Calum set his chopsticks down, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck. He walked over to the front door, his stomach twisting into knots. Was Michael coming over to confront him about Tuesday? Was he going to ask why Calum had acted like a psycho in front of Luke?

He pulled the door open, his posture rigid.

Michael was standing in the hallway, but he wasn't in his gaming gear. He was wearing a dark denim jacket over a clean white t shirt, his red hair styled neatly rather than sticking up in its usual chaotic directions. He looked… sharp. Remarkably put together. And in his hands, he was carefully balancing a large, steaming ceramic bowl.

"I made hot pot," Michael announced without introduction, stepping past Calum into the apartment before Calum could even prepare himself. "Well, technically my mom sent me the broth base from home and I just chopped up the beef and bok choy, but I did the physical labor. And since you made me that elite banana bread, I figured I’d return the favor."

Calum closed the door slowly, his back pressed against the wood for a fraction of a second as he swallowed down his nervousness. He turned around to see Michael already setting the bowl down, right next to Calum’s lonely ramen.

"You brought a giant bowl of soup?" Calum asked, his voice a little tighter and more guarded than usual.

"I have excellent core stability, Calum, don't question my methods," Michael scoffed, peeling off his denim jacket and tossing it over the back of the armchair. He dropped onto the opposite side of the couch, completely making himself at home. "Wow, what is that? Instant noodles? I arrived just in time to save you from malnutrition."

"It's not instant, I made the broth from scratch too," Calum countered, sitting back down, keeping a strict, self-imposed distance between them on the cushions. He was hyper aware of everything Michael did, terrified that a casual mention of Luke was going to ruin him.

"Sure, sure. Eat the beef before it gets overcooked," Michael said, handing Calum a pair of spare chopsticks he’d brought with him.

They ate directly from the large bowl. Calum kept his head down, focusing entirely on the food to avoid making direct eye contact, but the silence between them actually began to soothe his frayed nerves. Michael didn't bring up the coffee shop. He didn't mention Luke. He just ate with practiced ease, occasionally fishing out the best pieces of meat and dropping them directly into Calum’s side of the bowl.

"So," Calum said, finally clearing his throat and wiping his mouth with a napkin, feeling the defensive tension in his shoulders give way just a fraction. "No gaming happening tonight?"

"Nah, took the night off," Michael said, leaning his head back against the cushions of the couch. His red hair caught the warm light of Calum’s living room lamp. "Sometimes you just need a break from the screen, you know? Otherwise, your brain turns into mush. What are we watching?" He gestured vaguely toward the TV.

Calum blinked, the lingering trace of anxiety making him hesitate. "Oh. I was just watching Naruto."

"Nice. Classic," Michael said, shifting his body so he was tucked into the corner of the couch, his long legs stretching out. "Play it. I haven't seen the early seasons in years."

Hanging out to build a desk or fix a fuse was one thing—those were tasks. This was just… lounging. Together. On a Friday night. It felt intensely casual, and after the emotional spiral Calum had been through all week, it felt incredibly dangerous. But the absolute relief that Michael wasn't mad or freaked out over Tuesday won, and Calum pressed play anyway.

As the episodes rolled on, Calum found his attention completely splitting. He knew the plot of the show by heart, which meant his eyes kept wandering to the side, his chest tight with a completely different kind of nervousness now.

Michael was a surprisingly active viewer. He scoffed at the villains, cheered during the fight scenes, and made sharp, cynical jokes in his low, raspy voice. Calum kept his gaze strictly forward, his jaw clenched, but a few times he had to muffle a laugh into his hand so he wouldn't break his cold exterior.

Around midnight, a massive yawn caught Michael off guard. His shoulders slumped, and his head lolled to the side, sinking heavily into the plush fabric of the couch cushions.

"You can go back to your own bed, you know," Calum murmured, his voice incredibly quiet in the darkened room, a final, defensive attempt to put distance between them.

"Mmm… five more minutes," Michael mumbled, his eyes already half closed. He shifted slightly, and his shoulder pressed firmly against Calum’s arm.

Calum completely froze.

The contact was completely platonic, but after a week of agonizing over his own feelings, Calum’s heart did a strange, heavy, terrifying thud against his ribs. He could feel the steady warmth radiating through Michael’s white t shirt. All the internalized panic about what he was 'supposed' to be, all the rules of his neat, orderly life, seemed to evaporate under the simple weight of Michael's shoulder against his.

He didn't move away. He didn't even breathe heavily. He just sat there in the dark, the blue light of the television washing over them, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of Michael's breathing, the anxiety from the coffee shop finally melting into something deep, telling, and entirely inescapable.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time Calum found himself standing in the hallway of his apartment building after clocking out, his heart was hammering that same frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He stopped dead in the center of the hall.

The rational, conditioned part of his brain was screaming at him to turn the handle to his own door, walk inside, lock the deadbolt, and never think about this again. It told him that crossing this hallway meant crossing a line he could never un cross. It meant admitting out loud that he was different, that he was flawed, that he wasn't the man he thought he was.

But the sheer, exhausting weight of hiding was suddenly too much to bear.

Before he could overthink it, before the panic could completely paralyze him, Calum pivoted on his heel. He finally knocked on door 2B.

He immediately wanted to throw up. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets to hide the way they were shaking, staring fixedly at the peephole.

The clicking stopped. There was a shuffle of footsteps, the scrape of the deadbolt, and then the door swung inward.

Michael stood there, looking beautifully, ruinously disheveled. He was wearing an oversized black hoodie that swallowed his frame, his red hair was pushed up in a messy, chaotic halo, and one side of his headphones was pushed back behind his ear. He blinked, clearly surprised.

"Calum?" Michael asked, his voice rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.

"Hey," Calum croaked out. His throat was incredibly dry. He had absolutely no plan. 

Michael leaned against the doorframe, narrowing his eyes slightly, taking in Calum’s rigid posture and pale face. The playful smirk he usually wore faded into something more guarded, more observant. "Everything okay? I wasn't being too loud, was I? I was streaming."

"No," Calum said quickly. "No, it's not the noise. You're fine."

Silence stretched between them. Michael didn't push; he just waited, watching Calum struggle to form a single, coherent thought.

"You—" Calum swallowed hard, forcing his eyes to meet Michael's. "You left the bowl on my counter."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. I washed it and probably forgot, hope that's okay?"

"Yeah of course, I didn’t even bring it, I just..." Calum squeezed his eyes shut for a second, hating how stupid he sounded. The internalized fear was fighting a brutal war with the desperate need to just be near him. "You didn't wake me up. When you left."

Michael’s expression softened, the defensive edge melting away. He shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "You looked like you hadn't slept in a week, Cal. I wasn't going to wake you up just to say I was walking five feet across a hallway."

"I know," Calum breathed out, his shoulders dropping a fraction. He looked down at the scuffed toe of his own sneaker, the confession fighting its way up his throat. He couldn't say the big things. He couldn't say the terrifying things yet. But he could say this: "I just... I didn't like waking up and not knowing where you went."

The hallway was dead silent. Calum held his breath, terrified he had pushed too far, said too much, exposed the cracked foundation of his carefully built life.

Slowly, Calum looked up.

Michael was staring at him, his eyes wide and searching, reading the lines of tension in Calum's face. Whatever he found there made him let out a soft, huffing breath. He uncrossed his arms and stepped back, pulling the door open wider.

"I was just about to make dinner for once," Michael chuckled, his voice incredibly gentle. He didn't smile, but there was warmth in his eyes that made Calum's chest ache. "You want to come in and tell me how bad I am at cooking?”

Calum looked past Michael into the neon lit warmth of the apartment. He looked back at Michael.

"Yeah," Calum said, his voice barely a whisper. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and stepped over the threshold. "Yeah, I do.”

The dinner night at Michael’s apartment had been a mistake. Not because it was bad, but because it had been terrifyingly easy. They had eaten on the floor just because, arguing about video games and anime, and for two hours, Calum had forgotten to be scared. He had just existed in the warm orbit of Michael’s attention, feeling a deep, settling contentment that he had never experienced in his entire life.

And then he had gone back to his own dark, quiet apartment, and the panic had hit him like a freight train.

You’re losing your mind, his brain had screamed at him in the pitch black of his bedroom. You are a straight guy. You like girls. You have always liked girls. This is a phase. A weird, lonely fluke. Snap out of it. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The ringtone of Calum’s phone cut through the quiet apartment, the screen lighting up with a name that immediately made his stomach drop.  mom.

He stared at it for three full rings, watching the harsh white light pulse against his dark coffee table, before forcing himself to slide the bar to answer.

"Hey,  mom," he said, trying to inject some casual warmth into his voice, but it already felt tight in his throat.

"Calum, finally," her voice came through the speaker, crisp, fast, and completely devoid of any pleasantries. "I was starting to think you were avoiding my calls. Have you heard back from that marketing firm yet? The one with the actual salary and proper health benefits?"

Calum closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall with a quiet sigh. "They’re still reviewing applications, mom. It’s a big company. It takes time."

"Well, time is a luxury you don't really have right now, Calum," she sighed, a sharp, disappointed sound over the line. "I just don't understand why you're dragging your feet. Your father and I have sacrificed so much to give you a head start, and frankly, we just want to see you doing things correctly for once. You need to be focused. No more working in an electronic shop, that's not a real job. I just need to know you aren't going to disappoint us any further."

"I'm doing my best, mom," he mumbled, his jaw tight as he stared down at his sneakers.

"Are you?" she pressed, her tone shifting into that familiar, probing territory that always made him feel completely exposed. "Because it feels like you're just floating through life. And it’s not just the job, Calum. What about your personal life? Are you seeing anyone? Have you met any nice girls lately?"

Calum felt a sudden, strange prickle of heat at the back of his neck. "No. I've been busy."

"You're always 'busy,' but I never see any results," she said, her voice dripping with maternal anxiety. "You're getting older. You should be settling down, finding a good girlfriend, looking towards the future. A steady relationship would give you some gravity, Calum. It would keep you grounded so you stop making these unstable choices. I just want you to have a normal, respectable life. Is that really so much to ask?"

The word normal hit like a physical weight, crushing the last remnants of his energy.

"No, mom. It's not," he whispered.

"Good. I certainly hope you mean that. I'll call you next week, and I expect updates on that application. Goodbye, Calum."

The line went dead with a harsh beep. Calum slowly lowered the phone, the silence of the apartment feeling heavier, louder, and more suffocating than it had five minutes ago. He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to shake off the familiar, crushing blanket of inadequacy. He desperately needed a distraction, a total break from his own head, and thankfully, Michael had texted him earlier that he wanted to try this new PS5 game and Calum allowed him to use his because apparently, in Michael's words, buying a PlayStation is a waste of money.

Right on cue, a sudden, sharp knock at the front door broke the heavy quiet. Before Calum could even gather himself to answer, the handle turned and Michael pushed his way inside, kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. Calum regretted leaving his door open because he really needed a minute to compose himself.

Michael was balancing a cardboard box of pizza in one hand and a cold six pack of beer in the other, a wide, easy grin plastered across his face.

"What's up, loser?" Michael called out, entirely unbothered by the lack of welcome as he dumped the food onto the kitchen counter. “I secured the goods, I couldn't come empty handed. Tell me you've already got the console fired up, because I am fully prepared to completely destroy you tonight."

Calum swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing his face to smooth out into what he hoped was a normal expression. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat as he walked out of the kitchen to join him. "Yeah, it's ready.”

The screen flashed red as Calum’s character died for the fourth time. Normally, he’d throw the controller or shove Michael’s shoulder in retaliation, but he was entirely distracted by the weight against his side.

Michael had shifted halfway through the match, slumping sideways so his knee was pressed flush against Calum’s thigh, his shoulder wedged under Calum's arm. It was a completely normal thing. They were tactile guys; they’d shared beds on tour, piled on top of each other in vans, and invaded each other’s personal space for years.

But right now, Calum felt as if his skin was burning through his jeans.

He glanced sideways. Michael was intensely focused on the TV, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Calum’s eyes drifted to the line of Michael’s jaw, then down to his neck, and a sudden, sharp tightness gripped his chest. A heavy, terrifying sort of warmth.

Then, a cold strike of absolute horror hit him. Beneath the denim of his jeans, his body reacted. A sudden, unmistakable stir that hardened into a full erection, pressed uncomfortably tight against his fly, right next to where Michael's leg was resting.

An intense, suffocating wave of heat flooded Calum's entire body. His stomach twisted into a violent knot of pure panic. His mind went completely chaotic, a screaming loop of denial. What the hell is wrong with you? Get it down. Get it down right now. It was a betrayal by his own body, a physical manifestation of something he wasn't supposed to feel, completely shattering the illusion of safety in his own living room.

What the hell are you doing? Calum’s inner voice snapped, loud, jarring, and frantic. Look away.

"Yes! I told you I’m literal God," Michael cheered, turning his head so fast they were suddenly inches apart. Michael smiled, wide and genuine, his eyes crinkling.

Calum's breath hitched. For a split second, an insane, gravitational urge told him to lean in.

Panic spiked instantly. It was a cold, ugly shock of adrenaline that made him feel sick to his stomach. Combined with the fresh, echoing sting of his mother's voice — a good girlfriend, a normal life, don't disappoint me — and the terrifying reality of his own physical arousal, the panic mutated into pure survival instinct. Desperate to hide himself and get away, Calum shoved himself backward, off the couch, bending slightly to conceal his front as his controller clattered onto the coffee table.

"Whoa, chill," Michael laughed, blinking up at him. "It’s just a game, dude."

"I'm going to get another drink," Calum said, his voice coming out harsher than intended, tight and breathless with terror. He wouldn't meet Michael's eyes, terrified that Michael would look down, terrified that Michael would know. "It's suffocating in here. Stop crowding me."

The smile slipped from Michael's face, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "Crowding you? We're on a massive couch."

"Just — give me some space.," Calum muttered, already turning his back, crossing his arms awkwardly over his lap as he walked out the door. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He scrubbed a hand over his face, hating the flush in his cheeks, hating the way his hand was shaking, hating the lingering, stubborn tightness in his jeans. I'm not like that, he told himself fiercely in the hallway, his teeth grinding together as he tried to force his body to calm down. I'm not.

"I just..." Calum faltered, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he stepped back into the doorway, keeping a careful distance. He looked at Michael — really looked at him. The rings on his fingers, the soft worn cotton of his vintage band tee, the light eyes that were currently demanding an answer. Calum felt that terrifying wave of affection crash into a wall of rigid denial. "I just need you to back off, okay? I'm not... I'm just a normal guy. I need my space."

Michael flinched slightly. The word normal hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Michael, who had been out for a while, knew exactly what that word was supposed to imply.

"Normal," Michael repeated, his voice dropping a fraction. He uncrossed his arms, his expression hardening into a defensive mask. "Right. Okay. Message received, Calum. Sorry for not being normal."

Michael turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door swinging behind him. Calum stood frozen in the center of the room, squeezing his eyes shut as a wave of self-loathing washed over him. He hadn't meant it like that. But he couldn't bring himself to go after him, either.

Calum spent the entirety of Sunday in a state of quiet, hyper focused denial. He had woken up on Saturday morning to a suffocatingly quiet apartment, the reality of the night before crashing into him the moment he opened his eyes. The half-eaten pizza box still sat open on the coffee table next to two barely touched beers, a stark, miserable reminder of how abruptly Michael had walked out. There was no lingering warmth in the room, just the heavy weight of the word normal still echoing in the silence, leaving Calum entirely alone to his own thoughts and a crushing wave of regret.

Calum had immediately forced himself back into his box. He went for his run. He did his laundry. He cleaned. He told himself the weird, breathless feeling in his chest from the night before was just a fluke, again.

But by Monday afternoon at the electronics shop, the denial was wearing dangerously thin.

"Hey, Cal," Ashton said, walking up to the register with a stack of newly printed inventory spreadsheets. He dropped them onto the counter with a heavy thud. "The district manager wants a full count on the stock we have. You good to handle the back stockroom?"

"Yeah," Calum said, reaching for his clipboard. "No problem."

"Cool." Ashton lingered for a second, squinting at him. "You’re being very quiet today. Everything okay?"

"Yes," Calum muttered, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the spreadsheet. "Just focused."

"Right. Sure." Ashton smirked, leaning closer. "Did the fire hydrant across the hall keep you up again?" He joked. Ever since Calum told Ashton he had said to Michael his hair looked like a fire hydrant, Ashton couldn’t stop referring to Michael by that nickname.

Calum’s grip on his pen tightened so hard the plastic creaked. "No. Michael was quiet this weekend."

