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The first note appeared taped to Wemmbu’s door at 7:03 a.m.
This was already rude for several reasons.
One: 7:03 a.m. was not a real time. It was a punishment invented by people who owned matching socks and said things like “early start.”
Two: Wemmbu was holding a waffle in his mouth because his hands were busy trying to locate his keys, his dignity, and the other slipper he was almost certain had not been eaten by the apartment.
Three: the note was written in the kind of handwriting that looked like it paid rent three days early.
Sharp black ink. Clean lines. No unnecessary loops. No personality flaws except, apparently, judgment.
Your music was loud last night.
That was it.
No hello. No good morning. No dearest neighbor, light of my hallway, plague upon my sleep schedule.
Just seven words, cold and direct and taped at exactly eye level like a tiny paper execution order.
Wemmbu slowly removed the waffle from his mouth.
He stared at the note.
Then he stared across the hall.
Apartment 4B sat there with its door closed, silent and smug.
Flame’s apartment.
Of course.
Wemmbu had known Flame for exactly three months, two weeks, and four days, which was not a count he was keeping because he cared. He was keeping it because strategic records were important in war.
Flame was the kind of man who made hallways feel smaller. Tall, broad, quiet in a way that did not suggest peace so much as contained threat. He wore black shirts, black boots, black jackets, and the expression of a man who had once defeated a mountain in single combat and was disappointed the mountain had lacked discipline.
He had a scar through one eyebrow.
He had arms that looked personally responsible for several structural support beams.
He had once carried a broken washing machine hose across the laundry room and fixed it while three other tenants watched him like he had descended from a storm cloud to solve plumbing.
Wemmbu hated him.
Obviously.
In the normal, neighborly, why is your jawline like that and why do I have to see it while taking out trash way.
Wemmbu peeled the note off his door, flipped it over, and wrote with the nearest pen:
Your face was loud last night.
Then, because he was an artist and history deserved detail, he added a tiny drawing of a very angry flame wearing noise-canceling headphones.
He stuck it to Flame’s door.
Then he stood back, admired his work, and whispered, “Checkmate, large man.”
Inside Apartment 4B, something shifted.
Wemmbu did not flee.
He performed a tactical withdrawal.
Very different.
The neighbor war had rules.
Not official rules, because official rules required meetings, and meetings required sitting in folding chairs under fluorescent lights while someone named Linda discussed hallway rug regulations.
No, these were sacred battlefield customs.
Rule one: no direct attacks before coffee.
Rule two: no involving the landlord unless actual crimes occurred.
Rule three: all complaints must be delivered through passive-aggressive notes, because spoken confrontation was for people with emotional stability and free time.
Rule four: if a package was misdelivered, it was not “stolen.” It was “temporarily held hostage by enemy forces.”
Wemmbu considered himself excellent at war.
Flame, unfortunately, was also excellent at war, but in an annoying way.
Wemmbu fought with chaos.
Flame fought with competence.
It was deeply unfair.
Wemmbu’s attacks were creative, bright, impossible to predict. Glitter in the laundry room. Music at midnight. A suspicious number of Amazon packages addressed to Wemmbu, Apartment 4A, Obviously Not 4B, Delivery Goblin Please Read that somehow still ended up outside Flame’s door.
Flame’s attacks were simple.
He took Wemmbu’s favorite parking spot.
He left notes.
He raised one eyebrow.
The eyebrow was honestly the worst one.
The parking spot had been the beginning.
Wemmbu had not chosen that spot lightly. It was not merely a rectangle of painted asphalt. It was sanctuary. It was legacy. It was the only spot near the stairs that was not directly under the tree that dripped mysterious sap, bird crimes, and what Wemmbu strongly suspected was the building’s emotional baggage.
He had parked there for eight beautiful months.
Then Flame moved in.
Flame arrived in a black truck that looked like it had been designed to survive an apocalypse and still judge people for poor tire pressure. He parked in Wemmbu’s spot. Stepped out. Shut the door with one hand.
And looked up.
Wemmbu had been watching from his window.
Because he was alert.
Not because he was nosy.
He had been holding coffee, wearing a hoodie with a bleach stain shaped like a suspicious moon, and thinking, Who does this guy think he is?
Then Flame’s eyes found his.
Dark. Steady. Impossible to read.
Wemmbu’s entire nervous system said, Nope.
He dropped behind the curtain so fast he nearly inhaled coffee.
From that moment on, Flame became The Enemy.
It was important to capitalize that.
The problem with The Enemy was that he kept being inconveniently decent.
For example, one Tuesday afternoon, Wemmbu was coming back from the store carrying six bags because he had refused to make two trips. Two trips were for cowards. Two trips were for people who admitted defeat. Two trips were for people with reasonable upper body strength.
Wemmbu had managed to hook grocery bags over both wrists, three fingers, one thumb, and possibly his soul. He was almost to the building door when one bag began to split.
“No,” Wemmbu hissed at it. “Do not betray me in public.”
The bag split.
An orange rolled out.
Then another.
Then a can of soup hit the sidewalk with the dramatic finality of a church bell.
Wemmbu stared down at the fallen groceries.
This was fine.
This was deeply fine.
He could recover.
He could—
A shadow fell over him.
Wemmbu looked up.
Flame stood there, holding the building door open with one hand.
Of course he did. Of course Flame would witness this. Flame had a supernatural ability to appear whenever Wemmbu was at his least dignified. It was like a curse, but with biceps.
“You need help?” Flame asked.
Wemmbu clutched his remaining groceries tighter.
“No.”
Another orange rolled away.
Flame looked at it.
Wemmbu looked at it.
The orange escaped toward the parking lot like it had hopes and dreams.
Flame walked over, picked it up, and returned it to Wemmbu without comment.
Wemmbu narrowed his eyes. “That orange was testing me.”
“I noticed.”
“I had it under control.”
“Clearly.”
The word was flat, but there was something in Flame’s eyes.
Something almost amused.
Wemmbu hated almost-amused. It was worse than actual amused because it forced him to work harder.
“I could have caught it,” Wemmbu said.
Flame glanced at the soup can rolling slowly toward the curb.
“Bro, with what hand?”
“My aura.”
Flame’s mouth twitched.
Barely.
A tiny betrayal of expression.
Wemmbu noticed, because enemy weaknesses were very important and definitely not because Flame’s almost-smile made his brain briefly turn into a moth near a porch light.
“Don’t,” Wemmbu said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t almost laugh. Either commit to the bit or keep your tragic warrior face.”
Flame stared at him for one long second.
Then he bent, collected the soup can, and took three grocery bags off Wemmbu’s arm like Wemmbu weighed nothing, like the bags weighed nothing, like the entire concept of burden had personally offended him.
Wemmbu’s wrists immediately sighed in relief.
His mouth, traitor that it was, said, “Thanks.”
Flame glanced at him.
Wemmbu panicked.
“I mean, don’t get used to it. This changes nothing. We are still locked in hatred."
