5' 3"
Ethan was sitting through a lecture, but he hardly paid any attention to the professor's words. The subject matter genuinely interested him, and the professor usually presented it in a way that kept Ethan hanging on every word. Usually—but not today. Thomson used to feel skeptical whenever people claimed they were purposely trying to avoid relationships, worried that dating would mess with their studies or work. He always thought that wouldn't be an issue, so long as you picked a sane partner—someone who wouldn't blow up your phone a hundred times a day or demand constant attention right when you had every valid reason not to give it. Ethan, who valued his personal space like it was sacred, could never picture himself with someone like that. Well… now he could see the other side of things. And it had nothing to do with some hypothetical drama-queen partner (this description was far from Noah's personality).The real stumbling point, though, was how crazy he actually was about Morgan. It was the kind of affection that made Ethan glance at his phone every other minute, while waiting for a text from Noah, tap his notes with anxiety, and practically sit on his own hands to stop himself from getting on Morgan's nerves with random nonsense just to start a conversation. He should've been focusing on the lecture. But how could he dive into coursework headfirst when his metaphorical hand was always clinging to Noah's, refusing to let go?
How about you act a little needy for once, kitten? Throw a fit, demand all my attention—you totally have my permission.
But Noah was one of those understanding types of guys, the kind who rarely ever messaged while Ethan was in class. Plus, their schedules often lined up, which meant Noah was probably sitting in class himself. Either he was just better at paying attention… or he was holding back his impulses exactly like Ethan was. And Ethan chose to believe it was the second one. Still, it couldn't hurt to check. The professor was talking about a case from the 80s, which was a classic crime of passion, where the accused had almost walked free thanks to a careless young prosecutor. Ethan was sitting near the back of the lecture hall, away from the rest of the students. It had taken some creativity to make it clear Thomson wasn't interested in making friends, grabbing drinks, or signing up for courses together unless it was absolutely necessary. More importantly—he hated when people sat next to him, especially when the room had a ton of empty seats. The ones who did try to take the seat next to him usually fell into one of two categories: those who'd caught wind of Ethan's rich daddy and saw him as (a walking moneybag) love of their life, and those who knew about his father's firm and were already dreaming about landing a job there straight after college. Those people were far from future lawyers—just a pack of scavengers.
Thomson never tried to soothe the pain or watch his words when he was trying to make it clear how unwelcome those people were, and by the time sophomore year rolled around, he'd managed to build an invisible wall no one was willing to destroy—not even on a dare. Which is why, on any given day, the seats to Ethan's left and right, in front of him, and behind him stayed blessedly empty. The students would come and go constantly, but there were always a few veterans around to warn clueless newcomers that they should never sit near Ethan Thomson, since he was so unhinged about his personal space.
Ethan was already in his senior year, and he still occasionally thanked his past self for setting those boundaries early. After all, if Thomson ever wanted to get to know someone, he'd do it himself; he wouldn't sit around fantasizing that someone interesting would magically drop into the seat next to him so he could spend the entire lecture staring at him and quietly swooning like half his classmates did. Ethan genuinely couldn't understand what was so hard about walking up to someone and starting a conversation. In fact, he thought it was the easiest option to get to know someone. That way, you could prepare, steer the exchange in the direction you wanted, and leave the kind of impression you chose—not one painted by your insecurities when you got caught off guard. You had to play by your own rules. However, in order to do that, you had to make the first move.
Thomson pulled his phone closer and tapped the screen to 'wake' it. Still no texts from Morgan. Technically, he and Noah could've caught up about everything that had happened the other day over lunch or after class. The charity gala had gone surprisingly well, even better than expected, actually, which meant not only a good chunk of money flowing into the fund his father used to help low-income families but also that Ethan finally got some of his time back. Though 'free time' was a loose concept when you were a future lawyer. No matter how many books you read, there was always an impossible amount of material ahead—more than you could ever get through in a lifetime.
Still, Ethan did have free time. He just chose to spend it all on one particular person.
