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If you asked Grozan, he would tell you that he had never cared much for romance.
Love, sex, all the things people seemed so desperate to find in one another—it had never held much appeal to him. Trust did not come easily, and neither did attachment. He had spent enough of his life watching relationships rot from the inside to decide he was better off without one.
So he had made peace with the idea that he would be alone for the rest of his sorry life.
There was a certain comfort in that, at least.
He would protect the base. Run errands. Tend to whatever needed tending. Pretend that the patients the Asylum swallowed were actually being helped and not brainwashed. He would wake, work, eat, sleep, and do it all over again.
A life without surprises.
A life without love.
A life that was, if nothing else, predictable.
And yet, somehow, Morte had managed to worm their way into it.
Now, late into the night, Grozan sat against the headboard of his creaking bed with Morte sprawled across his chest. They were asleep, pliable and trusting in a way Grozan had never quite understood. Their breathing was slow and even, their weight warm against him.
Grozan's scarred fingers moved absently through their soft curls.
He liked Morte.
He liked their company. He liked their strange little smiles. He liked the way they watched him as though he were someone worth watching. He liked the trust Morte placed in him, even when Grozan couldn't understand what they saw in him to begin with.
And he liked the way Morte touched him.
Especially that.
Their fingers would slip beneath his shirt and trace the scars scattered across his skin, old and new alike. Their touch was always gentle, never pitying. Sometimes they would simply lie beside him, pressed against the stone wall, and stare up at him through half-lidded eyes until Grozan found himself staring back.
Then Morte would smile.
That creepy, knowing smile.
And Grozan would return it because, somehow, returning it had become as natural as breathing.
But none of it felt genuine.
Or, at least, not in the way he thought it was supposed to.
Grozan knew what love was supposed to feel like. He had read the word carved into the Asylum's ancient stone walls. He had seen it written in elegant cursive in the scriptures Raven claimed had been there since she was a child.
Love was devotion.
Love was longing.
Love was wanting someone so desperately that the thought of losing them became unbearable.
Grozan understood all of those things intellectually. He simply couldn't seem to feel them.
And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.
Because Morte was lying on his chest right now, trusting him enough to sleep, and Grozan couldn't stop wondering if there was something wrong with him for not feeling what he was supposed to.
When Morte kissed him, Grozan kissed them back.
When they reached for him, he let them.
When they crawled into his bed long after they should have returned to their own room, he never told them to leave.
He wanted these things.
Didn't he?
So why couldn't he name what he felt?
Do I love them?
The question had become a persistent little voice in the back of his mind.
Do I love Morte?
Every time, Grozan came up empty.
He liked their trust. He liked their warmth. He liked waking to find Morte still there. He liked their hands beneath his shirt and their body curled against his.
But liking someone wasn't the same as loving them.
Was it?
Grozan was beginning to suspect that Morte knew about his feelings—or whatever they could be called. Or perhaps, that they had always known.
As if summoned by the thought, Morte stirred. Their head lifted from Grozan's chest, dark curls falling messily across their face. They blinked up at him with eyes still heavy with sleep before giving him one of those unsettling smiles.
The sight made something twist strangely in Grozan's chest.
He couldn't describe it.
Whatever it was, though, he knew it wasn't love.
"I can feel you staring at me, you know," Morte murmured, their voice rough with sleep.
They wrapped their arms tighter around Grozan's torso and shifted closer until their face was inches from his.
Grozan said nothing; Morte narrowed their eyes.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking."
Grozan exhaled. "I'm not thinking about anything."
"I don't like liars."
Morte's smile widened. Then, with absolutely no warning, they dragged their tongue across his cheek.
Grozan recoiled.
"Morte."
They laughed quietly. "Any more of that," they whispered, "and I'll start hearing your thoughts out loud..."
"I'm not thinking of anything bad."
"No," Morte said, their amusement softening. "But you're thinking of something you're afraid to say."
Grozan's expression tightened, and Morte only studied him for a moment before their teasing smile faded.
"You've been wondering again, haven't you?"
"Wondering what?"
"I suspect that you know what."
Grozan looked away, but Morte reached up and gently caught his chin, turning his face back toward them. The gesture wasn't teasing in the slightest.
Grozan didn't respond—an answer in itself.
"About us,” Morte answered for him. Their thumb brushed along his jaw. "You don't have to force yourself to feel something just because you think you're supposed to."
Grozan swallowed.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."
"I’m aware."
Morte leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But I know what I feel."
Grozan's eyes flicked toward theirs, and once again, Morte smiled one of their vaguely unsettling smiles.
"I love you, Grozan."
The words landed with surprising weight; a weight that made Grozan still.
Morte didn't look away from him. "I don't need you to say it back," they continued. "Not tonight. Not ever."
Grozan frowned in the slightest. "Then why say it?"
"Because it's true."
It was simple.
Matter-of-fact, even.
As though love were not something carved into ancient stone, but merely a fact Morte had discovered about themself.
Morte tucked their face against his neck. "And because," they murmured, "I can want your love without demanding it."
Grozan's arms tightened around them before he could stop himself.
He didn't know what Morte wanted from him. He didn't know if he could give it. He didn't even know if what they had could be called love.
But Morte was warm. Morte was here. And for reasons Grozan couldn't quite explain, he didn't want them anywhere else.
Maybe this wasn't love, or maybe it was.
For once, Grozan decided he didn't need to know.
He rested his cheek against Morte's hair and closed his eyes.
"I don't know if I love you," he admitted quietly.
Morte didn't move. “I know."
"But I don't want you to leave."