"Michael, huh? First name basis now," Ashton teased, giving Calum a playful shove on the shoulder. "Watch out. Next thing you know, you’ll be staying up until 2:00 AM downloading League of Legends."

Calum managed a weak, sarcastic huff of laughter to satisfy Ashton but the moment he stepped into the quiet, fluorescent lit depth of the back stockroom, the smile dropped from his face.

He walked down the narrow aisles, his eyes scanning the shelves filled with heavy, shrink-wrapped boxes of graphics cards, mechanical keyboards, and high-performance laptops. Usually, this room was a comforting extension of his orderly brain. Everything had a designated barcode. Everything belonged in a specific grid.

He stopped in front of the gaming display section, his eyes locking onto a premium mechanical keyboard with customizable RGB backlighting. It was currently cycling through a slow, pulsing wave of deep red.

Calum stared at the red light.

Red makes me look faster, like a sports car… like Lightning McQueen!

Michael’s voice echoed in his head, vivid and clear. Calum remembered the exact shade of that freshly dyed hair under his living room lamp. He remembered the solid, heavy warmth of Michael’s shoulder pressed against his arm on the couch, the way his skin had burned through his jeans when their legs pressed together, and the quiet, completely unfiltered sound of his high soft laughter before everything went wrong.

Then, the memory shifted, and the pulsing red light became the screen flashing Game Over, bleeding into the nightmare that followed.

Just — give me some space, man.

I’m just a normal guy. I need my space.

The words tore through him, sharp and vicious. He could still see the exact moment Michael’s wide, crinkling smile had vanished, replaced by that flicker of pure confusion, and then the cold, defensive mask. Normal. Right. Okay. Message received, Calum. Sorry for not being normal. He could still hear the heavy, suffocating sound of the door swinging shut, leaving him entirely alone in his living room with his jeans feeling too tight and a stomach full of sick, frantic panic.

And then, he remembered the easy way Michael had come out to him during a Spider Man marathon and the casual unbothered way Michael existed in his own skin. He wanted that. He wanted to wake up in the morning and not have to perform. He wanted to feel the air on his skin without worrying about whether he was standing the right way, talking the right way, or being the right way.

The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of popcorn and the lingering static of their debate. They had been arguing for twenty minutes — a passionate debate of their favorite bands — completely ignoring Peter Parker swinging between skyscrapers. Michael had laughed, a bright, unguarded sound and tossed a stray piece of popcorn that bounced harmlessly off Calum’s chest. He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes tracking a loose thread on his jeans, his expression shifting into something uncharacteristically reflective.

"Please, I only bought that album because the bassist was devastatingly pretty," Michael murmured, his tone light but entirely unbothered. He picked at the thread, his thumb grazing the denim. "Turns out my taste in music is directly tied to my taste in guys, unpredictable and a little bit tragic."

He offered a small, knowing smirk then, not pushing for a reaction but letting the truth sit quietly in the space between them. It was a casual flick of a confession, a glimpse into a world where honesty didn't have to be heavy, where it wasn't a confession of a crime, just a statement.

The kitchen went dead silent, save for the sound of the TV. Calum felt the air leave his lungs, his entire internal landscape undergoing a quiet, violent shift. The panic, that familiar, sharp, instinctive twitch, was there, but beneath it, for the very first time, a cooling, dizzying wave of relief washed over him. The monstrous, heavy secret that had been crushing his chest for weeks suddenly didn't look like a monster anymore. It just looked like Michael.

Michael caught him staring and paused. He didn't look defensive; he just looked observant, his green eyes tracking the sudden, raw vulnerability in Calum’s expression.

"You look like you're trying to solve a math equation in your head, Cal," Michael said softly, his voice dropping below its usual teasing register. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Calum croaked, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard, his heart hammering, but he forced himself not to look away. He needed to touch the edge of the fire, just a little bit, to see if it would actually burn him. "Just... what you said. About the bassist."

Michael set the crust down, his movements deliberate. He didn't pull away or try to laugh it off. "What about him?"

"You said it like it was nothing," Calum whispered. His hands were folded tight between his knees, his knuckles white. "Like it's just... a normal thing."

Michael let out a short, quiet breath, a faint, incredibly gentle smile touching the corner of his mouth. He shifted so his shoulder rested against the cabinet, completely relaxing his posture. "Because it is nothing, Cal. It’s just who I am. It's like having red hair or being bad at cooking. It’s not a crisis. It’s just... a fact."

A heavy, aching knot in Calum's throat began to loosen. If Michael could exist like this, if Michael wasn't broken or ruined by it, then maybe Calum wasn't a mistake either. The relief was so sharp it almost made his eyes sting. He wasn't ready to say the words out loud, his tongue still feeling heavy with years of fear, but he allowed his shoulders to drop a fraction. He allowed himself to take a full, deep breath in Michael's presence for the first time all week.

"A fact," Calum repeated, the word tasting strange but entirely real on his lips.

"Yeah," Michael murmured, his smile widening just a fraction, sensing the quiet shift in the air. "Yes, a fact. Now, are you going to keep looking at me like I'm a ghost or are we going to watch the movie?"

Calum let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the metal shelf until his knuckles turned white.

He had spent his entire life knowing exactly who he was. He liked girls. He liked structure. He liked knowing what his life was going to look like every single night. He was a straight, ordinary guy who worked a normal job and lived a normal, boring life. His mother’s voice rang in his ears, a cruel tandem to his own thoughts: A good girlfriend... a normal, respectable life... don't disappoint us any further.

But as he stood in the cold, quiet stockroom, looking at that pulsing red light, an incredibly heavy, terrifying realization settled into his chest.

It wasn't about the noise anymore. It wasn't about the ethernet cable, or the desk, or the banana bread.

He didn't want to go back to his quiet, pristine apartment tonight to sit on his couch alone, staring at the empty space where Michael had been. He wanted to hear the frantic, ridiculous clicking of a mechanical keyboard through his wall. He wanted to hear someone yelling at strangers on the internet. He wanted to cross the hallway, knock on door 2B, and see that sharp, arrogant smirk look back at him. He wanted to undo the damage. He wanted to take back that ugly, cowardly word normal that he had thrown like a weapon just to hide his own terrifying arousal. He was so fucking sick of the word normal.

He wanted Michael.

Calum dropped his clipboard onto a nearby crate, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs that had absolutely nothing to do with his morning run. He buried his face in his hands, a sudden, helpless groan escaping him.

The fluorescent lights of the stockroom buzzed overhead, a harsh, mechanical sound that suddenly felt deafening. Calum stayed there for a long minute with his face buried in his hands, waiting for the panic to subside.

It didn’t. Instead, it twisted into something darker, a tight knot of shame and terror pulling at his stomach.

You’re not like this, he told himself frantically, the exact same desperate lie he had chanted to himself in the hallway while his hands shook and his body betrayed him. You’re just stressed. You’re lonely. You're confusing being good friends with... whatever this is. You don't like guys.

The word guys felt heavy, sticking in his throat. But the lie felt even heavier. He lowered his hands, staring blankly at the concrete floor. He could try to shove the realization back into the box, tape it shut, and bury it under a mountain of meal prep and gym routines. He could go back to ignoring the noise across the hall.

But the memory of Michael’s shoulder pressed against his, the sudden, undeniable heat that had flooded his groin, the easy, unquestioning way Michael had invaded Calum’s carefully guarded space — it made the box feel entirely too small.

He needed to prove it. He needed to prove to himself that the walls of his box were still intact.

The heavy, industrial door to the stockroom creaked open, breaking the stifling silence. Ashton walked in, holding a stack of freshly printed inventory sheets. He stopped short, his eyes immediately landing on Calum standing entirely too still by the crates.

"Hey, Calum, are you o—" Ashton paused as he took in Calum’s pale face and tense shoulders, “Oh my God, Calum, what’s wrong? You were taking so long, now I see why.”

Calum swallowed hard, quickly dropping his hands to his sides. He tried to force a casual shrug, but his fingers were still trembling. "Nothing. Just... it's hot in here. I'm fine."

"Right. And I'm rich" Ashton said dryly, stepping closer. He leaned against a tall stack of monitor boxes, crossing his arms. "You’ve been acting really weird today. Hell, these past few days, actually. Talk to me."

At the prompt, the frantic chant in Calum’s head flared up again. Prove it. Just prove it.

He looked at Ashton, his expression shifting from panicked to fiercely determined. "I need to go out tonight," Calum said, his voice a rushed, low whisper. "Like, to a club. Or a bar. I need you to come with me and wingman."

Ashton blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. "We work early tomorrow, man. And since when do you want to go hunting for bars on a Wednesday? Who are you trying to meet?"

"A girl. Any girl," Calum said, running a hand over his face, trying to erase the lingering memory of the heat in his apartment hallway. "Just... a normal, pretty girl who doesn't know anything about games, doesn't dye their hair neon colors, and doesn't come over to my place to offer homemade food."

Ashton’s eyebrows shot up. The puzzle pieces suddenly clicked into place, his eyes widening slightly as he looked at his friend. "Wait. Cal... is this about Michael?"

"No," Calum said instantly. Too fast. Too defensive. "Why would it be about Michael? It's not about Michael. I just want to go out. I'm a guy, Ash. I want to go on a date, flirt with a girl, do normal guy stuff."

"Calum."

"I'm serious!" Calum kicked the edge of the crate his clipboard was sitting on, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. "It’s just... everything is weird lately. He laughs at some stupid meme when we're hanging out, and instead of just thinking 'oh, he's being an idiot,' my brain does this stupid... thing. And it's annoying. It’s just a weird phase because we hang out too much. And I’m lonely. That's all it is."

Ashton watched him, letting the heavy buzz of the fluorescent lights fill the silence for a moment so Calum could hear how frantic he sounded. "A phase," Ashton repeated gently.

"Yes! A phase," Calum insisted, though his voice cracked slightly. He looked down at the concrete floor, the fierce determination draining out of him, leaving him looking incredibly raw. "It has to be. Because it’s Michael. He’s my neighbor. He’s a dude. I'm a dude. I've only ever liked girls, Ash. You know that."

"I do," Ashton said. He stepped away from the monitor boxes and moved closer, his tone softening completely. "But feelings aren't always easy, man. Sometimes they take a weird left turn, and it's terrifying. It doesn't mean everything you knew before was a lie."

"I don't want the left turn," Calum whispered, his chest heaving as he stared at the floor. "I want the easy way. That's why I need to go out tonight. If I just... go talk to a girl, get drinks, kiss someone... it'll reset my brain. It'll fix it. It'll keep my stupid feelings taped shut."

Ashton let out a soft, sympathetic sigh. He reached out, clapping a heavy, grounding hand on Calum’s shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze.

"You can go to every bar in the city, Cal, and you can kiss a hundred girls. But you can't force yourself to feel something just because it’s easier than dealing with what's actually happening in your head."

Calum swallowed the lump in his throat. He wanted to argue, wanted to snap at Ashton for being right, but he was just too exhausted from running. "It's terrifying, Ash," he admitted, his voice barely audible over the hum of the stockroom. "If I admit to myself that I'm feeling... whatever this is... everything changes. What if I ruin our friendship?"

"Hey, look at me," Ashton commanded gently until Calum raised his eyes. "You aren't ruining anything. And you don't have to figure it all out right this second. If you want to go out tonight and try to clear your head, I'll come with you. But do it because you want to have fun, not because you're running away from yourself."

Calum stared at Ashton for a long moment, the crushing weight in his chest easing just a fraction. He let out a long, shaky breath and nodded. "Okay.” he paused and then repeated, for good measure, “Okay."

"Good," Ashton smiled, patting his shoulder one last time before picking up his inventory sheets. "Grab your clipboard. We still have a bunch of shit to log."

“Let's get to work."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The pub downtown was loud, claustrophobic and entirely overwhelming. Exactly what Calum wanted.

He was out with Ashton, gripping a condensation slicked pint glass like it was a lifeline. He was wearing his favorite button down, he had styled his hair, and he was determined to be normal. Normal, normal, normal. The word pounded in his head in time with the heavy bass of the bar’s sound system.

"Hey."

Calum blinked, pulling his attention away from his pint. A girl had slid into the empty space at the bar next to him. She was objectively beautiful, long dark hair, a sharp smile, wearing a fitted dress. She was exactly the type of girl Calum would have confidently approached a year ago.

"Hey," Calum said, forcing his mouth into a practiced, easy smile. "I'm Calum."

"Lydia," she said, leaning on the sticky bar top. She smelled heavily of vanilla perfume and sweet cocktails. "You looked like you were plotting a murder over here by yourself. Your friends ditch you?"

"Something like that," he lied smoothly, the old script finally kicking in. This was easy. This was the routine. Flirt, smile, buy a drink. "Can I get you another one?"

"Sure." Lydia smiled, shifting closer so her knee brushed against his jeans.

Calum waited for the spark. He waited for the rush of adrenaline, the familiar tightening of attraction that he had felt dozens of times before with dozens of girls. He stared at the slope of her neck, the gloss on her lips, begging his brain to respond.

Nothing happened.

In fact, his skin felt strangely cold where her knee was touching his. He ignored it, aggressively flagging down the bartender. You're just out of practice, he told himself. Just go with it.

He spent the next hour talking to Lydia. He laughed at her jokes, he mirrored her body language, and he played the part of the interested guy flawlessly. But underneath the veneer, a creeping sense of exhaustion was settling into his bones. It felt like he was reciting lines in a play he didn't want to be in anymore.

"It's entirely too loud in here," Lydia murmured eventually, leaning in close. Her breath fanned warmly against his jaw. "You want to get some air?"

"Yeah," Calum said, his voice a little tight. "Yeah, let's go."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The alleyway behind the pub was quiet, lit only by the flickering amber glow of a streetlamp. The cool night air hit Calum's face, but it didn't do anything to clear the heavy, suffocating fog in his head.

Lydia backed up against the brick wall, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. She looked up at him through her lashes, an unmistakable invitation in her eyes. "Much better."

"Yeah," Calum echoed mechanically. He stepped closer, placing a hand flat against the brick wall beside her head. It was the move. It was what he was supposed to do.

Lydia smiled, reaching up to rest a hand softly on his chest, right over his violently racing heart. She tilted her face up, closing the distance between them.

Calum leaned in. He closed his eyes.

Her lips pressed against his. They were soft, tasting faintly of lipstick and vodka.

And Calum felt absolutely, completely nothing.

It was worse than nothing, actually. It felt deeply, fundamentally wrong. His brain wasn't supplying him with fireworks or desire; it was supplying him with static. Every nerve ending in his body was suddenly hyper aware of the wrongness of the vanilla perfume, the wrongness of the height difference, the wrongness of the soft hands gripping his shirt.

Unbidden, a flash of red hair crossed his mind. The phantom memory of a raspy, unrestrained laugh. The heavy, grounding weight of a shoulder pressed against his on a cramped couch.

A wave of intense, physical nausea rolled over him.

Calum jerked backward, breaking the kiss so abruptly that Lydia stumbled slightly.

"Whoa," she laughed, sounding confused but amused. "Eager, much? We've got time."

"I..." Calum choked out, taking another rapid step back. His chest was heaving. The alleyway suddenly felt like it was spinning. He looked at her — a perfectly nice, perfectly pretty girl — and the truth hit him with the force of a physical blow. He couldn't fake it. The box was shattered and he couldn't put the pieces back together, no matter how desperately he tried.

"Calum?" Lydia's smile faded, replaced by genuine concern. "Are you okay? You look pale."

"I'm sorry," Calum gasped, his voice cracking. He rubbed a trembling hand over his mouth, feeling entirely sick to his stomach. "I can't. I'm so sorry, I can't do this."

"Can't do what?"

"I have to go," he blurted out, already turning away.

"Wait, did I do something wrong?" she called after him.

"No!" Calum shouted back, his pace breaking into a desperate jog. "It's not you. It's me. I'm sorry!"

He didn't stop to find Ashton. He simply sent a “not feeling well, went home” text to Ashton. He didn't stop to call an Uber. Calum just started walking, practically fleeing down the darkened streets of the city, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps.

He had gone out tonight to prove he was a normal, straight guy. Instead, as the cold wind whipped around him, the undeniable, terrifying reality finally crashed down on his shoulders.

He was lying to himself. He was lying to everyone. And the only person he actually wanted to see was currently sitting on the other side of a locked door, completely out of his reach because Calum had been too much of a coward to let him in.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The walk back to the apartment building took forty five minutes but Calum barely registered the passing streets. The cold night air had seeped through his thin button down, leaving him shivering, though he wasn't entirely sure if it was from the temperature or the lingering adrenaline.