After a whole night of long-overdue heated kisses, brutally honest heart-to-hearts, and hot coffee at five a.m. from some diner, Thomson had figured he was fine. But by that same evening, he realized he was not fine. The panic hit during dinner, totally catching him off guard. A minute later, he was throwing up in the bathroom. His mind spiraled into the most ridiculous ideas: Ethan had probably given Noah some incurable disease. Noah was now one step away from dying. Ethan unknowingly signed Noah's death warrant. Ethan probably ruined Noah forever; he must've left a mark that could never be washed away. Ethan definitely made a horrible mistake by letting himself do something he wasn't allowed to do under any circumstances.
"Tulsi, if he dies, I'm dying with him," Ethan hissed into the phone, curled up next to the toilet just in case another wave hit.
"You're both going to be just fine," she said calmly, and in the background he could hear the soft clinking of a spoon stirring tea.
It took everything Ethan had (not without Tulsi's very practical help) to keep the suffocating panic at bay and stop himself from texting Noah a desperate message to go get every medical test known to man immediately.
"I need to go check on him to make sure everything's okay!" Ethan blurted.
"No," Tulsi replied without missing a beat. "You need to take your meds and go to bed."
"What if I wake up tomorrow morning and he doesn't?"
But Noah did wake up the next morning, safe and sound, and when Ethan saw him, he even looked more energized than usual. Not that it stopped Ethan from wanting to drag him straight to the hospital for a full checkup.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Tulsi assured Thomson that evening, tapping her finger against a new bobblehead dog. She had a whole collection of them, and every time Ethan visited her office, she'd ask him to pick one and give its head a gentle flick so it would start nodding. The collection rotated now and then; new dogs showed up like little sentinels of her therapy space. The latest addition was a pug. As it bobbed its head, it looked like it was agreeing with everything Tulsi said.
"You always say that," Ethan muttered with a frown.
"That's because you've never managed to surprise me," she said with a smile. "I mean, if you came in after spending a whole night with your boyfriend and told me you were suddenly healed, I'd say something like, 'Now that's incredible!' But no, things are progressing exactly the way they're supposed to. Predictably. I'd even say, correctly."
Ethan saw nothing correct about it. He still put on gloves and a mask every morning. He still kept his distance from people. Tulsi said he was being impatient and far too hard on himself. Ethan, on the other hand, felt a bitter stab of frustration every time he realized he couldn't do something he desperately wanted to. Thankfully, kisses did help. That new addition to his life made things easier to bear. Each evening, whether he was dropping Noah off or taking him for a quick stroll after a session with Tulsi or a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, Ethan earned himself a few more kisses. Each time, it took everything he had to make the first move, to push past his walls and reach out. But once he did, a flood of passion swept over his thoughts, and he had to clamp down hard to keep it in check, reminding himself of the inevitable crash afterward. Still, within just a few days, Ethan found that it was getting easier to touch Noah. Within a week, the backlash also started to fade. It wasn't exactly his dream scenario, but it was definitely progress.
Ethan Thomson: "What color is your underwear today?"
After hitting send, Thomson made a silent bet with himself: if Noah answered right away, it meant he'd been hoping for the same kind of—
Noah Morgan: "Whoa, what's with the random question?"
The reply came instantly.
Ethan Thomson: "Professor Mavericks is giving a lecture on a serial killer who kept women's panties as trophies."
Ethan Thomson: "And it made me think…"
Noah Morgan: "Ethan, that's disturbing."
Ethan Thomson: "Yeah. Super disturbing."
Ethan Thomson: "So what's the color?"
Noah Morgan: "That's the kind of question people usually ask girls. Not guys!"
Ethan Thomson: "And why's that?"
Noah Morgan: "Well… girls have cute underwear. Guys? Boring."
Ethan Thomson: "Up until now, I was only curious about the color. Now I wanna know just how boring your underwear really is."
Ethan Thomson: "Though to be fair, there are fun options for guys too."
Ethan Thomson: "Like, Tom Ford has a whole line of men's lace underwear. Pretty sure you'd look amazing in it."