“I assumed.”
“Good.”
Flame held the door open wider. “After you.”
Wemmbu walked past him with all the dignity of a man who had just been rescued from citrus.
Behind him, Flame said, “You dropped a potato.”
Wemmbu stopped.
Closed his eyes.
Considered leaving society.
Then said, “It chose freedom.”
Their notes became a language.
That was the thing Wemmbu refused to admit at first.
At first, the notes were weapons. Paper arrows. Tiny declarations of irritation. They appeared on doors, mailboxes, laundry machines, occasionally on the elevator when the situation demanded public theater.
Flame wrote like a man who believed punctuation could restore order to civilization.
Please lower your music after 11 p.m.
Your detergent spilled on the washer.
The hallway is not storage.
Your package is at my door again.
Wemmbu wrote like a man legally forbidden from taking anything seriously.
My music has never done anything wrong in its life.
The detergent was expressing itself.
That box is not storage. It is modern art.
If my package is at your door, perhaps it likes you better. Betrayal happens.
Sometimes Flame answered.
Sometimes he only returned the note with one word underlined.
Please.
Wemmbu would stare at that word longer than necessary.
Because Flame’s handwriting was neat, yes, but not emotionless. Not really. If you looked closely—and Wemmbu did not look closely, except he absolutely did—you could see where the pressure changed. Where annoyance sharpened. Where patience thinned. Where amusement tried very hard to hide.
Wemmbu started recognizing Flame’s moods by ink.
Heavy pressure meant tired.
Short sentences meant irritated.
Perfectly centered notes meant Flame was trying not to laugh.
Once, after Wemmbu left a note on Flame’s door that said:
If you keep waking me up with your 5 a.m. running, I will assume you are being chased and act accordingly.
Flame replied:
By doing what?
Wemmbu wrote:
Screaming supportively from my balcony.
The next morning, at exactly 5:06 a.m., Flame passed below Wemmbu’s window on his run.
Wemmbu, wrapped in a blanket and filled with spite, opened the balcony door and shouted, “YOU’RE DOING AMAZING, SWEETIE! OUTRUN YOUR DEMONS!”
Flame stumbled.
Just slightly.
A normal person might not have noticed.
Wemmbu noticed.
Then Flame looked up.
Even from four floors above, Wemmbu could see the expression on his face.
Flat.
Deadpan.
Murderous.
But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Wemmbu closed the balcony door, slid down against it, and laughed until his stomach hurt.
He told himself it was because he had won.
Not because Flame’s smile felt like something rare, something accidentally given.
Not because rare things made Wemmbu greedy.
Definitely not.
The package incident escalated things.
It was a Wednesday evening, rain hammering against the windows, the hallway smelling like wet coats and someone’s burnt garlic.
Wemmbu opened his door and found Flame standing there holding a box.
A very familiar box.
The label read:
Wemmbu, 4A.
Underneath, in delivery-driver handwriting, someone had written:
Left at 4B. Sorry.
Flame held it out.
Wemmbu took it slowly.
“Suspicious,” he said.
Flame’s brow furrowed. “What is?”
“You. Returning this.”
“It’s your package.”
“Exactly what a package thief would say.”
Flame stared at him.
Wemmbu stared back.
The hallway light flickered once, as if even electricity wanted drama.
“Do you want the package or not?” Flame asked.
“I want justice.”
“You ordered…” Flame glanced at the label. “Novelty socks?”
Wemmbu yanked the box to his chest. “That information is protected.”
“It says ‘Goblin Feet Co.’ on the side.”
“Do not read my mail.”
“It is printed in large green letters.”
Wemmbu narrowed his eyes. “You’re jealous.”
“Of socks?”
“Of joy.”
Flame’s gaze dropped briefly to Wemmbu’s feet.
Wemmbu was wearing his duck socks.
One duck on each ankle, both wearing tiny wizard hats.
Flame looked back up.
His face did not change.
But his eyes did.
They warmed, just a fraction, like a window lit from inside.
Wemmbu’s stomach did something stupid.
He immediately hated his stomach.
“Stop looking at my ducks,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something.”
“I thought they were…” Flame paused.
Wemmbu lifted his chin. “Say it.”
Flame looked deeply uncomfortable.
Good.
Finally, balance.
“They suit you,” Flame said.
Oh.
No.
That was not balance.
That was a war crime.
Wemmbu opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His brain provided several possible responses, including Thank you, You suit being quiet, and Please never perceive me again because apparently it makes me want to crawl out of my skin and live in the vents.
What came out was, “You suit doors.”
Flame blinked.
Wemmbu wanted to throw himself into traffic.
“You know,” Wemmbu continued, because apparently he had chosen death, “because you’re always standing in them. Menacingly. Like a gargoyle with rent.”
For one second, Flame looked completely stunned.
Then he laughed.
A real laugh.
It was small, low, almost startled out of him, but it was real.
Wemmbu froze.
Oh.
That was dangerous.
That was more dangerous than the shoulders. More dangerous than the scar. More dangerous than the five-in-the-morning running and the quiet competence and the stupid note handwriting.
Flame’s laugh made him look younger.
Made him look less like a wall and more like someone who had been standing behind one for a long time.
Wemmbu forgot whatever clever thing he was supposed to say next.
Flame seemed to realize he had laughed at the same time Wemmbu did. His expression closed halfway, but not all the way.
Not with Wemmbu.
And that thought was so warm it was embarrassing.
Wemmbu clutched his sock package harder.
“This changes nothing,” he announced.
Flame’s mouth still held the ghost of a smile. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep trying to change things.”
“I returned your package.”
“Exactly. Psychological warfare.”
Flame leaned one shoulder against his doorframe. “You think kindness is warfare?”
Wemmbu’s heart tripped.
The hallway seemed to narrow.
For once, Flame’s voice wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t flat either. It was quieter. Careful.
Wemmbu looked away first.
“Depends who’s doing it,” he said.
Flame did not answer.
The silence stretched.
Not awkward.
Worse.
Honest.
Wemmbu hated honest silences. They were where feelings went to take their shoes off and get comfortable.
So he lifted the package and said, “If these socks are missing, I’m blaming you.”
Flame’s eyes softened in a way that made Wemmbu’s ribs feel too small.
“I’ll guard them with my life,” he said.
Wemmbu snorted. “Dramatic.”
“You started it.”
“Obviously. I’m better at it.”
Flame gave him that almost-smile again.
This time, Wemmbu had the awful, impossible thought that maybe Flame saved those for him.
Then Wemmbu got sick.
Not cute sick.
Not delicate, romantic, Victorian-fainting-couch sick.
No.
Wemmbu got hit by a cursed wagon and left in a swamp sick.
He woke on Thursday morning with his throat scraped raw, his skull packed with bees, and every limb replaced by badly cooked noodles.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time.
The ceiling stared back.
“Don’t start,” he whispered to it.
His voice sounded like gravel wearing a scarf.
Bad sign.
He rolled over, intending to stand.