His mind, usually a neatly organized grid of schedules and rational thoughts, was a blown-out wasteland. The ghost of vanilla perfume still clung to his jacket, a nauseating reminder of how spectacular his failure had been.

By the time he pushed through the heavy glass doors of his building, his legs felt like lead. He trudged up the two flights of stairs the repetitive thud of his own footsteps echoing in the stale stairwell.

He reached the second floor and stopped.

The hallway was quiet, bathed in the flickering, sickly yellow light of a dying overhead bulb. Door 2A stood to his left. Door 2B to his right.

Calum reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. They jingled sharply in the silence. He stared at the brass key to his apartment. If he put it in the lock, he would go inside to a perfectly made bed, an empty kitchen, and a suffocating, echoing quiet. He would go inside to the life of the man he was supposed to be.

He couldn't do it.

The key slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor with a sharp clatter. Calum didn’t bend down to pick it up. Instead, his knees buckled. He slid down the wall between their two doors, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his hands.

He was so tired. He was so incredibly, bone achingly tired of fighting himself.

He let out a ragged, pathetic sound — a dry, choked off sob that scraped at the back of his throat. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to crush the tears before they could fall, trying to hold onto the absolute last shred of his composure.

Then, the muffled sound of a deadbolt sliding back echoed through the hall.

Calum froze, his breath catching in his lungs.

Door 2B swung open.

"I swear to God, if that's the delivery guy leaving the pizza on the ground again, I'm going to—"

Michael’s voice cut off abruptly.

Calum didn't look up. He couldn't. He kept his face pressed firmly into his knees, his hands gripping his hair, entirely paralyzed by the humiliation of being found like this.

For a long, agonizing second, there was only silence. Then, the soft rustle of sweatpants.

"Cal?"

Michael’s voice was completely different now — the irritation instantly replaced by a sharp, cautious concern. Footsteps padded closer, stopping mere inches from Calum’s boots.

"Calum, hey." Michael crouched down, the scent of his familiar cedar wood soap and cheap pizza cutting through the stale hallway air. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Calum shook his head, keeping it buried. He tried to draw in a steady breath but it hitched violently, betraying exactly how close to the edge he was.

"Okay. Okay, you're not hurt." Michael's voice was remarkably steady, dropping into a low, soothing cadence that he usually reserved for calming down anxious shelter dogs, not twenty something men having a crisis in a hallway. "Look at me, Cal. Come on."

"I can't," Calum rasped, the words tearing out of him. "Just go back inside, Mike. Please."

"Yeah, that's not going to happen," Michael said softly.

There was a slight hesitation and then Calum felt a hand settle on his shoulder. It was a firm, grounding weight. The contact sent a jolt straight through Calum's chest, bypassing the fear and hitting a reservoir of desperate need he hadn't known was there. He let out another pathetic, shuddering breath, his shoulders trembling under Michael's grip.

"Hey," Michael murmured, his grip tightening slightly. "Whatever it is, it's alright. Just breathe. You're having a panic attack."

"I'm not," Calum choked out, finally lifting his head.

The hallway light caught the sheen of unshed tears in his dark eyes. He looked wrecked — his meticulously styled curly hair was a windblown mess, his jacket was askew, and he was paler than Michael had ever seen him.

Michael’s eyes widened slightly, taking in the sight of him. He didn't ask where Calum had been, or why he was dressed up, or why he had completely ghosted him for five days even though what happened wasn't his fault. All the hurt and confusion from the past week seemed to evaporate from Michael's expression, leaving only a fierce, protective focus.

"Okay," Michael said quietly, holding Calum's gaze. "You're not having a panic attack. But you are sitting in a dirty hallway at one in the morning looking like your world just ended."

Calum swallowed hard. "It feels like it did."

Michael's thumb brushed lightly against Calum’s collarbone where it rested on his shoulder — an unconscious, soothing gesture that made Calum's heart ache violently.

"Do you want to go into your apartment?" Michael asked, nodding toward Calum's door.

"No." The answer was instantaneous. The thought of that empty, sterile space made Calum feel physically ill.

"Okay," Michael said easily, not missing a beat. He stood up, offering Calum his hand. "Come into mine, then. I ordered way too much food again anyway."

Calum stared at Michael's outstretched hand. Slowly, with a trembling arm, Calum reached up and grabbed Michael's hand.

Michael pulled him to his feet with an effortless heave, his grip lingering for just a second before he let go. He bent down, scooped up Calum's dropped keys, and pocketed them, before turning and nudging his own door open wider.

"Get in here," Michael muttered gently.

Calum stepped over the threshold into the messy, warm, chaotic apartment. The LED strips behind the TV were glowing a soft pink.

Michael shut and locked the door behind them, shutting out the rest of the world. He turned around, leaning back against the wood, and finally let himself look at Calum.

"You smell like alcohol," Michael observed, his voice neutral, though his eyes were sharp, calculating the pieces of the puzzle. If he noticed the sparkly lipstick on Calum’s lips, he didn't mention it.

Calum stood in the center of the living room, wrapping his arms around himself. The fortress was gone. The denial had burned up in that alleyway. He looked at Michael, and for the first time in his life, he let the truth show on his face.

"I tried," Calum whispered, his voice cracking. The shame threatened to swallow him whole, but he forced himself to hold Michael's gaze. "I went out. I tried to be... normal. I tried to prove to myself that I was the guy I thought I was."

Michael went perfectly still. He didn't speak. He barely seemed to breathe.

"I kissed a girl," Calum forced the words out, tearing off the band aid.

A shadow passed over Michael's face — a rapid flicker of pain that he quickly masked — but Calum saw it.

"And?" Michael prompted, his voice strained.

"And I hated it," Calum admitted, a fresh tear finally escaping and tracking hotly down his cheek. His voice dropped to a desperate, broken whisper. "I hated every second of it. Because all I could think about was the fact that I just wanted to be back here. With you."

The silence that followed was deafening, save for the hum of the refrigerator. Michael stared at him, his eyes completely wide, his guarded mask shattering into a million pieces. He took a hesitant step towards Calum, as if approaching a wild animal that might attack at any second.

"Calum," Michael breathed out, his voice impossibly soft.

"I'm terrified, Mike," Calum confessed, the last of his walls crumbling to dust. He let his arms drop to his sides in total defeat. "I'm so fucking terrified."

Michael didn’t hesitate. The careful, measured distance he had been keeping for the past month vanished in a heartbeat. He crossed the remaining space between them in two long strides, reaching out and grabbing the lapels of Calum’s jacket. He dragged Calum against his chest and buried his face in the crook of Calum's neck.

It was a profoundly grounding, desperately needed hug. Calum gasped, the sound punching out of him as if he’d been starved for air. His rigid posture completely collapsed, hands coming up to grip handfuls of the oversized black hoodie Michael was wearing. He held on like a drowning man clutching a life raft.

"I've got you," Michael murmured fiercely into Calum's hair, his broad hands splayed wide across Calum’s back. "I've got you, Cal. You're okay."

The tears Calum had been fighting for weeks finally broke free, hot and silent, soaking into the cotton of Michael's hoodie. All the rigid rules and the suffocating box he had forced himself into washed away. He cried because he was terrified, but mostly, he cried because he was finally safe. Michael didn't rush him. He just stood there in the middle of the living room, holding Calum with an unwavering strength, rocking him slightly until the violent tremors began to subside.

When Calum finally pulled back, his chest heaving with shaky breaths, he couldn't meet Michael's eyes. Shame prickled at the back of his neck. He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his red, tear stained face.

"Sorry," Calum croaked, staring at the floorboards. "I'm a mess. I didn't mean to just... break down on you."

"Shut up," Michael said softly, but there was no bite to it.

Michael stepped back, pulling the thin jacket off Calum’s shoulders and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair. Then, without asking, Michael grabbed the hem of his own black hoodie and pulled it over his head, leaving him in a faded, worn out t shirt. He held the hoodie out to Calum. It was still radiating Michael’s body heat, carrying the distinct, familiar scent of vanilla and laundry detergent.

"Put this on," Michael instructed gently. "You're literally shivering, Cal."

Calum didn't argue. He stripped off his button down and pulled the heavy hoodie over his head. The  moment the fabric settled over his shoulders, the last lingering trace of nausea from his disastrous date vanished entirely.

Michael placed a hand on the small of Calum’s back, guiding him toward the worn in sofa. "Sit. I'm getting you some water."

Calum sank into the cushions, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He watched Michael move around the small kitchen, running the tap, his movements efficient but unfocused, as if his brain was still trying to catch up to reality. When Michael returned, he handed Calum the glass and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectful, careful distance between them.

Calum took a slow sip, his throat aching. The silence in the apartment wasn't empty anymore; it was heavy but it wasn't suffocating.

"You said you're terrified," Michael finally broke the quiet, his curious eyes locking onto Calum's. "What are you terrified of, exactly? Me?"

"No," Calum answered instantly, shaking his head. "Never you."

"Then what?"

"Myself," Calum whispered. "My whole life, I knew exactly what the plan was. Get a job, find a nice girl, settle down, be normal. It was a straight line. I knew the rules. And now... I don't know the rules. I don't know how to do this, Mike. I don't know how to be this person."

"Cal," Michael said, his voice lowering into a rough, tender register. "There are no rules. That straight line you’ve been forcing yourself to walk on? It’s a myth. It’s a script someone else wrote for you, and you don’t have to follow it if it’s making you miserable."

"But what if I do this wrong?" Calum asked, panic flaring tight in his chest. "What if I ruin everything? What if I ruin us?"

Michael let out a slow breath. He uncurled his legs, sliding across the cushions until he was sitting right next to Calum. He didn't touch him yet, but his presence was a solid, undeniable force of gravity.

"You aren't going to ruin us," Michael said firmly. "Because I'm not going anywhere. Whether you need me to be your friend, neighbor, or... something else. I'm right here. I’m not running."

Calum swallowed hard, his heart making a strange, fluttering flip against his ribs. "You're not mad?"

"I'm not mad that you're scared. It's scary, Calum. Figuring out you aren't who you thought you were is terrifying. I get it. I've been there." Michael slowly reached out, gently resting his hand over Calum's tightly clenched knuckles. "You don't have to have it all figured out tonight. You don't have to put a label on it. You just have to stop lying to yourself."

Calum stared down at their joined hands. Michael’s thumb was absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand, a tiny, repetitive motion that sent a warm, terrifyingly perfect shiver down Calum's spine.

For the first time in a month, the crushing weight on his chest lifted. The world hadn't ended. He had admitted his darkest secret, and Michael was still sitting here, holding his hand, offering him a safe place to land. Calum turned his hand over, his fingers curling tentatively around Michael's, feeling the steady beat of Michael's pulse.

"Okay," Calum breathed out, his voice barely more than a sigh in the quiet room.

He looked up from their hands, his eyes tracking the movement of Michael's throat as he swallowed. Outside, rain began to drum a steady, relentless beat against the window, blurring the city lights. Inside, the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. Every casual touch from Michael over the past few weeks had been building to this, and looking at him right now, Calum's old labels felt like a flimsy paper shield.

"Calum?" Michael said softly, noticing the sudden shift in his gaze. "You're in your head again."

Calum didn't answer. The unspoken tension that had been building for months finally snapped. Calum scrambled upward, shifting his weight onto his knees until he was towering over Michael on the couch, his shadow blocking out the dim apartment light.

Michael’s eyes widened, a sudden breath hitching in his chest. "Cal—?"

Calum didn't let him finish. He lunged forward, closing the distance between them with a sudden, heavy desperation.

The collision of their lips was messy and bruising. Calum didn't know how to do this gently; the sheer volume of suppressed desire made his movements frantic. He cupped the back of Michael’s neck, his fingers tangling in the soft hairs at the nape, pulling Michael up and into the kiss with a fierce possessiveness.

Michael let out a muffled, choked sound against Calum’s mouth — half surprise, half surrender — before his hands flew up to grip Calum’s biceps, holding on like the room was tilting.

The kiss grew rapidly wetter, deeper and completely uncoordinated. Calum parted his lips, pushing his tongue forward, seeking the heat of Michael's mouth. Michael met him instantly, slick and eager, his tongue tangling with Calum's in a frantic, unpolished rhythm. Teeth clicked sharply as Calum angled his head, trying to get closer, trying to consume him.

The sound of their breathing was loud and ragged in the quiet living room, the wet, friction filled slide of their lips, the soft, desperate whimpers escaping Michael’s throat whenever Calum pressed harder. Calum shifted his weight, crowding Michael backward until Michael’s spine hit the armrest of the sofa. Calum followed him down, straddling Michael’s lap, his chest crushing against Michael’s.

Calum’s mouth slid sideways, his slick lips dragging across Michael's cheek to his jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin just below his ear. Michael gasped, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into the fabric of the hoodie he had just loaned Calum, pulling him back up.

"Calum, please," Michael breathed out, a desperate, wet plea, his lips slick and swollen.

Calum crashed back down on his mouth, sealing their lips together again. This time, it was even sloppier, a reckless exchange of saliva and heat. Calum sucked on Michael's bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth before letting his tongue slide over it, tasting the salt of Michael’s skin. Michael’s hands slid up from Calum's arms, burying into his hair, pulling Calum down so hard that Calum felt the ache of it in his skull, but he didn't care. He wanted everything.

When Calum finally tore his mouth away, a thin, silver strand of saliva connected their lips for a brief second before breaking.

Both of them were panting heavily, their lips slick, red and visibly bruised. Michael’s eyes were completely dazed and dilated with a mixture of shock and sheer adrenaline. Calum stayed right there, chest to chest, his thumb dragging across Michael’s wet bottom lip.

The silence that settled over the living room was thick, heavy with the sound of their ragged breathing and the steady thrum of the rain outside. Calum didn’t move. He remained straddling Michael’s lap, his hands still anchored in Michael’s hair, terrified that if he pulled away completely, the reality of what he’d just done would crash down and suffocate him.

Michael’s chest heaved beneath Calum’s, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against Calum’s ribs. Slowly, the tight grip Michael had on Calum’s hair softened, his fingers sliding down to cup the sides of Calum’s face. His palms were warm, grounding, and slightly damp from the sheer heat between them.

"Hey," Michael whispered, his voice incredibly rough, a low rasp that sent a fresh shiver straight down Calum’s spine. "Look at me."

Calum hesitated, his long eyelashes fluttering as he fought the instinct to bury his face back into the crook of Michael's neck. But Michael’s thumbs nudged gently against his cheekbones, coaxing him upward.

When Calum finally looked down, he felt a lump form in his throat. Michael’s lips were swollen, glistening, and completely flushed a deep, bitten red. A faint smear of saliva shone on his jawline. But it was his eyes that caught Calum off guard—there was no judgment, no confusion. Just an intense, dark heat mixed with a profound sense of relief.

"You're not... you're not freaked out?" Calum croaked, his voice trembling. He hated how vulnerable he sounded, how fragile.

Michael let out a breathless, uneven laugh, his chest rising up to meet Calum's. "Cal, I've been waiting for you to look at me like that for a while. If I'm freaked out, it's only because I'm afraid I'm dreaming and I'm gonna wake up in a second."

The confession hit Calum like a physical wave. While Calum had been drowning in denial, trying to force himself to fit into a mold that was breaking him, Michael had been standing on the sidelines, waiting.

"I'm sorry," Calum whispered suddenly, the guilt tearing at him. "I'm sorry I took so long. I'm sorry about the ghosting, and the girl, and—"

"Stop," Michael interrupted softly. He shifted slightly beneath Calum, his hands moving from Calum's face down to his waist, his fingers digging into the hem of the oversized black hoodie. He gave a gentle tug, pulling Calum down just an inch closer. "I told you. No rules. You're here now. That’s all that matters."

Michael leaned up, closing the small gap between them again. This time, the kiss wasn't a desperate collision. It was slower, deliberate, but no less intense. Michael’s lips parted over Calum’s, tasting him fully, his tongue sliding lazily against Calum’s in a warm, languid stroke that made Calum’s knees go completely weak.

Calum let out a soft whine, his hands sliding down Michael’s shoulders to grip the fabric of his worn out t shirt. The sheer contrast of this kiss compared to the one in the alleyway with the girl was dizzying. There was no performance here. No forcing it. It felt as natural as breathing, a perfect alignment of puzzle pieces that had been forced apart for too long.

Michael sucked gently on Calum’s top lip, a slick, quiet sound echoing in the space between them, before pulling back just enough to press his forehead against Calum's. Their breaths mingled, hot and fast.

"Stay here tonight," Michael murmured against his skin, his hands smoothing over the fabric of the hoodie at Calum's hips. "Don't go back. Just stay."