Ethan Thomson: "Damn."
Ethan Thomson: "Now I actually need to see that in real life."
Noah Morgan: "Sorry, I'm not mentally prepared for a hundred-dollar underwear just yet."
Ethan Thomson: "Oh, cool. I've officially got your birthday gift figured out."
Noah Morgan: "DON'T YOU DARE BUY ME THOSE!"
Ethan Thomson: "I won't… if you tell me what you're wearing right now."
Noah Morgan: "…"
Noah Morgan: "Blue-and-navy striped hip briefs. Happy now?"
Stripes? Cute.
Ethan Thomson: "Oooh, someone's a low-rise kinda guy, huh, Morgan?"
Noah Morgan: "I knew replying to you was a bad idea!"
Ethan Thomson: "Why's that? Are you one of those 'it's easier to show than tell' types?"
Noah Morgan: "Stop flirting with me shamelessly! I'm gonna get kicked outta class because of you!"
Ethan finally pulled his eyes off his phone to write down a few things from the lecture that actually seemed worth remembering. But when he checked his messages again, a new one was waiting for him.
Noah Morgan: "Okay, but what about yours?"
Ethan Thomson: "Mine what?"
Noah Morgan: "You know what I mean!"
Ethan Thomson: "Haha, are you seriously too shy to type the word 'underwear'?"
Ethan Thompson: "I prefer boxer briefs."
Noah Morgan: "And the color?"
Ethan Thompson: "I'll show you in person," Ethan replied and couldn't help but smile, picturing the look on Noah's face when he read that message. Judging by the shade of his cheeks, Ethan wondered if the rest of the class had already figured out that his texts were veering into barely PG-13 territory.
Professor Mavericks had moved on to breaking down how the prosecutor could've fixed the case—if only they'd been more competent. These segments always came with a good dose of theatrics: wild hand gestures, animated frowns, even the occasional dramatic gasp. Ethan actually loved it. That kind of delivery helped the material stick and burn into his brain alongside the professor's indignation that someone had dared fumble a case like that in open court. But barely fifteen minutes had passed when Ethan's phone lit up again.
What a persistent boy,' Ethan thought, doing his best not to look too happy about getting another message from Noah. Except it wasn't from Noah.
****
Ethan burst into the hospital, grabbed the first nurse he saw, and rattled off the situation. Once he got the room number, he bolted to the third floor and sprinted toward the surgical wing. His father was sitting in the waiting area, the kind designed for family members who were forced to sit through the longest minutes of their lives. Pale walls, pale floor, pale furniture—everything around him looked like it had been bleached of color, making the deep burgundy of his suit pop in an eerie way. The blazer was gone. His crisp white dress shirt was streaked with blood; the left sleeve was rolled all the way up. The arm beneath it was wrapped tight in gauze from shoulder to wrist. A few scratches marked his face, adding to the picture.
"How is he?" Ethan asked as soon as he reached him. He didn't bother asking how his dad was—Michael was sitting up and talking. That was enough. He'd already "gotten off lucky," as the elder Thomson would no doubt describe it.
"Hard to say," Michael muttered, his tone oddly distant. Ethan was always quick to pick up the subtle shifts in his father's voice. That calm front told him absolutely nothing about what the man was actually feeling.
"How many bullets were there?"
"Two in the right shoulder. Another one caught his side, and a ricochet under the ribs."
"What are the doctors saying?"
"Nothing yet," Michael replied, his eyes fixed on the door leading into surgery.
Ethan sat down on the couch opposite his father and joined him in silently staring at the door.
He remembered the first time Duncan had taken a bullet for his dad. Ethan had just turned fifteen. He'd cried himself into unconsciousness in this very hospital, drained and wrecked. The second time, he cried less; he learned how to get a grip, or at least pretend to. That blank, distant look Michael wore now? Ethan had mastered it after that second round. Each time it happened, the outside reaction grew more subdued. But on the inside? Nothing changed. On the inside, the fear hit just as hard as it had that first time. Sure, Duncan knew the risks. His job, quite literally, was to step between Michael Thomson and a bullet. And this? This was a best-case scenario. Still, the job description didn't make it any easier. Duncan hadn't been just a bodyguard in a long time. He'd become part of their family—woven into it so tightly there was no untangling him anymore.