His body replied, Counteroffer: perish.
Wemmbu lay there and considered the possibility that he had been assassinated.
By germs.
Cowardly.
He grabbed his phone.
One message from a friend:
you alive?
Wemmbu typed with one eye open:
emotionally? no. medically? pending review.
Then:
if i die tell everyone i was mysterious and delete the photo of me crying over that raccoon video
The phone slipped out of his hand.
He had plans today. Important plans. He was supposed to go to work, buy more cough drops, return library books, and possibly leave a note on Flame’s door accusing him of training for the Olympics in the stairwell.
Instead, he attempted to sit up and immediately regretted having a spine.
By noon, the apartment had become hostile territory.
The blankets were too hot.
The air was too cold.
His water glass was empty on the coffee table, approximately one thousand miles away.
His medicine was in the kitchen, which might as well have been another kingdom.
Wemmbu, being brave and heroic and also extremely stupid, decided to make the journey.
He got out of bed.
Took three steps.
The room tilted sideways.
“Oh,” he said faintly. “Betrayal.”
Then he lowered himself to the floor with the grace of a collapsing tent.
The rug was soft.
The rug understood him.
The rug asked nothing.
Wemmbu pressed his cheek to it and decided this was his life now.
He might start a small rug-based civilization.
At some point, there was a knock.
Firm. Controlled.
A knock that belonged to someone who probably organized his sock drawer by function.
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
No.
Not him.
Anyone but him.
The knock came again.
“Go away,” Wemmbu croaked.
A pause.
Then Flame’s voice through the door.
“You sound terrible.”
Wemmbu opened one eye. “That’s my charm.”
“You didn’t take your package.”
Package.
Right.
There had been a delivery notification.
Medicine, maybe. Or soup. Or the emotional support goblin socks, finally arriving to witness his downfall.
“Leave it,” Wemmbu called.
His voice cracked halfway through.
Another pause.
Then Flame said, “Are you on the floor?”
Wemmbu went very still.
Absolutely not.
Impossible.
How did he know?
Was this a thing? Did Flame smell weakness through drywall?
“No,” Wemmbu said.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m resting dramatically.”
“On the floor?”
“It’s a lifestyle.”
“Open the door.”
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
Wemmbu pressed his face deeper into the rug.
“Because,” he said, with as much dignity as the carpet allowed, “gravity and I are in negotiations.”
The silence outside the door changed.
Wemmbu could feel it.
The humor drained out of it.
“Wemmbu,” Flame said.
There it was.
His name.
Not thrown. Not snapped. Not written in clean ink. Spoken.
Soft.
Worried.
Wemmbu hated it immediately because it went straight through him, past every joke, every bright deflection, every careful little sign that said do not enter, emotional construction zone.
Flame said his name like it mattered.
Like Wemmbu mattered.
That was not allowed.
This was still a war.
Technically.
“Door’s unlocked,” Wemmbu muttered, because apparently his fever had taken command of national security.
The door opened.
Cold hallway air slipped in.
Flame stepped inside and stopped.
Wemmbu lifted one hand from the floor.
“Welcome,” he rasped, “to my tragic end. Please clap quietly.”
Flame did not clap.
Rude.
Instead, he dropped to one knee beside him so fast Wemmbu barely tracked the movement.
Up close, Flame looked different. Less like The Enemy. More like someone who had forgotten how to hide.
His eyes swept over Wemmbu’s face, the blanket tangled around one leg, the empty water glass on the table, the medicine bottle unopened on the counter.
“You’re burning up,” Flame said.
He reached out.
Paused.
Even feverish, Wemmbu noticed.
That tiny hesitation.
That silent question.
May I?
Wemmbu wanted to make a joke. Wanted to say something sharp, something stupid, something like only if your hands are certified non-lethal.
But he was tired.
So tired.
The kind of tired that made pretending feel heavy.
He gave the smallest nod.
Flame touched the back of his hand to Wemmbu’s forehead.
Warm.
Careful.
Too careful.
Wemmbu’s eyes burned, and that was ridiculous because Flame was only checking his fever, not writing poetry or offering him a kingdom. But it had been a long time since someone touched him like that. Like he was not an inconvenience. Like he was not a problem to solve quickly before moving on.
Like he was something worth being gentle with.
His throat closed.
He immediately blamed the illness.
“You’re hot,” Flame murmured.
Wemmbu, because he was brave and doomed and physically incapable of leaving an opening unexploited, whispered, “Finally, we agree.”
Flame’s eyes flicked down to him.
For half a second, concern cracked into disbelief.
Then his mouth twitched.
Victory.
Tiny feverish victory.
“You’re impossible,” Flame said.
“You’re in my house.”
“You let me in.”
“Under duress.”
“You said the door was unlocked.”
“That was the duress talking.”
Flame exhaled through his nose, which was not a laugh but was spiritually adjacent.
Then he slid one arm behind Wemmbu’s back.
Wemmbu’s brain raised several alarms.
“Whoa,” he croaked. “Large man. Explain.”
“I’m getting you off the floor.”
“I live here now.”
“You don’t.”
“I’ve bonded with the rug.”
“You can visit later.”
Then Flame lifted him.
Just lifted him.
As if Wemmbu weighed nothing.
As if carrying another person was a normal Thursday activity and not something that caused Wemmbu’s soul to briefly exit his body, scream into a decorative pillow, and return changed.
Wemmbu made a sound.
It was not a squeak.
It was a powerful battle noise.
Flame carried him to the couch and set him down with such absurd gentleness that Wemmbu felt more emotionally threatened than physically safe.
Which was saying something.
“You’re annoyingly strong,” Wemmbu whispered.
“You’re annoyingly light.”
“Body shaming a dying man.”
“You’re not dying.”
“Everyone says that until the dramatic music starts.”
Flame tucked the blanket around him.
Not tossed.
Tucked.
Wemmbu stared at him.
Flame’s hands moved with careful precision, making sure the blanket covered his shoulders, his feet, the one knee that had escaped.
This huge man, this hallway menace, this note-writing tyrant, was tucking him in.
Wemmbu wanted to make fun of him.
He really did.
But his chest ached.
And Flame’s face was so focused, so serious, like keeping Wemmbu warm was the most important mission he had ever accepted.
That was the dangerous thing about Flame.
He did not say much.
He did.
And what he did felt too honest to argue with.
Flame stayed.
Of course he did.
Because apparently the universe had decided Wemmbu’s immune system was not enough suffering and had added emotional vulnerability as a side quest.
Flame moved through the apartment with quiet purpose.
He filled the water glass.
He opened the medicine.
He found a thermometer.
He washed the mug in the sink.
He did not comment on the cereal bowl on the bookshelf, the pile of laundry shaped like a defeated monster, or the sticky note on the fridge that said BUY MILK, YOU COWARD.
This, somehow, was worse than judgment.
Judgment would have been easier.
Judgment could be fought.
Kindness just sat there, unreasonable and armed.