Calum closed his eyes, letting the familiar scent of vanilla, laundry detergent and Michael himself completely envelope him. Looking at Michael, tangled up on a messy couch in the middle of a rainstorm, Calum quickly replied.

"Yeah," Calum whispered, his fingers tightening in Michael's shirt. "I'm staying."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

When Calum woke up the next day, the apartment was bathed in the muted light of mid-morning.

For a split second, the old habit didn't kick in. He just felt warm. There was a heavy, comforting weight draped over his waist, and the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of a chest pressed against his back. He was breathing in the lingering scent of cedarwood, completely tangled up in Michael's arms on the sofa. Michael had his face buried in the crook of Calum's neck, breathing softly in his sleep, holding onto Calum like he was afraid he'd disappear.

Calum felt safe. They had stayed up late, whispering in the dark after the storm inside him finally cleared, until exhaustion had claimed them both.

Then, the memories of the previous night hit him all at once.

The fragile bubble of safety popped so suddenly it felt like a physical slap. The warmth of the hoodie he was still wearing, combined with the heat of Michael’s body against his, suddenly felt suffocating. The ghost of the slick taste of Michael on his tongue, the swollen ache of his own lips, the memory of literally straddling his friend’s lap — it all rushed over him in a wave of cold, blinding morning panic.

What the hell did I do?

The safety of the dark was gone, replaced by harsh, exposing daylight.

Panicking, Calum carefully but frantically peeled Michael’s arm off his waist. Michael stirred, letting out a soft, sleepy grumble, which only made Calum’s heart hammer faster, like a trapped bird against his ribs. He scrambled off the couch, his knees hitting the coffee table with a loud rattle. He froze, holding his breath until he was sure Michael hadn't woken up.

His hands shook so violently he could barely keep his balance as he looked down at Michael’s sleeping face. A primal instinct to run completely took over. He couldn't do this. He wasn't ready to face the reality of what they'd done. He was breaking every rule he knew, and it felt like his world was collapsing.

Without a single word, Calum turned on his heel and bolted.

He didn't grab his own jacket or the button-down shirt he'd left discarded on the floor. He didn't care that he was still wearing Michael’s hoodie. He just ripped the apartment door open, threw himself out, and slammed his own front door shut. He threw the deadbolt, the echoing click sounding like a gunshot in the empty corridor.

Inside Michael’s apartment, the silence returned, heavier and uglier than before.

A few minutes later, Michael stirred, his arms instantly tightening around the empty space beside him. His fingers brushed against the cold leather of the sofa, finding nothing but the hollow dip in the cushions where Calum had been lying just moments before.

Michael’s eyes snapped open. He sat up fast, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as his gaze swept over the dimly lit living room, fully expecting to see Calum standing by the window or coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water.

"Cal?" Michael called out, his voice thick and rough from sleep.

There was no answer. The apartment was entirely still. Michael’s eyes dropped to the floorboards, where Calum’s discarded button-down shirt and jacket still lay in a messy heap, but the hoodie was gone. Michael pressed his palm against the fabric of the sofa; the indentation where they had been cuddling was already losing its warmth.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. Calum hadn't just gotten up — he had fled.

Michael stood up in the middle of his empty living room, his chest heaving as a hollow, familiar ache settled deep into his bones.

The silence in the apartment was deafening, pressing down on Michael's chest until he couldn't breathe. He couldn't take it, not for another second.

His hands shook as he snatched his phone off the coffee table and dialed Luke’s number, pressing the device to his ear. It barely rang twice before Luke picked up.

"Hey, Mikey, what's—"

"Luke, I need you," Michael interrupted, his voice cracking violently, a sharp sob catching in his throat before he could stop it. "Please. Can you come over? He’s gone. He ran again."

There was an immediate shift on the other end, the sound of Luke shuffling instantly, keys rattling in the background. "Hey, hey, breathe, Mike. I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in ten minutes."

True to his word, it felt like no time at all before the front door clicked open. Rain was pouring relentlessly outside and Luke practically burst into the apartment, shaking the water out of his blonde hair, his jacket completely soaked. He kicked off his boots carelessly and hurried straight into the living room, stopping dead when he saw Michael slumped on the edge of the kitchen counter, staring blankly at the floor.

Luke walked over, leaning against the counter right next to him, his expression deeply concerned. "Mike. What happened?"

"Calum came over yesterday at night," Michael said, his voice flat, completely devoid of any warmth.

"And?"

"He told me he kissed a girl. He told me he hated it and that all he could think about was me," Michael let out a dry, humorless laugh that sounded more like a choke. He gripped the edge of the counter tightly. "He cried, Luke. Like, completely broke down in my arms. I gave him my hoodie. We sat on the couch, we talked, and then..."

Michael trailed off, closing his eyes as his mind replayed the way Calum had hovered over him, the desperate, uncoordinated heat of Calum’s mouth on his, the silver strand of saliva breaking between them.

"Then what, Mikey?" Luke pressed gently, placing a grounding hand on Michael's shoulder.

"Then he kissed me. Properly. Like he actually wanted to consume me," Michael whispered, opening his eyes, a dangerous shine of tears catching the dim apartment light. "We fell asleep on the couch. Luke, he was cuddling me. I woke up i  the middle of the night with my arms wrapped around him, and for a second, I thought... God, I really thought it was different this time. I thought the ghosting was over. I thought he was finally done running."

Luke let out a heavy, sympathetic sigh, squeezing his shoulder. "Did he say anything before he left?"

"He snuck out before I even opened my eyes," Michael spat out, the hurt finally souring into sudden, bitter anger. "He didn't say a word. He just left his clothes, took my hoodie, and ran. He’s now probably locked in his apartment pretending last night never happened."

"Michael, you know he just panicked," Luke said quietly, trying to calm the storm brewing in Michael's eyes.

"Then why does he keep doing this?" Michael’s voice cracked, the anger evaporating, leaving him sounding incredibly small. "He pushes me away, he acts like I have a disease and should be embarrassed of myself, then he comes over, breaks his own heart in front of me, kisses me until I can't breathe, sleeps in my arms, and then just... vanishes. I was hoping he’ll look at me. And last night he finally did. But he still left."

"Because waking up to it in the daylight makes it real," Luke said gently, his tone firm but understanding. "Think about it, Mike. You've been out since you were sixteen. You had time to figure out who you are. Calum has spent his entire life building a completely different identity. He’s straight Calum. Waking up this morning tangled up with you? That’s a massive, terrifying thing for him. He probably woke up feeling like he was falling."

"I was holding him," Michael said fiercely, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down his cheek. "He wasn't falling. I had him."

"I know," Luke murmured softly, pulling Michael into a brief, one armed hug. "I know you did. But he has to learn how to catch himself first. You can't force him out of the closet, Mike, even if he's the one who opened the door."

Michael stared across the room at his closed front door, knowing Calum was just a few meters away, probably wrapped in the black hoodie Michael had given him, hiding in the dark.

"I just don't know how much longer I can keep waiting on the edge of the cliff," Michael whispered, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "It hurts too much."

Luke didn’t reply right away. He just let his hand rest heavily on Michael’s shoulder, a solid weight anchoring him while the rain continued to lash against the glass. He knew there weren't any magic words to fix this. Michael had been bleeding and aching with his feelings, knowing Calum would never look at him that way. But he did, he finally did but Calum’s sudden, frantic warmth had only made the sudden freeze sting that much worse.

"You don't have to wait forever," Luke finally said, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register. "But don't make any decisions while you're this raw. Give him a little time to breathe. And give yourself some time to stop hurting."

Michael swallowed past the lump in his throat, staring down at his socks. "Yeah. Whatever."

Luke stayed for another hour, making a fresh pot of coffee that neither of them really drank, mostly just talking about Michael's upcoming games and stream schedules plans to pull Michael out of the hyper fixated spiral in his own head. When Luke finally left, promising to text later, the apartment felt even larger and emptier than before.

Michael didn't clean up the living room. He couldn't bring himself to touch the discarded clothes Calum had left on the floor, or the empty glass of water still sitting on the coffee table. He just went into his bedroom, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling until the daylight faded into a murky, rain soaked gray.

Across the walls, the afternoon passed in a blur of suffocating silence.

Calum was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, his back pressed hard against the side of his mattress, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. He was still wearing Michael’s black hoodie, the fabric pulled up so high it covered his chin. Every time he breathed in, he tasted the vanilla and laundry detergent, and every time he tasted it, a fresh spike of adrenaline shot through his veins.

He hadn't moved for hours. His phone was sitting on the opposite side of the room, face down on his desk. It had been buzzing relentlessly for the last two hours, the aggressive vibrations rattling against the wood and cutting through the quiet of his apartment.

Finally, the sheer repetition of it broke through his daze. Calum uncurled his stiff legs, his joints popping as he stood up. He walked over to the desk with a heavy sense of dread and flipped the phone over.

The screen illuminated his face, displaying a wall of missed alerts.

Ashton: Cal, where are you? 

Ashton: Did you get sick? Are you okay?

Ashton: Calum. Seriously. You never miss work I'm worried

14 Missed Calls

Before Calum could even process the texts, the phone violently came to life in his hand again. Ashton's name flashed across the screen.

Calum's stomach plummeted. He was supposed to be at work. In his blind panic to escape Michael’s apartment, he had completely lost track of time and he had missed his shift

With trembling fingers, Calum swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. "Ash?"

"Oh my god, Calum!" Ashton’s voice boomed through the speaker, tight with a heavy mix of frustration and sheer panic. "Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling you for three hours! Do you have any idea of how worried I was? I thought you were fine considering the text you sent me but then you miss work and Calum Hood Never. NEVER. misses work.” he rambled.

Calum sniffled and that was enough to put Ashton on the edge.

“Cal, hey, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just... I lost track of time. I’m so sorry about the shift, Ash. I’ll come in right now, I can be there in twenty—”

"Hey, stop. Forget the shift, I got you," Ashton interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, instantly becoming the anchor Calum desperately needed. "I don't care about it, Cal. I care about you. Where are you right now?"

Calum swallowed hard. "Home."

A heavy sigh echoed through the speaker, laced with a mix of relief and lingering worry. "Okay," Ashton said softly. "I'll come over as soon as I close the store, alright? Just hold tight."

"No, you don't need to do that," Calum mumbled, his guilt twisting like a knife in his gut. "I'm sorry for messing up your day."

"Shush. Don't do that. I'm coming over and that's final," Ashton insisted, leaving no room for argument.

"Fine," Calum agreed reluctantly, the exhaustion finally winning. "See you later.”

True to his word, the second the clock struck closing time, Ashton flipped the sign on the door to Closed and rushed out. On his way, he made a quick detour to the small bakery down the street, picking up a box of the oversized, ridiculously sweet chocolate chip cookies Calum secretly loved but always claimed were "too much."

Armed with the pastries and a lingering sense of worry, Ashton drove across town and hurried up the stairs to Calum’s apartment building. As he rounded the corner of the second floor hallway, he noticed a tall guy with vivid, slightly faded red hair standing directly in front of the door next to Calum’s. He was awkwardly balancing a mountain of plastic grocery bags, his shoulder shoved against the frame as he fumbled blindly with a set of keys.

Ashton stopped in his tracks, the pieces clicking together in his head. Red hair. Michael.

Realizing the guy was about to drop a carton of eggs, Ashton stepped forward, offering a warm, friendly smile. "Hey, need a hand with those?" he asked, nodding toward the slipping groceries.

The red-haired man jumped slightly, whipping his head around. Unlike the cheerful neighbor Ashton expected, the man's face looked drawn, his eyes cast downward and shadowed with a heavy, profound sadness. He looked completely drained.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Thanks," the guy muttered quietly, his voice tight.

Ashton reached out, looping his fingers through the plastic handles of a straining bag to ease the weight. With his hands finally free enough to navigate, the guy successfully slid his key into the lock and pushed his apartment door open.

"Thank you," the neighbor said softly, taking the bag back. He didn't make eye contact, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor as if he wanted nothing more than to disappear inside.

"Happens to the best of us," Ashton smiled kindly. He glanced at the door, then back at the guy's hair, testing a hunch. "Hey, sorry if this is random, but... are you Michael?"

The man blinked, his green eyes flicking up to Ashton in genuine surprise. He paused in the doorway, "Yeah, I am. How did you know?"

"Calum," Ashton explained, holding up the bakery box. "I'm Ashton, his coworker. Well, and his friend. He talks about you sometimes."

Michael’s shoulders slumped even further at the mention of Calum's name, the sadness in his expression deepening so painfully it made Ashton's smile fade. Michael swallowed hard, his knuckles turning white around the grocery bags.

"Oh. Ashton. Right," Michael whispered, looking desperately like he wanted to bolt inside and slam the door. "He... he talks about you too. Look, it's nice to meet you, but I really have to go put these groceries away before things melt. I’m sorry, I just—I have to go."

Before Ashton could even process the sudden, frantic shift in Michael's demeanor, the red-haired man gave a tight nod and practically fled into his apartment, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Ashton stood alone in the hallway, his brow furrowing as he looked from Michael’s closed door to Calum’s. The heavy, suffocating tension in the air made his stomach drop. Something was seriously wrong. Holding the bakery box tightly, Ashton stepped up to Calum’s door and knocked.

When Calum opened the door, he looked miserable. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and he looked smaller swallowed up by the oversized hoodie he was wearing. Ashton felt an immediate pang of sorrow.

Before Calum could even offer a greeting, Ashton walked past him into the apartment, the weight of the hallway encounter pressing heavily on his mind.

“So. I just met Michael.”

Calum paused in his tracks, freezing completely. His hand stayed glued to the doorknob, his entire body rigid as if the mere mention of the name was a physical blow.

“Hi to you too,” Calum muttered quietly, his voice barely a rasp as he slowly closed the door.

“He looked miserable,” Ashton said, ignoring the weak greeting entirely. He walked over to the kitchen, setting the bakery box down on the table with a soft thud. “You look miserable. What the hell happened last night?”

Calum’s eyes started to water instantly. The fragile wall he’d been holding up all afternoon crumbled at the direct question. His chest heaved, and he practically collapsed into the nearest kitchen chair, drawing in a sharp, trembling breath as he tried (and failed) to keep the tears from spilling over.

Ashton pulled up another chair, dragging it close so he was sitting right across from Calum. He didn't push; he just waited, his presence a steady, solid anchor in the room.

"I panicked, Ash," Calum choked out, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as the first sob finally broke through. "I kissed a girl last night, when you went to the bathroom. We kissed and it didn't feel right so I immediately left. As soon as I reached the door to my apartment, I completely broke down and Michael happened to open the door. He helped me calm down, we spoke about about it and it was fine at first. It was perfect. We stayed up late just talking, and then fell asleep on his couch. He was holding me and I felt so safe."

Calum pulled his hands away, his eyes swimming with a devastating mix of confusion and heartbreak. He gripped the fabric of his sleeves — Michael's sleeves.

"But then I woke up this morning," Calum whispered, his voice trembling violently. "And everything we had done just rushed back all at once. The way we were tangled up, the warmth... the fact that I was literally straddling his lap... Ash, I initiated it. I kissed him. And the worst part is, it felt so right. In the dark, it felt exactly where I was supposed to be."

A fresh wave of tears spilled over his bottom eyelashes.

"But this morning, the safety was just gone. It felt suffocating. I realized I was breaking every single rule my parents had for me and I completely lost it. I couldn't face the reality of what it meant." Calum sobbed, pressing his palms against his eyes. "I simply bolted. I didn't even grab my own clothes. I literally ran out of his apartment in his hoodie and I left him completely alone."

Calum looked down at his shaking hands, his heart hammering against his ribs just from the memory. "I ruined everything, Ash. I started it, and then I ran away because I was terrified. Now he probably hates me."

Ashton let out a soft, sympathetic sigh, reaching across the table to place a grounding hand over Calum's wrist.

"Cal," Ashton said gently, his voice soft but firm. "Michael doesn't hate you. I just saw him in the hallway with a mountain of groceries, looking like his entire world had collapsed. He didn't look angry at all. He looked completely heartbroken.”

The words hung heavy in the quiet kitchen. Calum’s chest hitched, his tear filled eyes lifting to meet Ashton’s. He looked completely shattered, trapped between the crushing weight of his parents' lifelong expectations and the terrifying reality of what his heart actually wanted.

"Heartbroken?" Calum repeated, his voice barely a breathy whisper. He pulled one hand back to wipe fiercely at his wet cheek, but the tears kept coming. "How can he be heartbroken? Ash, I practically used him to escape whatever panic attack that girl triggered, I let him hold me all night, I kissed him and then I treated him like he was a plague the second the sun came up. He should be furious with me."