The silence was so sharp, so absolute, that Ethan could hear the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. And the ticking of his father's expensive watch, carving out the seconds one by one.
"Who do you think it was?" Ethan finally broke the suffocating silence. He wasn't sure how long it had held. Felt like hours.
Michael gave the smallest shrug.
"A better question would be, which case got us here?"
"Garcia," Ethan said, not really asking. The answer was already floating between them.
"That's the one," Michael confirmed. "It's a good sign," he added with absolute seriousness as he let out a slow breath.
"Three bullets in your bodyguard doesn't exactly scream 'good sign,'" Ethan muttered, though he understood exactly what Michael meant.
"It means I'm digging in the right direction."
"You knew that before Duncan got filled with lead."
"True," Michael nodded, flashing a nervous, fleeting smile.
They fell silent again, letting the weight of it stretch between them. Both were lost in their own thoughts.
"Have you thought of dropping out of the case?" Ethan asked, already knowing the answer. Michael would say exactly what Ethan himself would if the roles were reversed.
"No."
Ethan gave a slow nod. Yeah. If things had escalated to a full-blown hit, that meant they were closing in. And Thomson would never walk away from a scandal with that much firepower behind it. No chance. As if the universe had been waiting for just that conclusion, the sharp click of heels echoed through the hospital, bouncing off the sterile walls and hitting Michael and Ethan like a hammer. The rhythm of those angry, deliberate footsteps was unmistakable. They were still far off in the wing, but Ethan was already bracing himself for what was coming. He shot a worried glance at his dad. Michael was no longer watching the doors to the OR where Duncan was undergoing the surgery. Now he was staring down the opposite end of the corridor, at the figure fast approaching.
"How did she find out?" Ethan asked, surprised.
"I texted her from Duncan's phone," Michael murmured. "They're close. It didn't feel right to keep her in the dark."
"Smith still hasn't changed the password on his phone?" Ethan scoffed. Duncan, despite his line of work, had the worst possible habits when it came to protecting personal data. Ethan remembered borrowing his phone once to get Audrey's number ahead of their mother's death anniversary. The passcode? '1111.'
"He did change it," Michael said with a crooked smile. "To '1234.'"
"A genius."
"A true visionary."
"Where is he?" Audrey burst out, her voice sharp with panic and zero patience. No "hello" for her brother. Definitely none for their father.
"We're literally sitting right outside the OR doors. Where else would he be—Disneyland?" Ethan snapped, sarcasm dripping from every word. He was still pissed at Audrey for bailing on the visit to their mother's grave again this year. And now, on top of that, she hadn't so much as glanced at their dad—his bandaged arm and generally wrecked appearance were impossible to miss unless you were legally blind. And they hadn't seen each other in years!
Audrey shot Ethan a look that could've melted steel and was already halfway through forming a retort when the doors to the operating room flew open. In an instant, the Thomson family dropped their drama and surrounded the exhausted-looking surgeon like a pack of hounds.
"The operation went well," the doctor said in a calm, steady voice that instantly took the edge off all three of them. "He's stable. We were most concerned about the abdominal wound, but it turns out he's got luck on his side; none of the vital organs were hit."
"When can we see him?!"
"Can we talk to him?"
"How soon will he be back on his feet?"
"One question at a time," the doctor sighed. "We'll be transferring him to his room shortly. He needs to rest tonight. You can visit him in the morning."
The Thomsons let out a collective breath. Michael launched into a long-winded thank-you speech, Audrey looked like she was about to hug the doctor, and Ethan just stood slightly to the side, quietly repeating, "Thank you."
But the second the doctor disappeared behind the doors, the tension came right back in. The buried hatchet poked its blade back above the surface.