Wemmbu watched from the couch, wrapped in his blanket like a burrito of suffering.
“You know,” he rasped, “most enemies don’t make themselves useful.”
Flame glanced over. “Most enemies don’t collapse on the floor.”
“I didn’t collapse. I relocated.”
“To the floor.”
“For strategic reasons.”
Flame opened a cabinet. “Where’s your soup?”
“My what?”
“Soup.”
“I don’t keep emergency soup.”
Flame slowly turned.
The look on his face suggested Wemmbu had confessed to living without doors.
“What?” Wemmbu said defensively.
“You’re sick.”
“I didn’t schedule it.”
“You should have soup.”
“I have cereal.”
“That’s not soup.”
“If you add milk, it’s cold dessert soup.”
Flame stared.
Wemmbu stared back.
Finally Flame said, “I’m making soup.”
Wemmbu clutched the blanket. “In my kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“With my ingredients?”
“You don’t have ingredients.”
“I have vibes.”
“You have one onion and three energy drinks.”
“Ingredients.”
Flame gave him a look.
Wemmbu pointed weakly. “Do not judge my survival methods, Captain Nutrition.”
Flame ignored him, which was rude but efficient, and began searching the kitchen. Somehow, from Wemmbu’s random collection of nearly-food, he assembled actual soup.
Actual soup.
With vegetables.
Wemmbu watched in growing horror.
“You’re using a knife very confidently,” he said.
“I know how to cook.”
“You know how to do everything. It’s suspicious.”
“I don’t know how to deal with you.”
That shut Wemmbu up.
Only for a second.
A very small second.
Then he said, “Skill issue.”
Flame’s shoulders moved.
There.
Silent laugh.
Wemmbu felt warmth curl in his chest and immediately tried to bully it into submission.
No.
Bad heart.
Do not wag tail at enemy.
But Flame looked different in the kitchen. Still huge, still intimidating, but softer in motion. Sleeves pushed up. Hair falling slightly forward. Brow furrowed at the cutting board like the onion had personally challenged him.
He belonged too easily in the space.
That was unacceptable.
Flame was supposed to be an invader, not a hearth.
Wemmbu blinked hard.
Hearth?
Absolutely not.
His fever was writing poetry now.
Somebody sedate it.
Flame brought the soup over in a bowl and sat on the coffee table across from him.
“Eat.”
“Bossy.”
“Please eat.”
Oh.
The please did something.
It did the same thing it did in the notes. Slipped under his armor. Made irritation soften at the edges.
Wemmbu took the spoon because refusing would require energy and also because the soup smelled unfairly good.
He ate.
It was good.
Of course it was good.
Flame probably made soup like he did everything else: intensely, quietly, and with devastating competence.
Wemmbu swallowed and glared into the bowl.
“This soup is smug.”
Flame blinked. “The soup?”
“It knows what it did.”
“What did it do?”
“Made me feel slightly better. Arrogant behavior.”
Flame’s expression softened.
Wemmbu wished it wouldn’t.
He wished Flame would roll his eyes or leave another note or say something dry and irritating. Anything but look at him like that.
Like Wemmbu being better mattered.
“You scared me,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
The words landed too heavily for the room.
He looked up.
Flame’s hands were clasped between his knees. His shoulders were broad enough to hold up the ceiling, but right then he looked uncomfortable in his own strength.
Wemmbu tried to laugh.
It came out thin.
“I scared you? I’m five blankets and a cough away from becoming a ghost.”
“You were on the floor.”
“Again, lifestyle.”
“You didn’t answer normally.”
“I never answer normally.”
Flame’s jaw flexed.
The silence after that was not funny.
Wemmbu hated it.
He hated that Flame was upset. Hated that it made something inside him twist, not with guilt exactly, but with the strange panic of realizing he had mattered enough to worry someone.
“I’m fine,” Wemmbu said, softer.
Flame looked at him.
“No,” Flame said. “You’re not.”
Wemmbu opened his mouth.
Flame continued, quiet but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend you are.”
The spoon lowered.
Wemmbu stared into the soup.
There were carrots in it.
Tiny orange traitors.
His throat hurt in a way that had nothing to do with being sick.
Pretending was easy when everyone accepted the performance. Funny Wemmbu. Loud Wemmbu. Dramatic Wemmbu. Wemmbu who turned every injury into a bit and every need into a joke before anyone could notice it was real.
But Flame noticed too much.
Flame noticed missing socks.
Flame noticed wrong apartment numbers.
Flame noticed when Wemmbu was on the floor behind a locked door.
Wemmbu gave a weak smile. “Careful. That sounded dangerously like emotional support.”
Flame did not smile back.
“I mean it.”
Wemmbu’s chest tightened.
“I know,” he whispered.
And he did.
That was the worst part.
Flame meant things.
Even when he was awkward. Especially then.
Wemmbu could handle flirting. He could handle arguing. He could handle combat via stationery.
He did not know what to do with sincerity arriving in combat boots and making soup.
So he did the only thing he could.
He took another bite.
Then said, “If this is poisoned, it’s taking too long.”
Flame stared at him for a second.
Then, finally, laughed under his breath.
The room loosened.
Wemmbu breathed easier.
But the softness stayed.
It stayed in the space between them, quiet and stubborn.
Like Flame.
By evening, Wemmbu’s fever had gone down, but Flame still refused to leave.
Wemmbu accused him of squatting.
Flame said squatting required intent to occupy.
Wemmbu said Flame had already emotionally occupied the armchair.
Flame said nothing for so long that Wemmbu nearly swallowed his own tongue.
Because that sounded dangerously close to flirting.
Or confession.
Or both.
The sky outside turned bruised purple. Rain traced silver lines down the window. The apartment glowed with one lamp and the blue flicker of the television.
A documentary played at low volume.
Something about wolves.
Flame watched it with the grave focus of a man studying ancient battle tactics.
Wemmbu watched Flame.
Not obviously.
Obviously.
He was subtle.
Subtle like a raccoon in a pantry.
Flame sat in the armchair, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped. He looked too big for the chair and too tired to care. The scar in his eyebrow caught the lamplight. His face had gone quiet again, but not hard. Not the hallway mask.
Wemmbu wondered how many people got to see him like this.
Not many, he thought.
The thought made something possessive and ridiculous curl in his stomach.
Oh no.
No, no.
Absolutely not.
He was not becoming one of those people who got territorial over softness.
That was embarrassing.
That was romance behavior.
That was how people ended up smiling at texts and saving voicemails and making space for someone else’s toothbrush.
Disgusting.
Probably wonderful.
Wemmbu shifted under the blanket.
Flame’s eyes immediately moved to him.
“You okay?”
“You ask that like I have ever been okay.”
Flame leaned forward slightly. “Wemmbu.”
Again.
His name.
Wemmbu looked away.
“You can’t just say my name like that,” he muttered.
“Like what?”
“Like…” He waved a hand, searching for an answer that would not expose several vital organs. “Like it’s a thing you’re holding carefully.”