"But he isn't," Ashton insisted gently, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over Calum’s trembling wrist. "Cal, listen to me. If Michael wanted to wash his hands of you, he wouldn't be walking up those stairs looking like a ghost. He's hurting because you're hurting and because you ran."

Calum buried his face in his hands again, a muffled, miserable groan escaping him. "I just... I've spent my entire life trying to be exactly who my parents wanted me to be. Every rule, every expectation... I had it all mapped out. And in a single night, I shattered all of it. With Michael. My neighbor. My—” He stopped himself, looking at Ashton with pure desperation. "And the scariest part is that when I was kissing him, I didn't care about their rules. I didn't care about anything."

Ashton’s expression softened into one of deep empathy. He knew how heavy family expectations could be, how they could act like a cage until you didn't even recognize yourself anymore.

"That's why you panicked, Cal. It wasn't because of Michael. It was because you realized how much power he has to change your whole world," Ashton said softly. He reached over and tapped the bakery box on the table. "Look, I brought you those ridiculous chocolate chip cookies you like. But food isn't going to fix this, and hiding in your apartment definitely isn't."

Calum swallowed hard, his eyes automatically darting toward the heavy wooden door that separated his apartment from Michael's. 

"What am I supposed to do?" Calum whispered, his voice cracking. "Just walk over there? I can't, Ash. My hands are still shaking. What if I look at him and just panic again? What if I make it worse?"

"You don't have to go right this second," Ashton said firmly, though his eyes remained warm and supportive. "But you have to talk to him eventually. You need to tell him the truth. Tell him you were terrified, and that it was the noise in your own head, not him. Michael deserves to know that the safety you felt wasn't a lie, Cal. And honestly? I think you owe it to yourself to stop running."

Calum looked down at the oversized sleeves of Michael’s hoodie, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of vanilla that still clung to the fabric. It comforted him, but the fear was still too loud, too paralyzing. He shrank back into his chair, wrapping his arms around himself tightly.

"I... I don't know," Calum mumbled, shaking his head as a fresh wave of exhaustion washed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just make the world disappear. "I can't do it right now. My head hurts too much. I'll... I'll think about it, okay? I just need some time."

Ashton sighed softly, but he didn't push. He reached across the table and gave Calum's arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Okay. Take some time. Eat a cookie, try to breathe. But promise me you won't just lock yourself in here forever."

Calum didn't look up, but he gave a small, barely perceptible nod. "I promise.”

Over the next few days, Calum mastered the art of becoming a ghost.

His life shrank into a rigid, exhausting routine designed around one single goal: avoiding Michael. He left for work earlier than needed, tiptoeing down the apartment stairs in the gray dawn before the building even woke up. At the store, he threw himself into his shifts with a frantic energy that had Ashton watching him with a mixture of pity and concern, though his friend kept his promise and didn't push.

But it was the runs that truly kept Calum from losing his mind. Every early morning, like always, he’d lace up his sneakers and run until his lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. He figured if he could just keep moving fast enough, the memories of Michael’s arms around his waist and the terrifying, rightness of that kiss wouldn't be able to catch up to him.

Yet, living right beside the wall from the person you’re trying to erase is hard.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

On Tuesday night, Calum was sitting frozen on his living room floor, a half eaten container of takeout in his lap, when he heard it. The muffled, unmistakable sound of Michael’s deep, rumbling laugh echoing from the corridor. He was clearly coming back from the stairs, talking to someone on his phone. Calum’s breath hitched in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart hammering violently against his ribs as he listened to the heavy thud of Michael’s door closing. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, suffocating him with a profound, aching loneliness.

By Thursday, the withdrawal was physically painful. He missed his friend. He missed his neighbor. He missed the person who made him feel safe. He just missed him.

Lying awake in bed long past midnight, wrapped in a blanket, Calum finally cracked. With trembling fingers, he pulled up the Twitch app on his phone. He clicked the live notification from ‘5SOS Michael’, his screen immediately illuminating his dark bedroom.

There he was.

Calum’s stomach did a violent flip. Michael was sitting in his gaming chair, a black snapback cap turned backward over his faded red hair, a pair of bulky headphones resting on his head. He looked so incredibly good it made Calum’s chest ache. But as Calum watched the stream, a tight knot formed in his throat. Michael was smiling and reacting to his chat, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was a subtle tiredness in the slump of his shoulders, a slight shadow of exhaustion under his green eyes that Calum knew wasn't just from gaming late.

I did that to him, Calum thought miserably, his throat tightening. I put that look on his face.

On screen, Michael adjusted the brim of his snapback, leaning closer to his microphone to read a donation message. Watching him move, hearing his voice filter through the phone speaker, Calum felt a dizzying rush of jealousy toward the thousands of strangers in the chat. They got to see him. They got to listen to him laugh. Meanwhile, Calum was a wall away, hiding in the dark like a coward.

Michael laughed at something a viewer said, a genuine, crinkly eyed smile breaking through his exhaustion for a split second. Calum's heart swelled so fast it hurt. It was the same smile Michael had given him right before they fell asleep on the couch.

Unable to take the bittersweet torture anymore, Calum blindly tapped the screen and closed the app, throwing the phone face down onto the mattress. He rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest. He had wanted time to think, but the more time passed, the more he realized thinking wasn't fixing anything. It was only making the distance between their two doors feel like an ocean.

The weekend arrived, but it brought no relief. Saturday morning found Calum sitting on the edge of his bed, his running shoes halfway tied, staring blankly at the floor. He felt entirely hollow. The distraction of work was gone, leaving him alone with the quiet hum of his apartment and the agonizing awareness of the door just fifteen feet away.

He threw on a white sleeveless t shirt, pulled his baseball cap low and headed out for a run, desperate to clear the fog in his head.

But the moment he stepped into the hallway, his luck finally ran out.

The door across the hall swung open at the exact same time. Calum froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Michael stood in his doorway, holding a plastic trash bag, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

For a second, neither of them moved. The hallway felt entirely devoid of air.

Michael’s green eyes widened slightly, a sudden, raw vulnerability flashing across his face before he quickly masked it, looking down at the floor. His knuckles turned white around the plastic bag.

"Hey," Michael forced out, his voice rough and quiet.

Calum blinked twice, surprised that Michael even acknowledged him. He was too good for his own good.

"Hey," Calum breathed. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run down the stairs.

Michael gave a tight nod, shifting his weight. "I'm just dropping this in the chute. I'll get out of your way."

The words cut Calum like a knife, heavy with a quiet, defeated sadness. Michael thought he was a nuisance. He thought Calum couldn't stand the sight of him. He was already turning to walk toward the end of the hall, his eyes fixed firmly ahead, completely checked out.

Something inside Calum snapped. The four days of suffocating silence, the hours spent watching Michael's tired eyes on a glowing phone screen, the sheer, agonizing distance — it all boiled over. Driven by pure, reckless impulse, Calum lunged forward and grabbed Michael’s forearm.

"Mike, wait! Just—wait!" Calum blurted out, his voice echoing loudly in the narrow corridor.

Michael flinched at the sudden physical contact, stopping dead in his tracks. He whipped his head around, his green eyes wide with shock. He looked down at Calum’s hand tightly gripping his arm, then up at Calum’s face. The sheer, guarded heartbreak in his eyes made Calum’s stomach plummet, but Calum didn't let go.

"I'm sorry," Calum rushed out, the words tumbling over each other as he breathed heavily, entirely exposed. "For everything. I've been a complete coward, Michael, but please don't look at me like that. Don't say you're getting out of my way."

Michael stood completely still, his arm tense under Calum's grip. He let out a soft, weary sigh, looking more exhausted than angry. "Cal, you literally bolted. You didn't say a word. I woke up and you were just gone and I’ve spent the last few days wondering what the hell I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong!" Calum cried, his eyes swimming with fresh tears as his impulse finally began to give way to raw vulnerability. "It wasn't you. I swear. It’s just... the timing —I just needed space to clear my head, Michael."

Michael looked at him, his expression softening, but the sadness only seemed to deepen. He shook his head slowly, gently pulling his arm out of Calum's grasp. The loss of warmth made Calum wrap his arms around himself.

"I get that, Cal. I know how heavy things are for you," Michael said softly, his voice thick. "But it still sucked. It sucked sitting alone on that couch realizing that the second things got real, your first instinct was to find an exit strategy."

"It wasn't an exit strategy," Calum choked out, a lone tear finally escaping and slipping down his cheek. He swallowed hard, looking everywhere but at Michael's eyes. "It was just... a lot. It was too much, too fast. I’m just trying to be realistic about us. About... whatever this is."

"Realistic," Michael repeated quietly. He took a half step back. "Right. So, what are we doing here right now, Cal? Do you actually want to fix things or did you just panic because I'm walking away?"

The question hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Calum looked at Michael — at the sad slump of his shoulders, the exhaustion under his eyes — and then he looked down at his own sneakers. He wanted to reach out, wanted to beg him to stay, but the words stuck in his throat. If he admitted why he really ran, there would be no going back.

"I just think we need to slow down," Calum whispered miserably, his shoulders shaking, doubling down on the safety of the excuse. "We just..."

Michael stared at him for a long, quiet moment, his own eyes shining in the dim hallway light. A small, heartbreakingly sad smile touched his lips, full of resignation. He knew exactly what Calum wasn't saying.

"Yeah," Michael murmured. "I figured."

He stood up straight, shifting the trash bag in his hand. The distance between them felt wider than it ever had before, a cold, heavy ocean of unspoken words and unresolved fear. The impulsive burst of energy was completely gone, leaving them both drained.

"I'm gonna go drop this off," Michael said quietly, gesturing down the hall. He didn't wait for Calum to answer this time. He just turned and walked away, his slippers dragging slightly on the floor.

Calum stood rooted to the spot, the hallway suddenly feeling freezing cold. He didn't go for his run. Instead, he slowly turned around, unlocked his own door, and stepped back into his apartment, feeling more lost than ever.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The following week brought a different kind of silence to the hallway. Calum didn't hear the muffled sounds of Michael speaking, there were no late night delivery drivers knocking on the door across the hall and the Twitch channel remained stubbornly offline.

Michael was gone.

He had flown out to Paris for the League of Legends Championship (LEC) Finals. It should have been a celebration but for Michael it was incredibly bittersweet. He was the star mid laner and face of 5SOS, an esports team that had taken the league by storm in their debut. They had a phenomenal run, but a devastating 3 2 loss in the lower bracket semifinals had knocked them out, causing them to narrowly miss qualifying for the grand finals in Paris. It felt really close but so far away.

Despite the heartbreaking team loss, Riot Games had still extended a personal invitation to Michael. They wanted his brilliant tactical mind and mechanical expertise for the official analyst desk and the co-streaming lounge, knowing his massive fanbase and player insights would draw in huge numbers. It was a massive nod of respect for his skill but the timing felt like a cruel cosmic joke.

While Calum was rotting in his own apartment back home, Michael was sitting in a bustling backstage lounge at the Accor Arena in Paris, surrounded by the hum of production crews, the clicking of keyboards, and the distant roar of a French crowd getting hyped for the upcoming matches.

"Dude, you need to stop staring at your phone like it's about to explode," a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Michael blinked, pulling his gaze away from his blank lock screen. Luke was standing over him, holding two cups of espresso. Even though Luke also decided to start streaming, especially to put himself out there and be more consistent with learning the game, he only came to support Michael.

"I'm not staring," Michael muttered, shifting in his chair and adjusting his headset around his neck. 

"You totally are," Luke said gently, handing him a cup. He took a seat on the leather sofa opposite Michael, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Look, the desk is going live in twenty minutes to preview the grand finals. The crowd out there is already insane. Are you going to be locked in for the analyst segment, or is your head still stuck in your hallway?"

Michael winced. He took the espresso, the warmth of the cup doing nothing to thaw the cold knot in his stomach. "I'm locked in. I've been VOD reviewing the drafts all morning. Even if 5SOS didn't make it to the stage to play today, I still know how these teams lane. I know the stats, Luke. I’m ready."

"I know you know the game, Mike," Luke said, his blue eyes softening with genuine concern. "Honestly, you should have been up there playing today. You gapped every mid laner in the league this split and everyone knows it. That's why they still wanted you here. But you don’t look like yourself. You've barely slept since we landed in France."

Michael stared down at the dark swirling liquid in his cup. The guilt, sadness, and professional disappointment he’d been carrying felt twice as heavy in the parisian daylight.

"He grabbed my arm, Luke," Michael whispered, his voice cracking slightly under the ambient noise of the lounge. "Right before I was dropping the trash to leave for the airport. He stopped me in the hall and apologized, but he couldn't even admit that he likes me."

Luke went quiet, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "That's... that's still huge, Mike, no? That’s what you wanted to hear, right?"

"Not like that. He started talking about timing and being realistic," Michael laughed bitterly, a hollow, sad sound. "Fuck, he couldn't just admit he was terrified. He hid behind all these excuses about needing to 'slow down,' and now I'm thousands of miles away, and every time I look at a League draft, all I can think about is how much he used to sit on my floor and mock me for taking a video game so seriously."

A production assistant stuck her head into the lounge. "Five minutes to air, Michael! We need you on the desk for the pre show!"

"On my way," Luke called back on Michael's behalf. He stood up, smoothing down his jacket, but he didn't leave immediately. He looked down at Michael, placing a heavy, supportive hand on his shoulder.

"He's fighting a lot of demons, Mike. Give him a little credit for even stopping you in that hallway. That took guts for a guy like Calum, even if he choked on the words," Luke said softly. "But right now, you have a tournament to analyze. Go out there, get on the desk, and show everyone why 5SOS is going to win the trophy next split. Let the game distract you for a bit."

Michael looked up, giving his friend a tight, appreciative nod. "Thanks, Luke. Let's do it."

As they walked out toward the bright lights of the main stage, Michael took a deep breath, sliding his phone into his pocket on Do Not Disturb. He was surrounded by thousands of screaming fans and the game he loved, but as he took his seat under the studio lights, a tiny, aching part of him wished he was just back on his couch, holding a terrified boy.

Back home, Calum sat in the dark of his living room, the only illumination coming from the harsh glow of his laptop screen. He had his knees pulled up to his chest, chin resting on his arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket. He had tried to sleep. He had tried to tell himself that watching a video game tournament was pathetic, especially when he spent half his life pretending he didn't care about it.

But he couldn't stop himself. Because he knew Michael was there.

On screen, the broadcast cut from a flashy hype package straight to the analyst desk. The crowd in Paris was deafening, a sea of thousands of fans waving glowing thunder sticks. And there, sitting right under the stadium lights, was Michael.

Calum’s breath hitched.

Michael looked devastatingly handsome. He wasn't in his usual casual sweatpants; instead, he wore a tailored black blazer over a simple t shirt, his freshly dyed red hair — and oh my god, are those black highlights? Calum thought to himself, his eyes widening. It looked good. Way too good. 

He looked like a legitimate sports star, sharp and professional, like he was born for this.

As the host introduced him, the broadcast displayed his player tag across the screen — 5SOS Michael — and the live Twitch chat erupted into a blur of hearts, hype emotes and fans screaming about how his team should have been playing in the finals.

"We're joined now by one of the most dominant mid laners in the region," the host said, turning the camera's attention to Michael. "Michael, I know it’s bittersweet not being on that stage today, but looking at the grand finals matchup, where do you think the series will be decided?"

Michael smiled, leaning into his microphone. It was his professional smile — the charming, easygoing one he used for the cameras. "Honestly, it’s all down to the mid lane priority," Michael said, his deep voice filtering through Calum’s laptop speakers, sounding smooth and completely confident. "If they let the Orianna blind pick go through, it completely ruins their draft flexibility. As a player, if I’m in that lobby, I’m banning it out immediately."

Calum stared at the screen, a heavy, familiar ache settling deep in his chest. He didn't understand a single thing Michael was saying about 'priority' or 'blind picks,' but he couldn't pull his eyes away from the way Michael's hands moved as he gestured, or the sharp, brilliant focus in his green eyes when he spoke about the game. This was Michael’s world. He belonged under those lights, surrounded by thousands of people who adored him, being celebrated for exactly who he was.

As the segment went on, Calum noticed the tiny details the rest of the world missed. 

He noticed the slight, tired droop in Michael’s shoulders when the camera wasn't directly on him. He saw the way Michael subtly fidgeted with the edge of his blazer, a nervous habit he only did when his mind was spinning. And when Luke cracked a joke on the desk, Michael laughed but it felt forced.

The guilt hit Calum like a physical blow. Michael was thousands of miles away, achieving his dreams, and Calum had still managed to cast a shadow over it. He had left Michael alone on that couch, froze him out for days, and then stopped him in the hallway just to say nothing at all. If he had known Michael had something this important coming up, he never would have grabbed his arm. Maybe Michael had told him at some point, but Calum had probably been too busy staring at him to actually process the words, entirely consumed by the way Michael's eyes shined when talking about what he loves or the way his pink lips moved when he spoke. 