"It's good to see you," Michael said gently, turning to his daughter. Audrey gave him a disgusted look, as if his words had just splattered mud all over her brand-new white sneakers, and without a single goodbye, turned on her heel and headed for the exit.
"Would it kill you to at least ask how he's doing?" Ethan snapped, ignoring the subtle warning gesture his dad shot him a second earlier.
"It would, actually!" Audrey shouted back. "Would've been better if those bullets had hit you two!" she threw over her shoulder—and disappeared around the corner.
"Ethan, don't—"
But Ethan didn't hear his father anymore. His blood was pumping in his ears. There was no way in hell he was letting that slide. He rushed after her; it seemed like his anger was giving wings to his feet. He flew down the stairs and caught up with Audrey outside the hospital—and that's when a whole new wave of rage surged through him. She wasn't alone. She was climbing onto a motorcycle, sliding in behind that guy. It was the same dirtbag Ethan had fought with at a party not that long ago. The dealer. For some reason, Ethan thought Audrey had enough sense to cut ties. But now… he realized he'd seriously overestimated her intelligence.
"Get back inside and apologize to our father," Ethan hissed, barely holding back the urge to rip her off the bike.
"Not happening," Audrey said coolly, shaking her head. "And he's not my father."
"Right. Just the man who raised you and cared about you your whole life. Totally irrelevant."
"Oh great, it's your little Chihuahua again," the guy sneered, handing Audrey a helmet.
"Must take a real lack of self-respect to admit you got your ass handed to you by a little lapdog," Ethan shot back with a smirk.
"You caught me off guard last time. Try that again and see what happens," the guy growled.
"No fighting. We're leaving. He's not worth it," Audrey said, flipping the waves of her curly hair.
"I get why you hate me," Ethan said, clenching his fists so tight he thought his knuckles might split. The fury was pounding in his temples. "But what the hell did he ever do to you?"
"Oh, I don't know," Audrey said bitterly. "Maybe I'm just still processing the part where he stopped giving a damn about me the second my mother died? You keep talking about how he raised me and cared about me. But was it really for me? Or just because I was part of the package deal with the woman he loved? I was the deadweight he had to haul around just to stay close to her. Bet he sighed in relief when he finally got rid of me."
Those words were disgustingly unfair.
"You know damn well that he loves you!"
"Is that why he focused all his attention on you?"
"Don't act like you didn't know what I was dealing with back then," Ethan said through clenched teeth.
"Oh, I knew. You were snorting, shooting up, and letting every filthy gutter rat fuck you!" Audrey snapped, and pure venom was streaming in her voice. "The perfect golden boy, whored out by half of California! It's been years, and you still reek of rot and other people's cum!"
For a split second, Ethan felt the ground tilt underneath him. Up and down blurred into each other. His lungs clamped shut, refusing to let him take another breath. It felt like invisible hands had wrapped around his throat and started to squeeze.
"Oh, wait—he was one of those junkie sluts?" the dealer grinned, baring yellowing teeth. "They usually don't make it out. They drop dead before they ever clean up."
Audrey flinched slightly. It looked like even she realized she'd just said way too much in front of someone who should've been kept in the dark. But her wound ran too deep—she wasn't ready to walk it back.
"I was falling apart too, you know," she said, her voice trembling with rage. "And just because I didn't go the wrong way doesn't mean I didn't need help! Why is it always that you two act like my pain doesn't count?!"
"No one's ever underestimated your pain," Ethan rasped. "But Dad couldn't split himself in two."
"So he picked you."
"He picked the one who was weaker," Ethan admitted quietly. "The one who wasn't going to make it without help."
"Right," Audrey scoffed. "Because he's a coward too."
She turned to the dealer and slapped his helmet a little. "Let's go. I don't want to see him anymore."
The motorcycle roared to life, muting out anything else Ethan might've said. All he could do was stand there and watch her disappear into the distance, shaking with helpless anger.
Ethan didn't make it all the way back to the OR. Halfway there, he got a message from his dad that he was back in his room. The room number was also attached.