Flame went still.
Wemmbu realized what he had said.
Wonderful.
Fantastic.
He had just emotionally disemboweled himself on his own couch.
Time to fake death.
Unfortunately, Flame answered.
“I am,” he said.
Wemmbu’s head snapped toward him.
Flame looked startled by his own honesty, but he did not take it back.
The room held its breath.
Wemmbu’s heart pounded so hard he was sure the wolves on TV could hear it.
“You can’t say stuff like that while I’m sick,” Wemmbu whispered.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t escape.”
Flame’s mouth tightened, not quite a smile. “Do you want to?”
Wemmbu opened his mouth.
Yes, he should say.
Or something like, From this conversation? Absolutely.
Something funny.
Something safe.
But Flame was watching him with that steady, maddening patience. Not demanding. Not cornering. Just offering a door and trusting Wemmbu to decide whether to walk through it.
Wemmbu hated him for that.
A little.
Maybe a lot.
Mostly because it made him want to stay.
“No,” Wemmbu said, so softly it barely existed.
Flame’s expression changed.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough that Wemmbu saw the impact land.
Flame swallowed.
Wemmbu, who had meant to be brave for exactly one second and then retreat behind sarcasm, found himself unable to look away.
Flame stood slowly and crossed to the couch. He sat on the far end, leaving space between them.
Respectful.
Infuriatingly respectful.
Wemmbu stared at the gap.
It was barely a foot.
It felt like a battlefield.
Flame rested his forearms on his knees.
“Bro, I’m not good at this,” he said.
“Soup?”
“Feelings.”
“Ah.” Wemmbu nodded solemnly. “The final boss.”
Flame glanced at him. “You joke when you’re scared.”
Wemmbu’s smile froze.
A direct hit.
Rude.
Illegal.
Impressive.
“I joke when I’m awake,” Wemmbu said.
“You joke more when something matters.”
Wemmbu looked at the television.
A wolf was standing dramatically on a hill.
Relatable.
“You’re very observant for someone I’ve repeatedly accused of being emotionally furniture.”
“I remember things about you.”
The sentence was simple.
That was what made it lethal.
Wemmbu turned back slowly.
Flame’s eyes were on his hands now.
“I remember you like the parking spot near the stairs because of the tree.”
Wemmbu’s lips parted.
“I remember you take your coffee too sweet and pretend you don’t.”
“How would you—”
“You throw away the cups in the lobby trash.”
“That is detective behavior.”
“I remember your duck socks. And the goblin ones. And that you leave your keys in the door when you’re distracted.”
Wemmbu blinked.
“I did that once.”
“Four times.”
“Disturbing.”
Flame’s mouth softened. “I remember because I worry.”
Wemmbu’s heart did something painful.
Flame finally looked at him.
“And because I like you.”
There it was.
No decoration.
No grand speech.
No warning.
Just the truth, set down between them like a blade or an offering.
Wemmbu stared at him.
His brain, usually a loud crowded tavern full of terrible ideas, went silent.
Flame liked him.
Flame, who scowled at noise and woke before sunrise and wrote complaint notes like formal declarations of war.
Flame, who fixed things without being asked.
Flame, who smiled like it surprised him.
Flame, who had carried him from the floor and made soup and stayed.
Wemmbu laughed once.
It was not funny.
It came out shaky.
“Oh,” he said. “That’s rude.”
Flame blinked. “Rude?”
“Very. Extremely. You can’t just tell a man that after making him soup. That’s emotional entrapment.”
“I didn’t mean to trap you.”
“I know, which makes it worse.”
Flame’s brows drew together.
He looked genuinely concerned, and Wemmbu wanted to shake him.
Or kiss him.
Terrible how often those impulses were neighbors.
“I don’t need you to say it back,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s chest tightened.
“Don’t do that.”
Flame stilled. “Do what?”
“Be noble.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. You’re sitting there like some tragic honorable warrior giving me an escape route.” Wemmbu pushed himself upright, blanket sliding off one shoulder. “It’s irritating.”
Flame’s eyes flicked to the blanket, then back to his face. “You should lie down.”
“I’m having a crisis.”
“You can have it lying down.”
“Do not manage my crisis posture.”
Flame’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Good.
Wemmbu pointed at him. “There. That. Stop being fond of me with your face.”
“I can’t control my face.”
“Liar. Your face has had the same three expressions since March.”
“Three?”
“Neutral murder, disappointed landlord, and secret marshmallow.”
Flame stared.
“Secret marshmallow?”
“You heard me.”
Flame looked away, but he was smiling.
Actually smiling.
And Wemmbu hated how much he loved being the reason.
Loved.
No.
No, not that word.
Not yet.
His heart was getting ahead of the plot.
Wemmbu took a breath.
It scraped.
Everything felt too close. The rain. The lamp. Flame’s knee near his under the blanket edge. The confession sitting between them, warm and terrifying.
“I don’t like needing people,” Wemmbu said.
Flame’s smile faded, replaced by attention so complete it made Wemmbu’s voice nearly disappear.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Wemmbu swallowed. “I mean, maybe you do, because you’re annoyingly perceptive. But I’m saying it anyway, so don’t interrupt.”
Flame nodded once.
Wemmbu looked down at his hands.
“I’m good at being fun,” he said. “I’m good at being loud. I’m good at making people laugh and making everything feel like it doesn’t matter.” His fingers twisted in the blanket. “But when it does matter, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to just… let someone stay.”
The confession left him raw.
He waited for Flame to say something too big. Too soft. Too much.
Flame didn’t.
He just moved his hand slowly across the space between them and set it palm-up on the couch.
An offering.
Not a demand.
Wemmbu stared at it.
Big hand. Scarred knuckles. Steady fingers.
A gentle one.
“You don’t have to know all at once,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s throat hurt again.
“You’re really committed to ruining my life tonight.”
“I thought I was helping.”
“You are. That’s the problem.”
Flame’s eyes warmed.
Wemmbu stared at the offered hand for another second.
Then, with great reluctance and absolutely no internal screaming whatsoever, he placed his hand in Flame’s.
Flame closed his fingers around him carefully.
Not tight.
Not trapping.
Holding.
Wemmbu’s entire body went quiet.
Oh.
So this was what safety felt like.
Not silence.
Not emptiness.
This.
A hand around his. Rain at the window. Someone staying close without asking him to become smaller.
Wemmbu looked at their joined hands.
“This is disgusting,” he whispered.
Flame’s thumb brushed once over his knuckles. “Is it?”
“Yes. Tenderness should be regulated.”
“I’ll write a note.”
Wemmbu’s head snapped up.
Flame looked proud of himself.
Wemmbu gasped. “Was that a joke?”
“No.”
“That was a joke.”
“It was a statement.”
“You made a joke. At me. In my home. While holding my hand.”
Flame’s ears turned red.
Wemmbu’s grin spread slowly, helplessly.
“Oh, you’re adorable.”
