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As Paul drags Kawhi to the balcony of their LA apartment, Kawhi can’t help but feel the warmth of his hand and the way it fits perfectly into Kawhi’s own. It’s a small thing – but somehow, his chest fills with a warmth that he can’t name.
Paul tugs him forward until they’re both leaning onto the railing, the city sprawling beneath them in a sea of lights. The first fireworks have already started – beautiful bursts of color in the distance, but Kawhi can only focus on one thing. How PG still hasn’t let go, thumb tracing patterns over Kawhi’s knuckles, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re being so quiet,” Paul says, not looking away from the fireworks.
“You’re loud enough for both of us,” Kawhi retorts, but with no bite in his voice.
Paul snorts, finally turning his head to look back at Kawhi. His action is accompanied by a boom in the sky, another firework, lighting up half of Paul’s face. Beautiful, Kawhi thinks. He blinks, realizing he had just called his best friend beautiful.
“You know,” Paul says, his voice dropping slightly, “I used to hate the 4th, and pretty much any other holiday. Too many people, too much noise. Always felt like I was performing, but for no one in particular. Hated that feeling.”
Kawhi doesn’t respond right away. He just looks Paul in the eyes, making the older man blush slightly and turn away.
“What changed?” he finally asks, voice soft.
What changed? The question hangs in the air between them, delicate and fragile. Kawhi's suddenly very aware of everything — the distant cheers from the city below, the faint smell of smoke from the fireworks, the way Paul’s hand squeezes Kawhi’s.
Paul falls quiet, his gaze dropping to their intertwined hands. Kawhi watches as Paul’s expression changes ever so slightly – a flicker of vulnerability, quickly covered by a soft, breathless laugh.
"You," Paul finally says, his voice barely audible above the fading echoes of another firework. "You changed everything."
Kawhi's breath catches in his throat. "PG..."
"Seriously," Paul looks up, gaze more intense than Kawhi has ever seen them. "Before you, it was just showing up, playing ball, smiling for the cameras, it was fine, it was enough, but then you came along, and then none of that felt fulfilling, I suddenly wanted more, oh god, I’m rambling aren’t I, I have to let you process this, huh, I — I’ll stop.”
Kawhi's jaw tightens. He doesn't know what to say — doesn’t know how to process the weight of Paul’s words. So he just stands there, frozen, watching the man he's called his best friend for years rewrite everything they were to each other.
Paul lets out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. "Look at me, getting all sappy on the 4th of July. What's next, I start quoting love poems?"
"I wouldn't mind," Kawhi says, and his voice comes out more desperate than he intended.
Paul's head snaps up, eyes wide. "Wait, you really mean it?”
Kawhi shrugs — a small, almost imperceptible movement. "You're not being as sappy as you think you are."
"Wow. Romantic," Paul grins, but there's something different behind that familiar smile. “You can really sweep a guy off his feet.”
"I try."
They both laugh — quiet, breathless, the tension between them dissolving into something more lighthearted.
Paul's hand tightens around his, and he steps closer, close enough that Kawhi can feel the warmth radiating off his body.
"Kawhi," Paul says, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "I need you to know something. And I need you to not make it weird, and I really, really hope that, if you feel uncomfortable, we don’t stop being friends." He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for —
“Hold on,” Kawhi quickly says, focusing on something Paul would later call ‘irrelevant’. "I make things weird?"
Paul blinks, caught off guard. Then he laughs — that bright, unguarded sound that Kawhi has memorized without meaning to. "You literally just interrupted my big emotional confession to ask if you make things weird. Yes, Kawhi. You make things weird. That's kind of your brand."
"I don't have a brand."
"You’re the type of guy to stare at a firework for five minutes without blinking and then call it 'adequate.' That's a brand."
Kawhi's lips twitch. "They are ‘adequate’."
Paul shakes his head, but he's still smiling. The tension from before has loosened, ever so slightly.
Kawhi takes a breath, steadying himself. "Finish what you were going to say."
Paul's smile falters. He looks down at their hands again, his thumb resuming its absent tracing over Kawhi's knuckles.
"Are you sure?" Paul asks quietly. "Because once I say it, I can't take it back. And, and I don’t want to ruin —
Kawhi squeezes his hand. "You’re not going to ruin anything, PG, and I won’t want you to take it back."
Paul looks up, searching Kawhi's face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
"I love you," Paul says. His voice is steady, certain, like he's been holding onto these words for years and finally has permission to release them. "I've loved you for years, Kawhi. I don’t even know when it started. I just know that whenever I’m with you, I feel so happy, just watching you, even from afar, and want to keep you to myself, forever, even if it meant lying to you, lying to myself that I didn’t love you like that, but then I realized, realized that I would rather lose you by telling the truth than keep you through lying, ‘cause you’ll never be truly mine, and mine alone that way…” He trails off, searching Kawhi’s face for any sign of discomfort.
Kawhi's heart is pounding. His chest feels too full, like it might burst open.
"PG," he murmurs, and his voice cracks.
Paul's free hand comes up, cupping Kawhi's jaw. His thumb brushes over Kawhi's cheekbone, gentle and deliberate.
"You don't have to say anything right now," Paul breathes, "I just needed you to know. Whatever you feel — or don't feel — I'll figure out how to be okay with it. I just couldn't keep lying anymore."
Kawhi reaches up, caressing Paul’s face.
"I don't know how to say it," Kawhi admits, his voice rough. "I've never been good with words. But I know that when you look at me, I don't want to look away. I know that when you touch me, I don't want you to stop. I know that the warmth I feel in my chest — one that I can’t name — it only shows up when you're around."
Paul's eyes are glistening. "Kawhi..."
"I don't know when it started," Kawhi continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I know that it's the only thing I've ever been really sure of,” Kawhi blinks, hard, trying to hold back tears. “Ever since my dad died.”
Paul doesn't say anything. He just pulls Kawhi into a kiss — soft and tender, like he's handling something precious.
When they break apart, both of them are breathless. Paul's forehead rests against Kawhi's, and he's smiling so wide it's almost blinding.
"About time," Paul murmurs.
Kawhi's eyebrow twitches. "You knew?"
"Knew?" Paul laughs quietly, bright and unguarded. "Kawhi, I've been waiting for you to figure it out for years. You stare at me like I'm the only person in the room."
"I do not."
"You literally just called me beautiful."
Kawhi feels heat creep up his neck. "That was in my head. Also, I thought you were scared that I didn’t love you back."
"You have a tell, Whi. Your eyes get all soft," Paul raises his eyebrow slightly at Kawhi’s second remark.
Kawhi tries to look offended, but he just can’t help but smile at Paul’s cuteness, "I hate you."
"No, you don't," Paul presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "You love me."
Kawhi is quiet for a moment. Then, so softly it's almost lost to the night air, he says: "Yeah. I do. I really do."
Paul's breath catches. "Say it again."
Kawhi meets his gaze, steady and certain. "I love you, PG. I don’t know how to explain it, but I just know I really do love you."
Paul smiles fondly. "Kawhi..."
"I'm not good at this," Kawhi says. "I know that. But I'm good at you. At us. I don't know if that makes sense."
"It makes perfect sense," Paul grins, and he pulls Kawhi into another kiss, fireworks exploding over their heads.
"Happy 250th, Whi," Paul murmurs against Kawhi's lips.
Kawhi smiles, and at that moment, he decides that this smile will only be for Paul. "Happy 4th, PG."
They stand there, wrapped in each other, watching the city settle into silence. The warmth in Kawhi's chest has a name now — a name he'll carry with him for the rest of his life.
Love.
And he'll never, ever, fall out of it.