When Ethan walked in, he found Michael already back to work, buried in a stack of files. Not even an assassination attempt could pry those damn papers out of his hands, not even in the hospital.
"I don't think your doctor's going to be thrilled to see you elbows-deep in paperwork a few hours after someone tried to have you killed," Ethan said, shutting the door behind him with a firm click.
"It's not my first time," Michael muttered, eyes scanning the documents. "I can't shake the feeling I'm missing something."
"And I can't shake the feeling that you seriously need to get some sleep," Ethan said as he swept up the stack of documents, ignoring his father's protests, and carried them over to the table.
"Tyrant," Michael snorted. "Can you help me change?" he added, nodding toward his bandaged arm.
"Of course."
"You and Audrey didn't get into a fight, did you?" Michael asked while Ethan started undoing the buttons on his shirt.
"No."
"Well, small miracles."
"She's such a damn idiot," Ethan muttered.
"Don't call your sister like that. What did I teach you?"
"'Family is the most important thing in your life. You can be mad at the whole damn world, but never at the people who are closest to you,'" Ethan recited, word for word, the lesson Michael had drilled into his head since they were kids. Every single argument with Audrey had ended in that same lecture. Right now, the Thomson family values sounded especially pathetic. "I am trying to make peace with her. I really am. But it's just—nothing's working."
"Give her some time."
"She's had plenty of time. And besides… I get why she's mad at me. Yeah, I was a shitty brother. I dragged us all into hell with me. She doesn't have to forgive me. Hell, I haven't even forgiven myself. But what does that have to do with you?!"
Ethan yanked the sleeve too hard, and Michael winced, taking in a sharp breath.
"Easy."
"Sorry."
"She thinks I abandoned her," Michael said quietly. "And… in some ways, she's not wrong."
"You couldn't help us both at once!"
"No… I couldn't." He sighed deeply, letting Ethan help him into a loose white T-shirt. "That's the worst thing for a parent." He paused; his eyes looked distant. "I read a story once—about a woman with two kids. It happened during that awful Hurricane Katrina. Eighty percent of homes in New Orleans were underwater. Over seven hundred thousand people were left homeless. But what struck me most was her. She was caught in the flood with both her children. She tried to swim, but the current was too strong. She realized she couldn't keep both kids above water…" Michael fell silent—not like he was recalling it, but like he was seeing it happen all over again, right there in front of him.
"What happened next? Did they die?" Ethan asked while pulling sweatpants up over his father's frozen frame.
"No. She let go of one of them, hoping she could at least save the other." Michael exhaled heavily.
"Did the kid die?" Ethan's voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"No. They saved all three. But…" Michael paused. "That child will never forget that, for a moment, she let him go."
"Every situation is different," Ethan objected.
"Not this one. To me, they're the same. I made a mistake."
"You were wrecked. The woman you loved had just died. Your son turned into a narc and a whore. I have no idea how you even got out of bed every morning—how you didn't just quit your job or drown yourself in booze."
"Well… let's be honest, the booze part did happen," Michael said with a dry laugh.
"A Friday night glass of whiskey doesn't count."
"You're impossible to please," Michael chuckled. "Still… I can't shake the feeling that I let my daughter go during that flood. Can you really blame her for not wanting to see me anymore?"
"She wasn't five years old. She wasn't helpless. She needed support? Sure. But you needed it too!" Ethan snapped, flinging an arm out and knocking over a jug of water on the nightstand. Luckily, it was plastic. But the water splashed everywhere.