Flame’s gaze sharpened. “I am not.”
“You are. Tragically. This is devastating information.”
“I’m intimidating.”
“You are a secret marshmallow with a gym membership.”
Flame leaned closer by half an inch.
Wemmbu’s breath caught.
“Say that again when you’re better,” Flame said quietly.
The challenge in his voice curled through Wemmbu like heat.
Oh.
Oh, that was unfair.
A little dangerous.
Very attractive.
Wemmbu narrowed his eyes, because blushing was not a personality trait he was willing to develop.
“I will,” he said. “Louder.”
Flame’s gaze dropped briefly to his mouth.
Just once.
Barely.
But Wemmbu saw it.
His heart kicked like a door being opened.
Flame looked back up immediately, controlled but not untouched.
Good.
Excellent.
If Wemmbu had to suffer, so did he.
The next morning, Wemmbu woke tucked into bed.
His bed.
Not the couch.
He had no memory of getting there, which meant Flame had carried him again, which meant Wemmbu now had to fake his death and move to another country.
His fever had broken. His body still felt wrung out, but his head was clearer.
Clear enough to remember.
The soup.
The rain.
Flame’s hand in his.
Because I like you.
Wemmbu groaned into his pillow.
“No,” he told the pillow. “We are not processing that.”
The pillow, unhelpfully, processed nothing.
There was a note on his nightstand.
Of course there was.
Flame’s handwriting.
Medicine at 9. Water first. Do not argue with the medicine.
Below that, after a pause visible even in ink:
I’m across the hall.
Wemmbu stared at those last words for a long time.
Not text me.
Not call if needed.
Not even feel better.
Just:
I’m across the hall.
A location.
A promise.
The most Flame sentence in the history of human communication.
Wemmbu pressed the note against his chest, realized what he was doing, and immediately threw it onto the blanket like it had bitten him.
“Nope,” he whispered. “Absolutely not. We are not becoming sentimental over stationery.”
He lasted twelve seconds.
Then he picked it up again and read it once more.
Terrible.
Disgusting.
He might frame it.
For evidence.
Later that morning, he shuffled to the kitchen and found containers of soup in the fridge, labeled in Flame’s handwriting.
Lunch.
Dinner.
Backup dinner.
If you try to eat cereal instead, I will know.
Wemmbu barked a laugh, then coughed, then laughed again.
He grabbed his phone and texted Flame.
are you threatening me through soup labels
The reply came almost immediately.
Yes.
Wemmbu smiled so hard his face hurt.
Unacceptable.
He typed:
hot
Then stared at the word.
Panic struck.
He tried to delete it.
His finger betrayed him.
Sent.
Wemmbu froze.
The apartment went silent.
Somewhere, a bird screamed outside, which felt appropriate.
“Oh no,” Wemmbu whispered. “Oh no no no.”
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Flame replied:
You have a fever.
Wemmbu collapsed dramatically against the counter.
Coward.
Beautiful coward.
He typed back:
my fever broke. try again, loser
This time Flame took longer.
Wemmbu stared at the screen like it was a live explosive.
Finally:
Then yes.
Wemmbu made a sound that no adult should ever make alone in a kitchen.
He dropped the phone.
Picked it up.
Read the message again.
Then yes.
Two words.
Two words and suddenly the entire apartment had sunlight in it.
Wemmbu leaned his forehead against the fridge.
“I hate him,” he whispered fondly.
His phone buzzed again.
Medicine. Water first.
Wemmbu smiled.
Then typed:
bossy
Flame:
Alive.
Wemmbu stared at that.
His smile softened.
Alive.
That word again. The feeling Flame gave him without trying.
Like being too much was not a burden.
Like being loud was not a flaw.
Like his chaos had found somewhere safe to land.
He replied:
fine. but only because if i die you’ll get smug about being right
Flame:
I would not.
Wemmbu:
liar
Flame:
Maybe a little.
Wemmbu laughed until his chest hurt.
By afternoon, he was well enough to answer the door.
Barely.
He put on the goblin socks out of spite and a hoodie large enough to hide in. His hair looked like it had lost a fight with both sleep and architecture. He considered fixing it, then decided Flame deserved the truth.
The knock came at exactly two.
Firm.
Controlled.
Less enemy now.
More familiar.
Wemmbu opened the door and leaned against the frame.
Flame stood there holding a grocery bag.
He looked unfairly good. Black shirt. Dark jeans. Hair slightly damp from a shower. Expression serious enough that anyone else might think he was delivering bad news instead of, apparently, bananas and cough drops.
Wemmbu looked him up and down.
“No,” he said.
Flame blinked. “No?”
“No being handsome in the hallway while I look like a haunted tissue.”
Flame’s ears turned pink.
Delightful.
Powerful.
Wemmbu felt briefly immortal.
“You look better,” Flame said.
“Liar. I look like soup became a person.”
“You look better,” Flame repeated, softer.
Ah.
There it was.
Not appearance.
Relief.
The warmth of it hit Wemmbu low in the chest.
He crossed his arms, mostly to hold himself together. “You brought more supplies?”
“Yes.”
“This is excessive.”
“You didn’t own soup.”
“I owned potential soup.”
“You owned an onion.”
“A very promising onion.”
Flame stepped closer, just enough that the space between them changed.
Not invaded.
Offered.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
Wemmbu’s brain supplied: Yes. Forever. Bring a toothbrush. Move in. Ruin my life with labeled leftovers.
His mouth said, “I suppose enemy medics are protected under hallway law.”
Flame’s eyes warmed.
“Good,” he said, and stepped inside.
The apartment felt different with him in it now.
Not because anything had changed.
Because everything had.
Flame set the groceries on the counter. Wemmbu hovered nearby, pretending not to watch his hands, which was difficult because Flame’s hands were doing things like unpacking tea and oranges and a new thermometer, and apparently Wemmbu had become a Victorian poet about fingers.
Horrifying.
Flame pulled out a small packet.
Wemmbu squinted. “Are those…”
“Cough drops.”
“Those are the good ones.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You complained about the cherry ones tasting like ‘medicinal betrayal’ in the stairwell.”
Wemmbu stared at him.
Flame calmly put the cough drops on the counter.
“You remember everything,” Wemmbu said.
“Not everything.”
“Name one thing you’ve forgotten.”
Flame thought for a moment.
Then said, “I forgot to be annoyed when you sang last week.”
Wemmbu’s stomach flipped.
Rude.
Criminal.
Uncalled for.
He pointed at Flame. “That was too smooth. Who are you and what have you done with my emotionally constipated neighbor?”
Flame looked down, but his smile was visible.
“Your neighbor?”
Wemmbu froze.
Ah.
Well.
Interesting word choice, past self. Very subtle. No notes.
He lifted his chin. “My enemy neighbor.”
Flame stepped closer again.
“Enemy,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
His voice had gone lower.
Wemmbu hated that his body noticed.
Flame looked at him, eyes steady and warm and faintly amused. “Is that what we are?”