He looked at the chat scrolling by, a million strangers getting to share a piece of Michael's life, while Calum — the guy who had been held by him, the guy who had kissed him and felt the incredible, undeniable rightness of it — was hiding in the dark, drowning in his own sorrow.

On screen, the broadcast transitioned into the game, the arena lights dimming as the pick and ban phase began. Michael’s face disappeared from the screen, replaced by the digital map of the game.

A rush of adrenaline hit him. Calum picked up his phone. His thumb hovered over Michael’s name in his contacts. He opened their chat, staring at the last messages they shared.

He tapped the text box. The cursor blinked at him, a tiny, rhythmic demand for the truth.

Calum: I watched the stream.

He stared at the words. It wasn't enough. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to remember the exact moment Michael had pulled his arm out of his grip in the hallway. He remembered the hollow sound of Michael's voice when he said, 'I figured.' Calum opened his eyes. He didn't think. He just let his fingers move, the truth pouring out before his brain could build another wall to stop it.

Calum: You looked incredible. I didn't understand a word you said about the game but you looked like you belonged there.

Calum: I’m so sorry. I lied to you in the hallway. It wasn't about timing or needing to slow down. I was just terrified of how much I wanted to stay on that couch with you. I got scared because it felt like if I let myself have this, I’d lose everything else. But sitting here without you feels worse than any of it.

He took a sharp, shaky breath, his thumb hovering over the arrow. The fear was still there, a cold weight in his stomach, but for the first time, the urge to reach out was stronger than the urge to hide. He pressed send.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

When it finally ended, with Fnatic winning 3 2, Michael was glad he could finally rest. The hotel room was dead quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos of the Accor Arena that was still ringing in Michael’s ears. He kicked off his sneakers with a heavy groan, not even bothering to untie them, and let his body collapse onto the edge of the mattress.

He felt completely hollowed out. The high of the grand finals had finally bottomed out, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that pulled at his eyelids and made his limbs heavy.

With a slow, dragging movement, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. It was still set to Do Not Disturb. Michael stared at it for a long moment, a familiar, cold knot twisting in his stomach. Part of him wanted to leave it off forever. He didn't want to see the Twitter notifications, the team group chats, or the polite, professional congratulations from sponsors. He just wanted to sleep for a hundred years.

He sighed, his thumb tracing the edge of the glass before he finally clicked on the screen, turning off the silence mode.

The phone vibrated instantly, a frantic stutter of notifications bleeding across the screen. Michael ignored all of them. His eyes locked onto the very top of the stack.

A string of text messages. From Calum.

Michael sat entirely still, his breath catching in his throat. His heart gave a sudden, violent thud against his ribs. He unlocked the screen, his thumb hovering for a split second before he tapped into the chat.

He read the words. Then he read them again, his eyes scanning the lines as if trying to prove to himself that he wasn't hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

Calum: You looked incredible. I didn't understand a word you said about the game but you looked like you belonged there.

Calum: I’m so sorry. I lied to you in the hallway. It wasn't about timing or needing to slow down. I was just terrified of how much I wanted to stay on that couch with you. I got scared because it felt like if I let myself have this, I’d lose everything else. But sitting here without you feels worse than any of it.

Michael stared and stared. He traced his thumb over the glass screen, his throat suddenly tight.

For the past week, he had been carrying the heavy, humiliating weight of feeling like an accident — a shameful mistake Calum had to sprint away from the second things got real. But looking at the screen, seeing Calum completely unravel his own defenses and lay himself totally bare in the middle of the night... It changed everything.

A soft, breathless laugh escaped Michael’s lips. It wasn't bitter this time. It was thick with a strange, sudden warmth that seemed to melt the ice that had been sitting in his chest since he left.

The idiot actually watched, Michael thought, his eyes stinging slightly as he looked at the timestamp. Calum had stayed up to watch a game he didn't even understand, just to see him.

Calum hadn't slept yet. He had checked his phone every six minutes until the battery died, forcing him to crawl out of his blanket fortress to plug it in by the kitchen counter. Now, he stood there in his gray sweatpants, staring at the little battery icon slowly filling up on the screen, feeling physically sick.

He hates me, Calum thought. He’s in Paris, he’s a star and he realizes he doesn’t need a coward dragging him down.

When the phone finally buzzed, the sharp vibration against the granite counter made Calum jump. His heart leaped into his throat. He practically lunged for the device, his thumb trembling so violently he nearly dropped it before unlocking the screen.

It wasn't a text. It was an image.

Calum blinked through the sting of his tears, waiting for the media file to load. When it did, his breath hitched.

It was a selfie. Michael was sitting on his hotel bed, the room light hitting the side of his face, making his green eyes look incredibly bright. He had his red and now black hair completely messy from a long night under the studio lights. He wasn't wearing the sharp blazer anymore — just a loose Batman t shirt. He looked tired with faint shadows under his eyes, but he was looking right into the lens with a small, soft, tired smile.

A single line of text accompanied the photo.

Michael: i looked ridiculous in those highlights and you know it….luke made me do it

Calum let out a ragged, half sob, half laugh, the tight band around his lungs suddenly snapping loose. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the kitchen cabinet, his shoulders shaking as a wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over him. He wasn't blocked. He wasn't hated.

Before he could even think of a response, another text popped up.

Michael: i’m exhausted, cal. My brain is completely fried from the drafts and i can barely keep my eyes open. but… thank you for watching. and thank you for reaching out

Calum wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, typing back instantly, his fingers flying across the screen.

Calum: I meant every word. I’m so sorry I made you feel like a mistake. You’re the furthest thing from it.

There was a long pause. The three little typing dots appeared, vanished and then appeared again. Calum held his breath.

Michael: we’re still going to have to talk about this properly when i get back. a text message doesn’t fix it, cal

Calum: I know. I’ll be waiting right here. I’m not running anymore. I swear.

Michael: good because i fly back in 2 days. don’t be asleep when i get there.

Calum stared at the message until the screen dimmed, a strange, terrifying, yet beautiful feeling settling into his chest. This could be the end or the beginning of something beautiful.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The rest of the days passed in a blur of agonizing anticipation. For Calum, time had never moved so slowly. Every hour felt like a day, every day an eternity. He spent most of his time tidying his apartment, working, cleaning things that didn't need to be cleaned and staring out the window at the rain, counting down the hours until Tuesday.

He didn't want to smother Michael with texts while he was still busy wrapping up his commitments in France, but they exchanged small, quiet updates. Michael sent a picture of a ridiculous french pastry Luke had made him try; Calum sent a picture of his sneakers by the door, a silent promise that he was staying put. The underlying tension was still there but the ice had broken.

Then, Tuesday finally arrived. When Calum told Ashton about it, he demanded he take the day off and the next one too. Calum almost declined but he needed this.

Calum was a nervous wreck. He had changed his clothes three times, finally settling on a sleeveless shirt and a pair of comfy sweatpants. He tried to watch a movie, but he couldn't focus. He tried to read but the words swam on the page. His ears were completely tuned to the hallway outside his front door.

Around eight in the evening, he heard it.

It started with the faint, muffled chime of the building’s elevator down the hall. Then came the heavy, unmistakable sound of a suitcase’s wheels rolling across the corridor.

Calum’s heart didn't just race, it practically choked him and he felt like throwing up. His entire body went rigid. He stood up from his couch so fast that he felt dizzy. He crossed his living room in three strides, his hand trembling as he gripped the doorknob. He didn't wait for Michael to knock. He couldn't.

He pulled the door open.

Michael was standing right there, just a few feet away, his key already halfway into his own apartment lock. He looked completely exhausted from travel, wearing a baggy hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, his heavy suitcase resting against his leg.

When the sound of Calum's door opening broke the quiet hallway, Michael froze. He slowly turned his head, his green eyes meeting Calum's.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them said a word. The hallway felt exactly the same as it had a week ago — dimly lit, quiet and freezing cold — but everything between them had changed. The suffocating weight of unspoken fears was gone, replaced by a raw, fragile honesty.

Michael let go of his keys. He didn't move toward his own apartment. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step toward Calum, his expression unreadable but his eyes burning with an intense, quiet vulnerability.

"You're here," Michael murmured, his voice slightly raspy from the flight.

"I told you I'd be waiting," Calum whispered, his voice cracking. He looked at Michael — at the tired lines around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders — and the last remaining remnants of his fear completely evaporated.

Calum didn't think about anything, he just took two steps forward, crossing the threshold of his apartment, and closed the distance between them.

He threw his arms around Michael's neck, burying his face into the crook of Michael's shoulder. He held on with a desperate, crushing grip, as if he could physically anchor himself to the one thing he had almost lost.

Michael let out a long, shuddering breath, the sound tearing out of him like a sob. His arms wrapped instantly around Calum’s waist, pulling him so close their chests pressed together, lifting Calum slightly off his feet. Michael buried his face in Calum’s hair, inhaling deeply, his grip so tight it almost hurt. But Calum didn't care. He wanted the bruise. He wanted the proof that this was real.

"I'm sorry," Calum choked out into Michael's skin, a few hot tears finally spilling over his eyelashes. "I'm so sorry, Mike. I'm here. I'm right here."

"I know," Michael whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he rocked them slightly in the middle of the empty corridor. "I've got you. You're okay."

They stood there in the hallway for what felt like hours, holding onto each other like drowning men who had finally found land. The cold ocean of distance between them had shrunk down to nothing.

Slowly, Michael pulled back just enough to look at him, his hands resting gently on Calum's waist. He looked down at Calum’s tear stained cheeks, a soft, incredibly tender smile touching his lips.

"I’ll just drop my stuff okay?" Michael said softly, gesturing towards his apartment. "Come with me"

Calum nodded and bit his lip with anticipation.

Calum held Michael's hand. He led him to the couch and sat down. Michael followed, but he didn't lean in right away. He sat back, resting his arm on the sofa cushion, looking at Calum with a heavy, unblinking intensity. The easygoing, charming analyst from the Paris stage was gone. This was just Michael, his Michael, tired and entirely unguarded.

"We need to actually say it, Cal," Michael murmured, his voice low and raspy. "No more texting. No more talking around it."

Calum swallowed the lump in his throat, his fingers twisting the fabric of his hoodie. "I know."

"When I was sitting in that arena," Michael started, his green eyes shimmering in the dim light, "Surrounded by thousands of people screaming, I’ve never felt more alone. Because the person I wanted to see wasn't there. And the last thing you said to me before I left was a total of nothing. I was so hopeful when you grabbed my arm. Do you know what that felt like?"

Calum looked up, his eyes swimming with fresh tears. "Michael—"

"It felt like you were treating what happened between us like a lapse in judgment," Michael interrupted softly, his voice cracking slightly. "Like you woke up, looked at me, and decided I was a liability to the life you're supposed to live. I can handle you being scared, Cal. What I couldn't handle was the feeling that you regretted me."

"I never regretted you," Calum choked out, a tear finally escaping and tracking down his cheek. He reached across the space between them, his hand trembling as he found Michael’s fingers. "That's what I was too much of a coward to say. It wasn't that I regretted it. It’s that... when I’m with you, the world I built to keep myself safe doesn't work anymore."

Michael didn't pull away, but his brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Calum took a shaky, ragged breath, forcing himself to look directly into Michael's eyes, leaving nowhere left to hide.

"My whole life, I’ve done exactly what was expected of me. I followed whatever my parents wanted of me. Even when I moved out, my parents kept treating me like I still belong to them even though I pay my bills and don't rely on them for anything," Calum whispered, his voice thick with a lifetime of buried pressure. "But the night we were on this couch... when you looked at me, and when you kissed me back... I felt something I’ve never felt before. I felt happy. Truly, terrifyingly happy."

He paused, his shoulders shaking as the confession tore out of him.

"And that’s what sent me into a panic. Because if I admit to myself, and to everyone else, how much I want you then it would feel like I failed. The safety net is gone. I realized in that second that you have the power to completely ruin the version of me I spent my whole life constructing. I ran because I thought if I stayed, I’d lose control of everything."

Michael listened, his expression softening from hurt into something deeply profound and sorrowful. He slid his hand down to intertwine his fingers with Calum's, squeezing tightly. "And what do you think now?"

"I think I was wrong," Calum said, his voice gaining a fragile, fierce certainty. "I thought running back to my empty apartment would protect me. But watching you on that screen in Paris, seeing you look so brilliant and so far away... I realized that the safe life I was trying to protect doesn't mean anything if you aren't in it. Drowning in the fear of losing you is a thousand times worse than the fear of facing everything else."

Michael let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. He leaned forward, closing the physical distance Calum had spent a week creating, and cupped Calum's face with his free hand. His thumb gently wiped away the tear on his cheek.

"I don't want to ruin your life, Cal," Michael murmured, his forehead resting gently against Calum's. "I just want to be a part of it. I don't need you to have everything figured out. I don't need you to be completely fearless. I just need to know that when things get heavy, you'll reach for my hand instead of looking for the door."

"I'm holding it," Calum whispered, closing his eyes as he leaned into the solid, grounding warmth of Michael’s palm. "I’m holding it and I’m not letting go."

"Good," Michael breathed, his voice thick with an overwhelming sense of relief. "Because I've been holding onto you the whole time."

Calum smiled through his doubts, a wet, breathless sound escaping him as he looked down at his lap. 

"Hey," Michael called out softly, his voice a low, grounding rumble that instantly drew Calum’s gaze back up.

"Hi," Calum whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs, but this time, it wasn't out of panic.

Michael looked at him, his green eyes dark with an intensity that made Calum’s breath hitch. A tender, slightly nervous smile tugged at the corner of Michael's lips as he reached up, gently adjusting his backward snapback. "I think this is the part where we finally stop talking," he murmured, his eyes flicking down to Calum's lips. "And I think this is the time where we kiss."

A deep, heated blush crept up Calum’s neck, blooming across his cheeks. He felt incredibly small in Michael’s space, but the fear was entirely gone. He nodded, closing the agonizing distance between them and sliding his hands up to grip the soft fabric of Michael's hoodie.

When their lips finally met, it felt like fireworks exploding in the quiet space between them. The kiss was beautiful, incredibly tender, and laced with a desperate, relief filled hunger that had been building for days. They moved together slowly, completely lost in each other, the faint, salty taste of Calum's lingering tears mixing between them as they finally felt each other.

“You're so beautiful,” Michael murmured against his skin. “I love everything about you. Your beautiful constellation moles,” a soft kiss brushed against Calum's cheekbone. “Your curly hair,” another one pressed tenderly into his hairline. "Your laugh," a lingering kiss landed gently at the corner of Calum's mouth. "Even how stubborn you are."

Calum let out a shaky, breathless laugh, his fingers tightening in the soft fabric of Michael’s shirt as he subconsciously pulled him closer. The enveloping heat of Michael's body, the absolute, unyielding sincerity in his low voice, and the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat beneath Calum’s palms felt overwhelming in the best possible way.

"Michael," Calum whispered against his lips, his voice thick with emotion but entirely devoid of the paralyzing panic that had haunted him.

"I mean it, Cal," Michael murmured, leaning his forehead against Calum's, his green eyes fierce with a quiet, protective devotion. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping away the very last trace of a salty tear from Calum's cheek. "I’ve been waiting a really long time to tell you that. Honestly, ever since I first laid eyes on you."

“Shut up! There's no way it's been that long,” Calum gasped, a bright, disbelieving laugh bubbling out of him.

“Oh, but it completely is,” Michael admitted, a sheepish but fond smile tugging at his lips. He subtly adjusted the backward snapback on his head, his cheeks flaring a light pink. “I still remember admitting to Luke that I gay panicked through that whole keyboard ordeal just because of how good you looked. I mean, a hot, tanned, shirtless man shows up at my apartment door at one in the morning… how else was I supposed to react?”

“You're such an idiot.” A soft, genuine smile broke across Calum's face.

“Maybe,” Michael murmured. He met Calum's gaze, his eyes brimming with that same fierce, protective warmth. “But I’m your idiot. If you’ll have me.”

And there it was.

The very thing Calum had been craving for so long, despite all the endless push and pull.

When Calum nodded, it was as if a universe of stars lit up in Michael’s eyes.

“Please, Calum, any doubt, anything you want to clear up, you come to me," Michael said, his voice thick with sincerity. "No more running away. No more of that 'normal' talk. I know it’s going to be a struggle. No one is perfect, and this won't just change overnight, but I believe in you. I’m so proud of you.”