Wemmbu’s heart started behaving like it had received bad instructions.
“Yes,” he said.
Flame took another small step.
Wemmbu did not move back.
“Still?”
“Yes.”
The word was weaker this time.
Pathetic, really.
Flame’s gaze flickered to his mouth.
Wemmbu’s entire soul made a high-pitched noise.
“Then I should go,” Flame said.
Wemmbu’s hand shot out and grabbed his sleeve.
Immediately.
No dignity. No strategy. No committee approval.
Just grab.
Flame looked down at Wemmbu’s hand, then back at him.
One eyebrow lifted.
The eyebrow.
Betrayal.
Wemmbu scowled. “Don’t look smug.”
“I’m not.”
“You are internally smug.”
“A little.”
“At least you’re honest.”
Flame’s voice softened. “Do you want me to go?”
Wemmbu hated the question.
Hated it because it was gentle.
Hated it because Flame would leave if he said yes.
Hated it because that was not what he wanted.
His fingers tightened in Flame’s sleeve.
“No,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Flame’s whole expression changed.
Not triumph.
Not satisfaction.
Something much worse.
Tenderness.
Wemmbu looked away immediately.
“Don’t make that face,” he muttered.
“What face?”
“The one where you look like you’re about to be patient with me.”
“I am patient with you.”
“Disgusting.”
Flame’s hand rose slowly.
Paused near Wemmbu’s cheek.
Again, the question.
Always the question.
Wemmbu could have made a joke.
Could have stepped away.
Instead, because apparently illness had stripped him of survival instincts, he leaned into Flame’s palm.
Just a little.
Flame inhaled softly.
His hand cupped Wemmbu’s cheek with impossible care.
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
Oh, this was unfair.
Flame’s hand was warm and steady. His thumb brushed once along Wemmbu’s cheekbone, so light it felt like a secret.
Wemmbu had spent months turning Flame into an enemy because enemies were simple. Enemies had rules. Enemies could be teased and challenged and kept safely across the hall.
But Flame had crossed the hall.
Flame had found him on the floor.
Flame had stayed.
And now Wemmbu was standing in his kitchen wearing goblin socks, leaning into the hand of the man he had declared war on, and thinking:
Oh no. I’m safe.
The thought almost broke him.
He opened his eyes.
Flame was watching him like he was something precious and unpredictable.
Which, rude, accurate.
“I still think you’re annoying,” Wemmbu whispered.
Flame’s mouth curved. “I know.”
“And bossy.”
“Yes.”
“And emotionally dangerous.”
Flame’s smile faded into something softer. “I’m trying not to be.”
“That’s the problem,” Wemmbu said. “You’re dangerous because you’re careful.”
Flame went still.
Wemmbu’s voice dropped.
“I don’t know what to do with careful.”
For a long moment, Flame said nothing.
Then he leaned closer, slowly enough that Wemmbu could stop him. Slowly enough that every inch became a choice.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Flame said. “Just let it be.”
Wemmbu swallowed.
“That sounds fake.”
“It isn’t.”
“It sounds suspiciously healthy.”
Flame huffed a laugh.
Wemmbu’s fingers were still twisted in his sleeve.
Flame’s hand was still on his cheek.
The air between them had become impossible.
Wemmbu wanted to kiss him.
Badly.
Annoyingly.
With the kind of want that made all his jokes scatter like startled birds.
But admitting that felt like surrender.
So he narrowed his eyes.
“If you kiss me,” he said, “this does not mean you win.”
Flame’s gaze dropped to his mouth again.
This time, it stayed.
“No?”
“No. It means…” Wemmbu searched desperately for a legal loophole. “It means temporary ceasefire.”
Flame leaned closer.
“How temporary?”
Wemmbu’s breath caught.
“Depends how good you are.”
The second the words left his mouth, his face went hot.
Flame’s eyes darkened.
Not scary.
Focused.
Devoted in a way that made Wemmbu’s knees consider unionizing.
“Wemmbu,” Flame said.
It was a warning.
Or a question.
Or a prayer.
Wemmbu hated how much he liked all three.
“Don’t say my name like that unless you’re going to do something about it,” he whispered.
For one heartbeat, Flame froze.
Then his other hand came up, careful at Wemmbu’s jaw, and he kissed him.
Softly.
At first.
Because of course Flame kissed like he cared whether Wemmbu could breathe, like he was holding back all that strength, like tenderness was not weakness but discipline.
Wemmbu hated him for approximately half a second.
Then he kissed back.
And oh.
Oh, this was a problem.
Flame made a low sound, barely there, and Wemmbu’s whole body lit up with triumph.
Yes.
Good.
Suffer.
He curled his hand tighter in Flame’s sleeve and stepped closer, because if he was going to be emotionally compromised, he might as well be efficient about it.
Flame’s arms came around him.
Not crushing.
Not claiming.
Holding.
Wemmbu melted against him and immediately resented that his body had betrayed him so completely.
The kiss stayed gentle, but not uncertain. It warmed slowly, like a fire catching. Flame kissed him as if he had been wanting to for a long time and had decided patience was worth it if it meant Wemmbu chose it too.
That thought made Wemmbu’s chest ache.
He pulled back first, breathless.
Mostly because he was still recovering.
Partly because if he kept kissing Flame, he might confess something dramatic and unrecoverable, like you make me feel wanted or please don’t stop choosing me.
Flame rested his forehead against Wemmbu’s.
Both of them were quiet.
Then Wemmbu whispered, “Terrible.”
Flame’s breath warmed his face. “The kiss?”
“No, the fact that I liked it.”
Flame smiled.
Wemmbu could feel it more than see it.
“I liked it too,” Flame said.
“Don’t sound so pleased.”
“I am pleased.”
“Villain behavior.”
“You kissed me back.”
“Temporary ceasefire.”
“Very temporary?”
Wemmbu opened his eyes.
Flame was close, smiling softly, hair falling forward, hands still steady at Wemmbu’s waist.
He looked happy.
Not smug.
Not triumphant.
Happy.
Because of Wemmbu.
That was unfair enough to make Wemmbu’s throat tighten.
He poked Flame’s chest.
“Listen, loser.”
Flame’s eyebrow rose.
Wemmbu tried to ignore how much he liked that.
“I am not easy.”
“I know.”
“I’m loud.”
“Yes.”
“I’m dramatic.”
“Yes.”
“I will probably leave notes on your door even if we’re…” He gestured between them, suddenly allergic to labels. “Whatever this is.”
Flame’s thumb brushed lightly at his waist. “Good.”
“Good?”
“I like your notes.”
Wemmbu stared at him.
Flame looked almost shy.
Almost.
“I keep some of them,” he admitted.
Wemmbu’s heart stopped.
Restarted incorrectly.
“You what?”
Flame’s ears went red.
Oh, this was excellent.
This was catastrophic.
“You keep my notes?” Wemmbu repeated.
“Some.”
“Which ones?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. For legal reasons.”
Flame looked away.