Calum had always known Michael was the most beautiful human being he’d ever laid eyes on, inside and out. But right now, sitting here, that knowledge struck him as an absolute certainty. Michael believed in him. Michael. The one person he had never planned on falling for.

For now, the push and pull was over. They were just them. The beautiful ending that Calum was hoping for.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Since Ashton had given him the day off, Calum had stayed. He woke up tangled in Michael’s sheets, completely wrapped up in his warmth. Michael was fast asleep with his mouth slightly open, snoring softly, and Calum couldn't help the quiet giggle that escaped him at the sight. The giddiness from yesterday hadn’t faded at all; he felt lighter than he ever had, a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating fear that used to chase him down this hallway.

He let out a slow yawn and stretched his arms above his head. Carefully, he peeled the blankets back and slipped out of bed, stepping onto the cool floor as quietly as possible so he wouldn't wake Michael up.

As he lazily scratched his back, his phone vibrated on the kitchen counter where it was charging.

He looked at the caller ID, his stomach doing the familiar, heavy drop it always did. 

Calum swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. He didn't bother trying to inject any casual warmth this time towards his  mom.

"Calum, it's been weeks!" her voice came through the speaker, loud. "Did you get the job?”

Calum closed his eyes, but he didn't lean his head back against the wall in defeat. He stood up straight up.

"I’m not taking the marketing job, mom. Even if they call."

A sharp, suffocating silence fell over the line, followed by a harsh sigh. "Excuse me? Calum, we have sacrificed entirely too much for you to be this difficult. Don't embarrass this family."

Calum didn't feel the familiar sting of shame this time. He just felt an immense, exhausting fatigue. And beneath that exhaustion, a cold, hard resolve clicked into place.

"You don't care about my future, mom," Calum said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You just want me to be a prop in your life so you don't have to explain me to your friends."

"Don't take that tone with me," she snapped, her voice rising. "I am your mother."

"You’re the person who gave birth to me," Calum countered. He didn't yell. He didn't have to. The finality in his tone was louder than any shout. "But you lost the right to call yourself a parent the moment you decided my happiness was an inconvenience to your image."

"Calum—"

"No." He cut her off mid-sentence. "I’m done. I am fucking done with the guilt trip, the constant criticism, and the absolute bullshit of having to justify my existence to you every single time we speak."

On the other end of the line, his mother gasped, her voice trembling with deep offense. "You watch your language—"

"I’ll watch whatever the hell I want!" Calum snapped, his heart beating fast. "You want me to fit into your little box? You want me to get that corporate job and find a 'nice girl' to marry just so you can brag about it? Then keep fucking waiting because news flash, I'm keeping my job and I'm in love with a man!"

On the other end of the line, the audio fractured. His mother let out a sharp, strangled gasp, the sound catching violently in her throat as if she were literally choking on his words. For a horrific, agonizing second, all Calum could hear was her strained, ragged breathing as her carefully constructed reality shattered into pieces.

When she finally found her voice, the suffocating silence broke.

"You’re disgusting, you are dead to me," she hissed, her voice dripping with spite. "Do you hear me? Dead."

Calum pulled the phone away from his ear for a second, looking at the screen. For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like a kid failing a test. He felt entirely free. He brought the phone back to his mouth.

"I've been dead to you for years." he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, steady whisper.

Before she could say another word, Calum hit the red button, cutting her off completely.

He stared at the blank screen, the silence of his room rushing back in. He let out a long, shaky breath and suddenly it felt like air was finally filling his lungs.

“Hey,” Michael said, stepping into the kitchen. His hair was damp and he’d changed into a fresh t shirt and shorts.

“Oh, hey. Sorry—did I wake you?” Calum asked, his voice still carrying the residual tension of the phone call.

“No, don't worry about it. I saw that you were... uh, busy, so I took the opportunity to wash up.”

Calum nodded, grateful. Even if Michael heard the conversation, he wouldn't mind. At the end of the day, Michael has seen his vulnerable side more than anyone else in the world so he felt comfortable.

“It was my mom. She called.” Calum offers. He wants to tell him. No more secrets.

Michael nodded, urging him to go on. He grabbed Calum's hand and pulled him to the couch to talk more comfortably. He already knew but he still let Calum speak, even if he was repeating himself.

“God, it's just so frustrating,” Calum sighed, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “I love her, obviously. She's my mom. But she’s so suffocating that it makes me feel like I hate her sometimes.” He paused, looking up to see Michael’s reaction. Michael just offered a soft, encouraging smile, prompting Calum to continue. “Ever since I was a kid, I couldn't do anything. I couldn't go out, I couldn't drink when I finally turned of age... I couldn't breathe. I stopped making friends because it was just easier than fighting her, and it got so lonely. You have no idea how relieved I was when I finally moved out.”

“I can imagine,” Michael murmured softly.

Calum let out a bitter snort. “Yeah. Her and dad were heavily against it. I don't think they liked the idea of losing control over my every move. But I had to do it—I had to do it for myself. Unfortunately, old habits die hard. I escaped them, but I couldn't escape my own head. I became this... this boring, obsessed person.”

He stared down at his knees, his shoulders slumping. “I was so hyper fixated on keeping my life perfectly ordered, perfectly safe, that I forgot how to actually live. I still let her control me, even from far away, because I'm too terrified of making a mistake.”

Michael didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted closer, shifting their joined hands so his thumb could soothe circles into the back of Calum’s wrist. 

“First of all,” Michael said, his voice quiet but incredibly firm, “you are not boring. You just didn't realize that you're actually free.”

Calum swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. He looked at Michael, seeing nothing but genuine warmth in his eyes.

“They can't control you anymore. You have your job, you pay your own bills,” Michael continued, reaching up with his free hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair from Calum’s forehead. “You don't need to rely on them for anything.”

A tear slipped down Calum’s cheek, hot and fast, but he didn't wipe it away. “You’re right. I really don't want to be safe anymore,” he whispered, the confession tasting raw on his tongue. “Not if safe means missing out on everything. On you.”

Michael’s smile turned incredibly tender, and he leaned in, resting his forehead against Calum’s.

“I told her,” Calum admitted, the words spilling out before he could lose his nerve.

Michael blinked, pulling back just an inch to look into Calum's eyes. “You told her what?”

“That I'm in love with a man.”

At the word love, Michael’s heart gave a sudden, violent thud, staggering his breathing. The sound of it felt stupidly loud in his own ears, echoing through the small space between them. “You did? Calum, that's huge! I—I don't even know what to say. What the hell?”

Calum chuckled, a fragile sound, “I'll be honest, her reaction hurt a lot. It was everything I expected it to be, and it sucked. But then I realized... what the hell does it matter? You're everything to me.”

Reaching out, Calum slid his hands around Michael’s waist, pulling him closer against him. The physical contact was real and entirely his own choice.

Michael let out a breath that was a half laugh, half sigh, the initial shock melting into a wave of profound affection. He brought his hands up to cup Calum’s face, his thumbs gently wiping away the damp trail of the tear.

“You’re everything to me too,” Michael murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry she couldn’t see how lucky she is to have a son like you.”

“But you do Michael and that's enough for me.” 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

After Calum cried for a bit more and Michael wiped all of his tears, he went to take a shower to finally feel fresh. As he washed his hair, the memories from last night attacked his brain. The way Michael had looked at him with so much love and adoration, and the way he listened and made sure Calum knew his feelings were valid.

Calum has had one girlfriend and talked to a few more girls in the past but it never felt right to him. It always felt like the attraction wasn't there but Calum always shrugged it off, his brain telling him that he hadn't met the right one yet. Love has always been a weird subject to Calum. Seeing his  mom’s and dad’s relationship, he always thought that he didn't want anything like that. There wasn't love, just accomodation; like the whole process of divorcing was a hassle and telling their friends and everyone around the reality was excruciating.

As Calum finished washing his body, a knock was heard on the door.

“Yeah?” Calum said.

The door opened slowly and Michael popped his head in, eyes closed. Calum rolled his eyes and giggled.

“Fuck, I can't see.”

“Open your eyes maybe?” Calum said boldly, pulling a towel around his waist as he stepped out of the shower cubicle.

A sudden blush crept up Michael's neck, rapidly deepening until it practically matched the vibrant color of his hair. He cautiously blinked his eyes open, his gaze instantly locking onto Calum.

For a second, Michael just stared, the playful banter dying on his tongue as his expression softened into that familiar, quiet awe. He cleared his throat, holding up a white t shirt, an orange jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He also brought a pair of socks and a basic pair of underwear. Calum blushed at the idea of Michael going through his underwear and picking out a pair.

"I, uh... went to your house and picked up some clothes because it's colder today," Michael said, his voice a little rougher than usual. He kept his eyes strictly from the chest up, though the tips of his ears were burning. "Hope that's okay. I kind of forgot to do laundry before leaving for Paris so I have nothing." he nervously scratched the back of his head.

Calum chuckled because that's so Michael.

"That's okay, Mikey. Thank you." Calum said, looking up through his damp eyelashes. 

Calum stepped closer, the cool air of the bathroom making him shiver slightly, though the warmth radiating from Michael easily countered it. He took the clothes, his fingers intentionally brushing against Michael’s. The contact sent a familiar, pleasant spark through his body.

"Not sure if I should start lunch or if you want to go out, but I wanted to check with you first."

"Well, it's not raining much anymore. How about we go out?" Calum suggested, a sudden craving for fresh air hitting him. "I think it'd be nice. When we're together, we're always cooped up at your house or mine."

Michael hummed in agreement, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright, sounds like a plan. By the way, I have a spare toothbrush and some deodorant in the mirror cabinet, feel free to use it."

"Hey, I just took a whole shower and you're still calling me gross?" Calum pouted, crossing his arms over his bare chest in mock offense.

Michael laughed, the sound warm and echoing slightly in the small bathroom. He took a half step forward, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm not calling you gross, Cal. You smell like me. I just figured you might want to feel…cleaner." He reached out, playfully flicking a damp curl away from Calum’s forehead. "Besides, I know you love feeling clean so I'm giving you the full experience."

With a final, lingering look at Calum’s chest, Michael backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Calum stood there for a moment, the ghost of Michael’s touch still tingling on his forehead. He looked at the clothes Michael had picked out for him and got dressed.

He brushed his teeth, put on the deodorant and let his curly hair air dry, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

Michael was leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone. He had changed his outfit as well, replacing the shorts with black jeans and adding a black jacket.

He looked up the second Calum’s bare feet padded onto the floor. His gaze softened, sweeping down Calum’s frame wrapped in the outfit he had chosen.

"Ready?" Michael asked, pocketing his phone.

"Yup. Let me put my shoes on first.”

Calum slid into his sneakers, tying the laces while Michael watched from the doorway, his keys already jingling in his hand. The domesticity of the  moment wasn't lost on Calum; it felt effortless, like a routine they had practiced a thousand times before, even if the way they looked at each other was entirely new.

"Alright, lead the way," Calum said.

The hallway of the apartment building was quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic thud of their footsteps. When they stepped outside, the crisp, post rain air hit them immediately. The pavement was dark and slick, reflecting the overcast sky, and the city felt unusually calm.

Michael led them down the sidewalk, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. "So, any specific cravings? Or are we just walking until our stomachs make the decision for us?"

"Honestly? Anything warm," Calum said, bumping his shoulder against Michael’s as they walked. The contact was deliberate, a small test to see if the heat from yesterday would carry over into the open air. "You're the one who just got back from Paris, though. Aren't you sick of café food?"

"Never sick of pastries, but I could definitely go for something heavier. There’s a diner about three blocks down that does a ridiculously good grilled cheese and soup " Michael suggested, glancing down at Calum with a soft, inquiring look. "Thought it might fit the vibe today."

"The vibe being lazy?" Calum teased, a grin breaking across his face.

"Exactly that vibe," Michael laughed, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. He slowed his pace just a fraction, allowing their hands to brush against each other as they walked.

This time, Calum didn't pull away. His fingers twined tentatively with Michaels, testing the waters. Calum didn't hesitate; he squeezed Michael’s hand firmly, slipping his fingers into the spaces between Michael's, anchoring them together against the chill of the afternoon. 

Still, a nervous flutter stirred in his chest. It was one thing to acknowledge this new shift between them behind closed doors, but bringing it out into the open felt entirely different. He’d never done the couple thing before and doing it now felt both terrifying and exhilarating. 

The diner was warm, smelling of fried food and coffee. They secured a booth in the very back corner, tucked away behind a partition that shielded them from the other people. It felt like their own private bubble.

Calum slid his hands under his thighs to warm them up, his eyes tracing the vintage posters on the wall before settling on Michael. The initial thrill of holding hands on the street had faded into a quiet, introspective silence.

“You know, I was thinking…” Michael started.

“Uhh, dangerous,” Calum joked, but a sudden nervousness itched in his tummy. 

“I was thinking about what you said about your parents," Michael continued, his voice dropping into a reflective tone. "I never told you this, but my parents were really against me wanting to pursue pro gaming.”

And suddenly Calum remembered the time — that felt like ages ago — he told Michael that he played games the whole day and night, and he felt like an idiot for even ignoring it back then. He remembered how quiet Michael had gotten, simply saying it was his job. 

"To them, it was just a distraction," Michael continued. "A waste of potential. Every hour I spent practicing felt like a massive battle at home. I mean, I get it now. I was really young, and to them, it probably just looked like an excuse so I could spend all my free time playing. I think they were just worried about my future, even if it came from a place of love, but at the time, it felt incredibly suffocating."

He stopped talking as the waitress placed their food on the table. The brief interruption gave the heavy words a moment to settle between them. Once she walked away, Michael picked up his fork but didn't eat yet.

“I actually kept on getting good grades," he admitted, looking up to meet Calum's eyes. "I really worked my ass off trying to juggle school and my passion for the game so I could have both. I just learned to keep everything to myself. I hid my tournaments, my streams and my victories because it was easier than dealing with the disapproval.”

Calum smiled softly, a wave of pride washing over him as he looked at how much Michael had achieved so far. "But they came around."

"They did," Michael agreed, his gaze softening completely. "Once they saw how serious I was, they supported me. I mean, by that time, I had graduated with good grades, so I finally told them about my Twitch channel. They didn't mind much because it was summer break, so I spent the whole summer grinding, trying to show the world what I had."

He smiled, a nostalgic glint in his eyes. "Eventually, around the time I was supposed to be applying for university, I got a proposition to start playing for a rookie team: 5SOS. It was a massive gamble, but when I showed my parents the contract and the structure, they actually backed me up. They realized it wasn't just a phase."

“So yeah, I do understand you to some extent. I know it’s not exactly the same, but I do get where you're coming from." Michael offered a small, reassuring squeeze to Calum’s fingers. 

Calum let out a breath he didn't realize he’d been holding, the warmth of the diner and the sheer weight of Michael’s honesty washing over him. The ache in his chest from his mother's phone call was still there, but it felt duller now, countered by the amazing sitting in front of him.

"It means a lot that you told me that," Calum said softly, his thumb tracing the side of Michael's hand.

Michael’s smile turned incredibly tender, the tension completely leaving his frame as he looked at Calum. He glanced down at their cooling food and let out a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere. "Anyway, we should probably eat before this grilled cheese turns into cardboard and the soup gets cold. I promised you the full experience, didn't I?"

Calum laughed, a genuine, bright sound that made the butterflies in his stomach finally settle into something peaceful. "Yeah, yeah. Let's eat."

As they dug into their lunch, the conversation shifted to easier things — funny  moments from Michael's trip to Paris with Luke, the upcoming competitive season, and mindless banter that felt beautifully normal. But beneath the table, their knees remained brushed together, a silent, grounding reminder that everything had changed.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

For the next few weeks, Michael and Calum settled into a comfortable, domestic routine. Calum went to work, and Michael practiced and streamed when he could, even dragging Luke into his streams to help him with his career. But between the shared kisses, the domestic quiet, and the nights spent tangling their limbs together in bed, the elephant in the room grew larger. The question “what are we?” hung heavy in the air, practically begging to be acknowledged.

It freaked Calum out, even if he refused to admit it out loud. Then again, if he was being completely honest with himself, what didn’t freak him out when it came to Michael?

Currently, Calum was at work. It was a notoriously slow day,meaning he and Ashton had spent the better part of their shift leaning against the glass counters, talking about everything and nothing to pass the time.

“You know… I was wondering,” Ashton said, casually tossing a roll of packing tape from hand to hand. “When am I actually gonna meet Michael?”

Calum blinked, caught off guard. “You already met him.”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn't count," Ashton scoffed, catching the tape. "The guy completely brushed me off. I want to meet him properly. As the guy who is currently taking up 90% of my best friend's brain capacity.”

Calum would be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Ashton had been his anchor ever since Calum started at the tech shop five years ago. Through every weird twist and turn with Michael, Ashton had been there with a listening ear and surprisingly solid advice. But Calum still felt like he was walking on eggshells. Even though they shared a bed and spent every free  moment together, the lack of a label felt like a looming expiration date.

“I don't know, Ash… We're not even dating or anything,” Calum mumbled, suddenly finding a smudge on the counter very interesting.

“Are you joking?” Ashton raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Based on everything you’ve told me, you guys definitely aren't just friends.”

“Yeah, but he’s never asked me to be his boyfriend or anything, so it’s just… weird.” Calum sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don't want to force it and scare him off.”

Ashton set the tape down, his expression softening from teasing to genuinely supportive. “Cal, look at me. You guys are practically playing house. If he didn't want you around, he wouldn't be sharing his space or his bed with you. He's a big boy. If he's scared, you guys need to talk about it.”

Calum stood in silence thinking about it. He knew Ashton was right. That was the frustrating part. Michael was almost criminally good at communicating; if something was wrong, he’d just say it. But that logic was a double edged sword that cut Calum deep. If Michael was so damn good at communicating, why were they still just friends? Why hadn't he said anything else?

Before Calum’s brain could stage a proper defense, his mouth betrayed him. He sighed, defeated by Ashton’s stubborn optimism.

“Alright, alright. I guess we can do something at my apartment. I'll talk to Michael first, okay?”

“Awesome!” Ashton grinned, the triumphant look on his face making Calum immediately regret every life choice that had led him to this  moment. Ashton clapped him on the shoulder, entirely unbothered by the sudden spike in Calum's blood pressure. "See? Was that so hard? Just a casual hang. No pressure."

"Right. No pressure," Calum muttered, pulling out his phone.

The screen stared back at him, blank and mocking. He unlocked it, opening his chat with Michael. His thumb hovered over the keyboard. Hey, Ashton is forcing us to be social. Want to come over? No, too aggressive. Hey, free tonight? Too vague.

He glanced up to see Ashton watching him with an amused, expectant smirk.

"If you stare at the screen any harder, you're going to burn a hole through it, Hood," Ashton teased, leaning back against the counter. "Just type the words. He's not going to bite. Unless you want him to."

"Shut up," Calum snapped.

Taking a breath to steady his racing thoughts, he quickly typed out a text before he could overthink it anymore. He hit send.

Calum: Hey, Mikey. Ashton wants to meet you.

Michael: oh???

Michael: that's alright babe

Michael: when

Calum: Tonight at my apartment?

Then an idea popped into Calum's head.

Calum: What if you bring Luke?

Michael: that's actually a great idea

Michael: i feel like we met each other's best friends in a really weird way lmao

Calum chuckled. It was true. He still thinks what happened in that coffee shop was top 5 most embarrassing moments of his life. And the way Michael met Ashton hadn't been that great either.

Calum: Shhh don't mention it

Calum: It's settled then

Michael: i cant waitttt to see ur beautiful face tonight 

Calum: Me too.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

By the time the doorbell rang, Calum had cleaned the kitchen counter twice and Ashton had set the dining table, the smell of garlic and pasta sauce filling the apartment.

"I'll get it!" Ashton called out, entirely too enthusiastic as he practically skipped to the front door.

Calum smoothed down his shirt, taking a deep breath over the bubbling pot on the stove. Just be normal, he told himself. It's just Michael. And Luke.

Ashton threw the door open, and the small entryway was instantly flooded with a wave of loud, familiar energy.

"Hey! You must be Ashton," a bright voice rang out. Luke.

"The one and only! Come on in," Ashton cheered.

Calum stepped away from the kitchen counter just in time to see Michael walking through the door. The moment Michael’s eyes found him, a massive, bright smile broke across his face. He looked as beautiful as always, styled in a black and white double sleeve shirt and a beanie that sat low on his forehead, framing his eyes and letting a few messy red strands of hair peek out. Fucking perfect.

"Hey," Michael said softly, completely ignoring the fact that Ashton and Luke were standing right there. He walked straight into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Calum’s neck for a warm, lingering hug. "Good to see you, beautiful. Something smells amazing."

Calum's brain short circuited. He managed to wrap his arms around Michael's waist, squeezing back as his face heated up. "Hey. Good to see you too. Just making some pasta."

Behind Michael, Luke cleared his throat, holding up a bottle of wine like a peace offering. "Hi. Good to see you again, Calum. I brought this, hopefully it goes with whatever you're cooking."

Ashton let out a booming laugh, snatching the bottle from Luke's hand. "Love him already. Come on in, sit down at the table, guys."

The four of them crowded around Calum's small dining table. Michael immediately claimed the chair right next to Calum, sitting so close that their shoulders brushed every time he moved. Within ten minutes, any lingering awkwardness completely vanished under the weight of easy conversation and second helpings of food.

"So, Ashton, are you into gaming at all? League of Legends, maybe?" Michael started, leaning forward.

Calum rolled his eyes with pure adoration, a fond smile tugging at his lips. Of course Michael would bring up his favorite game within ten minutes of sitting down. Calum found it incredibly endearing how Michael's face lit up the second he got to talk about his passions.

Ashton’s eyes lit up instantly. "Oh, don't tempt me. I used to play a ton but don't really keep up with it anymore. Who do you main?"

"Don't get him started," Luke groaned playfully, shaking his head. "He's a mid lane menace. He literally tilts the shit out of me in champion select. Fucking pro players, man."

"Hey! I'm not that bad anymore," Michael argued, a mischievous glint in his eye.

Under the cover of the table, he reached out and rested his hand casually on Calum's knee. The sudden warmth of his palm sent a jolt straight up Calum's spine. He froze, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean, yeah," Luke continued, gesturing toward them with his glass. "Thank God for Calum, because if it wasn't for him, Michael would still be a toxic bitch."

Calum blushed furiously at that, the heat spreading from his cheeks all the way down his neck. Michael’s thumb gave a soft, reassuring squeeze against his knee, as if confirming Luke's words.

"What about you, Calum? Do you play?" Luke asked casually, sipping his wine. Calum was sure Luke already knew the answer and was just trying to make conversation with him to keep him included.

"Uh, no, not really," Calum replied, trying to keep his voice steady while Michael removed his hand "I only know a few characters because of Michael here. I'm more of a single player guy."

"Oh yeah, the PlayStation, makes sense," Luke nodded in understanding, offering a friendly smile.

"Hey, he's a top tier cheerleader, though," Michael piped up, his fingers lightly tapping a playful rhythm against Calum's leg. "He sits on the couch and judges my plays, which is basically the same as participating."

"I don't judge!" Calum protested, though a small laugh escaped him. "I just point out the screen goes dark a lot when you play."

"See? Criticizing the pro player," Michael joked, leaning his shoulder into Calum’s with a soft chuckle.

Ashton watched the exchange, a smug grin plastered across his face as he took another sip of his drink. "Sounds like you guys have a whole routine down. Very domestic."

"Don't start, Ash." Calum muttered, his blush deepening as he pointedly took a bite of his pasta to avoid saying anything else.

"Hey, I'm just stating facts," Ashton chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "But speaking of routines, Luke, we need to finish that playlist discussion. Come help me grab the dessert and plates from the kitchen."

"On it," Luke said, pushing his chair back with a grin. "I'm holding you to that indie rock recommendation, by the way."

As the two of them disappeared into the kitchen, their voices fading into a muffled debate about their favorite bands, the dining area suddenly felt incredibly quiet. The high energy buffer was gone, leaving a heavy, lingering intimacy in the air.

Michael leaned his elbow on the table to prop his chin up so he could look directly at Calum. The dim dining light caught the green in his eyes, making them look soft.

"Hi," Michael murmured, "I think it's going really well."

"I think so too. Luke and Ashton seem to get along really well," Calum said quietly, trying to mask the way his pulse spiked at the sudden undivided attention.

Michael hummed in agreement, his gaze dropping to Calum's lips before locking deep into his eyes. The playful banter of the dinner party faded into absolute background noise as Michael leaned closer, bridging the small distance between their chairs.

Calum met him halfway, his eyes drifting shut as Michael's hand slid up from his knee to rest gently against the side of his neck.

The kiss was soft, quiet, and completely grounding. It was a quiet reassurance between the two of them. Michael's lips parted slightly against his, warm and sweet, tasting faintly of the wine. Calum leaned into the touch as Michael's thumb brushed the line of his jaw.

When they separated, they smiled happily at each other, their faces just inches apart as they breathed in the shared warmth of the  moment. Calum’s heart was still doing a joyful flutter, his cheeks warm.

With that, Luke and Ashton reappeared. Ashton held the cheesecake proudly, like a trophy, while Luke followed right behind with the plates and forks stacked neatly in his hand

"Alright, the main event has arrived!" Ashton announced, his booming voice shattering the quiet intimacy of the room. 

Michael smoothly slid his hand back to his own lap, though he didn't move his chair back, keeping his shoulder pressed firmly against Calum's. He flashed the boys a bright, completely innocent grin. "Man, that looks incredible. Did you bake this yourself, Ashton?"

"Well... What do you think?" Ashton laughed as his eyes immediately darted between Calum's flushed face and Michael’s pleased expression. A massive, knowing smirk spread across Ashton's face. He glanced over at Luke, nudging him with an elbow.

Luke just shook his head with an amused expression on his face, sliding a plate over to Michael and Calum.

They ate the dessert in peace, the kitchen filling with the sound of scraped plates and satisfied hums. Ashton’s store bought cheesecake was a hit, and for a while, the conversation slowed down to comfortable murmurs as everyone enjoyed the food.

Once the last crumbs were gone, the boys moved with Calum gathering the silverware, Luke stacking the plates, and Michael wiping down the table while Ashton loaded the dishwasher, humming a song under his breath. With four pairs of hands, the dining area was spotless in less than ten minutes.

"Alright," Ashton announced, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "Turn on the console, Hood. It's time to see if you two are actually any good at gaming or if you're just all talk."

"Oh, you're on," Michael grinned, practically sprinting into the living room to grab the controllers.

Within minutes, the three of them had crowded onto the couch and floor, completely engrossed in a fierce Rocket League game. More accurately, it was Michael, Luke, and Ashton battling it out, because Calum didn't feel like playing at all.

Calum claimed the far corner of the couch, curling his legs up under himself as he watched the chaotic scene unfold. It was endlessly entertaining. Michael was leaning so far forward he was practically a foot away from the TV screen, his thumbs flying across the buttons with intense focus. Luke was sitting cross-legged on the floor, calmly making precise, devastating plays that kept making Ashton shout in frustration.

"No way! How did he hit me like that?" Ashton yelled, violently shaking his controller at the screen.

"Don't worry, Ash, I'll avenge you," Michael promised, his face deadpan as he aggressively drove his car across the digital map.

Calum just leaned his head back against the cushions, a soft smile resting on his lips. He loved the noise, loved the casual banter, and loved seeing his friends get along so effortlessly. But most of all, he loved how, even in the middle of the match, Michael would occasionally glance back at him over his shoulder just to flash him a quick wink, making sure Calum was still enjoying the view.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── 

As Calum tidied up the living room after the gaming frenzy, his eyes caught Ashton talking to Luke, asking for his number.

Calum raised an eyebrow, pausing with a pillow on his hand as he looked over. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of it at first. Sure, the two of them had hit it off immediately over music and gaming, but the flush creeping up Ashton's cheeks gave away something much more than just newfound friendship.

Calum's chest tightened with a sudden wave of surprise. Ashton had never told him he liked boys. In all the years they've been friends, the topic had just never come up. Granted, Calum realized with a sudden prick of guilt, he had never actually asked. He had just quietly assumed Ashton was straight because that was the default narrative he'd built in his head.

"Yeah, man, text me that playlist," Luke was saying, completely oblivious, or maybe totally aware, as he gave Ashton’s phone back "We'll definitely have to do another gaming session."

"Absolutely. Drive safe, alright?" Ashton said, his voice dropping a fraction into a softer, warmer register than his usual booming tone.

Calum stood entirely still by the coffee table, watching the front door click shut as Luke finally headed out into the hallway.

Ashton leaned his back against the closed door, letting out a long, slow breath. 

Calum set the pillow down, a slow, knowing smirk of his own beginning to form.

"So," Calum started, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the couch. "A playlist, huh?"

Ashton jumped slightly, his head snapping up as if he’d forgotten Calum was even in the room. The blush on his cheeks flared an even brighter shade of red. "What? Yeah. He has good taste."

"Right. Good taste," Calum echoed, enjoying the absolute thrill of turning the tables. "You know, Ash, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were flirting with Michael's best friend."

Ashton rolled his eyes, though the grin slipping onto his face betrayed him entirely. He pushed himself off the door and tossed his phone onto the kitchen counter, trying, and failing, to look completely nonchalant.

"Oh, please. I was totally flirting," Ashton said casually, shrugging his shoulders as he walked over to grab a leftover slice of cheesecake. "Luke is hot. And he actually knows good music. Why wouldn't I?"

Calum blinked, his smug expression faltering for a second as he processed how effortlessly the confession had just dropped. "Wait. So... you like boys?"

Ashton paused and looked at Calum with a look of pure amusement. "Yes, I like boys. And girls."

"You never told me!" Calum defended himself, throwing his hands up.

"You never asked!" Ashton laughed, taking a bite of his cake.

"And you seriously never thought of telling me? Even after everything I went through?" Calum pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. He felt a little ridiculous for being so blindsided, especially considering how much time he'd spent agonizing to Ashton about his own messy, tangled feelings for Michael over the last few weeks.

Ashton’s expression softened, the playful smirk fading into something genuinely warm and apologetic. He set his fork down on the plate and leaned against the counter.

"I'm sorry, I didn't wanna make it about me," Ashton said softly, holding Calum's gaze. "Especially when you were stressing so much about Michael. And honestly, it's just something that I don't really think about at all. It's just who I am."

Calum’s shoulders dropped as the mock indignation melted away. Hearing Ashton say it so simply, so casually, made the slight sting of being kept in the dark completely disappear. It wasn't a secret Ashton had been actively hiding from him, it was just a piece of his life that existed without needing an announcement.

"Yeah. I get it," Calum murmured, a soft smile returning to his face. He walked over to the counter, bumping his shoulder against Ashton's. "I guess I just... assumed. Which was dumb of me."

"Hey, don't worry about it," Ashton chuckled, nudging him back. "But let's be real for a second. Luke is actually incredibly sweet. And he didn't even mind when I accidentally yelled in his ear during that last match."

Before Calum could reply, the bathroom door down the hall clicked open. Michael stepped out, adjusting his sleeves.

Ashton immediately perked up, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes as he looked between Calum and Michae

"Well, speaking of who we are," Ashton said loudly, giving Calum a pointed look. "I am a guy who knows when to leave a room. I'm gonna go text my indie rock boy in the comfort of my house. Goodnight, boys. See you tomorrow, Cal.”

Without giving Calum a chance to protest, Ashton practically skipped to the door and left.

The apartment fell quiet again, leaving just the two of them in the living room.

Michael chuckled, watching the door close before turning his attention back to Calum. He walked over until he was standing right in front of Calum.

"Did I interrupt something?" Michael asked softly, a lingering smile playing on his lips as he reached out, his hands finding Calum's waist.

Calum let out a breathy laugh, wrapping his arms around Michael's neck, instantly melting into his warmth. "No. Just Ashton being Ashton. He, uh... he got Luke's number"

"Oh, I know," Michael murmured, leaning down to rest his forehead against Calum's, his green eyes dark and affectionate. "Luke texted me excitedly. But honestly? I don't care about them right now."

Calum's heart skipped a beat, but as he looked into Michael's incredibly soft eyes, the question that had been hovering in the back of his mind all night finally tumbled out. 

"Michael," Calum whispered, his fingers gently tangling in the hair at the nape of Michael's neck. "What are we? Exactly?"

Michael paused, his eyes searching Calum's face as if making sure Calum was ready for the answer. The playful smirk completely vanished, replaced by an expression that was intensely honest and deeply affectionate.

"What do you want us to be, Cal?" Michael asked quietly, his thumb tracing a comforting line against Calum's hip. "Because if it's up to me... I don't want to be just your neighbor that you kiss sometimes. I want to be your boyfriend. For real."

A rush of pure relief flooded Calum's chest, a bright, breathless smile taking over his face. "Yeah. I'd really love that."

"Good," Michael murmured, a relieved grin of his own breaking through. He leaned the rest of the way in, capturing Calum's lips in a kiss that felt entirely different this time — steady, official and completely theirs.