Wemmbu gasped. “You do! You have favorites!”
“I’m leaving.”
Wemmbu grabbed him with both hands. “No, you’re not. We are investigating this immediately.”
“You’re supposed to rest.”
“I have been betrayed into tenderness. Rest can wait.”
Flame tried to look stern.
Failed.
Wemmbu felt ridiculously powerful.
Then Flame said, quietly, “The one that said my face was loud.”
Wemmbu froze.
His hands loosened on Flame’s shirt.
Flame met his eyes.
“I kept that one,” Flame said. “It made me laugh.”
Something in Wemmbu’s chest went soft and stupid and permanent.
“Oh,” he said.
Flame’s voice dropped. “And the one about screaming supportively from the balcony.”
Wemmbu covered his face. “Stop.”
“And the duck sock one.”
“Stop being cute. It’s against your brand.”
Flame gently pulled his hands away from his face.
“I like you,” he said again.
Still simple.
Still lethal.
Wemmbu’s heart had nowhere to hide.
He tried anyway.
“I noticed,” he muttered.
Flame waited.
Of course he did.
Patient menace.
Wemmbu sighed dramatically, because if he was going down, he would go down with theater.
“Fine,” he said. “I suppose I… tolerate you.”
Flame’s eyes narrowed with amusement. “Tolerate.”
“Strongly.”
“Strongly tolerate.”
“With alarming symptoms.”
“What symptoms?”
Wemmbu counted on his fingers. “Smiling at my phone. Re-reading your notes. Thinking your soup labels are romantic. Wanting you to stay. Horrifying stuff.”
Flame’s face softened.
Wemmbu looked down, embarrassed by his own honesty.
“So, yes,” he said, quieter. “I like you too. Begrudgingly. Against all common sense. Possibly because my standards were weakened by fever.”
Flame’s hand lifted under his chin, guiding his gaze back up.
“That’s okay,” Flame said.
“What is?”
Flame smiled, small and devastating.
“I can be patient until you like me on purpose.”
Wemmbu stared.
Then pointed at him accusingly.
“That,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “was the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, and I hate you for it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Wemmbu admitted. “I really don’t.”
Flame kissed him again.
Briefly.
Softly.
Like punctuation.
Wemmbu chased it before he could stop himself, and Flame made another quiet sound that immediately became Wemmbu’s favorite trophy.
When they parted, Wemmbu whispered, “Still a ceasefire.”
Flame nodded solemnly. “Of course.”
“And I’m still mad about the parking spot.”
“I know.”
“And the five a.m. running.”
“I’ll run quieter.”
“That is not a thing.”
“I’ll try.”
Wemmbu narrowed his eyes. “You’re only saying that because I’m cute.”
Flame looked him over, from disaster hair to oversized hoodie to goblin socks.
Then he said, with unbearable sincerity, “Yes.”
Wemmbu’s entire face went hot.
“No hesitation? Just yes?”
“Yes.”
“You’re getting bold.”
“You told me to do something about it.”
Wemmbu opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Pointed toward the couch.
“I need to sit down.”
“You need to rest.”
“I need to recover from you.”
Flame guided him to the couch with a hand at his back, gentle but firm.
Bossy.
Warm.
His.
No.
Not his.
Maybe a little his.
Absolutely not out loud.
Wemmbu sank into the cushions, and Flame tucked the blanket around him again.
Wemmbu scowled.
“You enjoy this.”
“Taking care of you?”
“Yes.”
Flame met his eyes. “I do.”
Wemmbu had to look away.
“Disgusting,” he whispered.
Flame sat beside him this time instead of across the room.
Their shoulders touched.
Just barely.
Wemmbu did not move away.
Flame picked up the remote. “Wolves?”
“Penguins,” Wemmbu said. “If we’re going to have feelings, I need emotional support birds.”
Flame put on the penguin documentary.
For a while, they watched in silence.
A penguin waddled across the ice with the determination of a tiny formal man late to a meeting.
Wemmbu leaned, slowly, carefully, like he could pretend it was accidental, until his shoulder pressed more fully against Flame’s arm.
Flame did not comment.
He simply shifted so Wemmbu could fit better against him.
Rude.
Perfect.
Wemmbu stared at the television.
“You know this doesn’t mean the war is over,” he said.
Flame’s voice rumbled beside him. “No?”
“No. Obviously not. The war is important. Historic. Foundational.”
“Foundational,” Flame repeated.
“Yes. If we stop fighting, what are we even doing?”
Flame’s hand found his under the blanket.
Warm fingers laced through his.
Wemmbu’s breath caught.
Flame said, “We can keep fighting.”
Wemmbu looked down at their joined hands.
His chest felt too full.
“And?”
Flame squeezed once.
“And I’ll keep choosing you anyway.”
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
Oh.
That.
That was the thing.
Not the soup. Not the kiss. Not the notes saved like treasures.
That.
Being chosen anyway.
In the middle of the noise.
Because of the noise.
With the war still going, with his jokes still sharp, with his heart still skittish and ridiculous and reaching.
Wemmbu swallowed hard.
“You’re impossible,” he whispered.
Flame’s thumb moved over his knuckles.
“You started it.”
Wemmbu laughed softly.
Then, because he could not let Flame have the last tender word or civilization would collapse, he said, “If you tell anyone I’m cuddling you, I’ll deny it.”
“You’re not cuddling me.”
“Correct.”
“You’re leaning aggressively.”
“Strategically.”
“With affection?”
“With hostility.”
Flame’s shoulder shook against his.
A laugh.
Wemmbu smiled at the penguins.
Flame leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
Wemmbu froze.
His whole body went still.
Flame paused too.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
Wemmbu’s heart cracked open in the safest way.
He shook his head once.
“No,” he whispered. “Just… rude.”
Flame’s lips brushed his hair again.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
Wemmbu let himself settle against him.
Not surrendering.
Never that.
Just resting.
Just staying.
Just letting himself be held by the man across the hall, the enemy with saved notes and careful hands, the terrifying warrior who made soup and asked before touching and somehow made Wemmbu’s loud heart feel like music instead of noise.
After a minute, Wemmbu mumbled, “I still want shared custody of the parking spot.”
Flame kissed his temple.
“We’ll negotiate.”
“And I’m still playing music at midnight.”
“I’ll knock during the bridge.”
Wemmbu smiled against his shoulder.
“Good.”
Flame’s hand tightened around his.
Wemmbu closed his eyes, warm and sick and wanted.
Outside, rain tapped lightly against the window.
Across the hall, both apartment doors were closed now.
But on Wemmbu’s door, taped at eye level, there was a new note in Flame’s handwriting.
Rest. I’m across the hall.
And beneath it, in Wemmbu’s messy scrawl:
Enemy behavior. Very suspicious. Come back with soup.
Under that, Flame had written one more line.
Always.
Wemmbu had pretended not to stare at it for five whole minutes.
Then he had taken it down, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the drawer beside his bed.
For evidence.
Obviously.
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