"Audrey only ever sees things from the victim's chair. SHE was hurt. SHE needed help. SHE got ignored. SHE suffered. And the second I pointed out that it wasn't just HER—that YOU were in pain too, that I was falling apart too—she screamed about how everyone's invalidating her feelings. The real kicker is that every time she opens her mouth, I hear the same damn accusation: 'He picked you when he should've picked me!' Yeah, well, maybe I should've rotted in some back-alley crack house—at least then she'd have gotten her precious share of attention, someone would've patted her on the head and bought her a box of chocolates! She never wants to hear that maybe she should've been there for YOU too. Or that I was out of my mind and you dragged me back from the edge. None of that matters. It's always HER, HER, HER. Not a single word related to US. Just a master of narcissism and bulletproof stupidity. I wonder if that came from her biological fathe—"
"Ethan!" Michael cut short in a sharp voice. "Don't. You. Ever. Say that. Again." Ethan clamped his mouth shut, biting the inside of his lip. Yeah. He crossed a line. And he already regretted it. He'd gone too far. He'd let the heat of the moment push him into a place he had no business going. But still…
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You know how much I hate that."
"Yeah, you prefer realization of the mistakes over apologies for them."
"Exactly. So, did you realize your mistake?"
"Y-yeah," Ethan exhaled, stumbling over the word. He did. But it didn't make things any easier—and the urge to spit venom was still very much there.
"Good. Shall we hug?" Michael opened his arms wide, and Ethan gave him a look like he'd lost his mind. "What?" Michael raised an eyebrow. "Tulsi says you're making great progress. And Duncan—well, he gave me a very brief report on what you were doing on the balcony with your boyfriend."
"We just kissed."
"Duncan said it was the hottest kiss he's ever seen!"
"Duncan likes to dramatize things."
"I'm glad you're doing better. But I'd like it if your boy wasn't the only one who was allowed to touch you."
"Don't call him that. It sounds creepy," Ethan frowned. "Like you're talking about a kid."
"Well, you are kids!" Michael laughed, still holding his arms out expectantly. "Funny thing, though, when I used to say something like that before, you'd jump to tell me he 'wasn't yours.'" father flashed a sly smile. "So? Are you going to hug your dear old dad or not? I did almost die today, remember?"
"But you didn't."
"But I could've!"
"Oh my God…" Ethan sighed like it drained the last bit of life out of him and stepped a little closer. Thankfully, Michael had the sense not to pounce. He knew Ethan still needed a moment to adjust, to want it. A few beats passed, then Ethan finally gave in, wrapping his father in a quick hug, which didn't last for more than a couple of seconds.
"Thank you," Michael smiled, settling back on the bed. "I needed that."
Ethan didn't reply. He just helped him lie back in a more comfortable position.
"Did you already figure out where you're spending the night?"
That caught Ethan off guard.
"Wait, can't I just go home?"
"You can. The question is, do you want to"?
It was a fair question. Security was probably all over their house by now. Every time there was an attack, they doubled down on sweeping through every location Michael frequented—work, stores, and especially home. For the next few months, the place would be locked down like a fortress. Did Ethan really want to come back to that big, empty house tonight? To wander around the dark halls, haunted by ghosts of a life that used to be happy? No. Not even a little. But if not there—then where? And more importantly, what did he want?
He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to feel it between his lips, flick the lighter, take a deep drag, and taste that bitter edge of tobacco on the tip of his tongue. And he wanted to wash that drag down with a swig of sharp, clean whiskey—the kind that knocked the air right out of your lungs for a second, only to replace it with warmth and calm as it spread through your body. And then? Well, then it wouldn't hurt to finish it all off with a nice, hard hit straight into a vein. Total nirvana. That was what Ethan wanted. And that was what scared the hell out of him. These cravings hit him like clockwork any time his world came unglued. The same old song. Cigarettes. Booze. Drugs. Just once. Just one night. The full package. And then he would go back to normal. Or so that little voice whispered—the one deep inside Ethan that hadn't fully let go of the addiction. So no, these 'urges' didn't surprise Ethan anymore. What did catch him off guard… was the fourth thing he wanted.
Ethan wanted to see Morgan.
This was the first time that, in the middle of a full-blown emotional crisis, he'd wanted something that wasn't nicotine, alcohol, or heroin.
Morgan? Shit!
Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket, only now realizing he'd never texted Noah back. He'd had the thought several times throughout the endless day that he should tell him that the plans had changed. But he never did.
Three missed calls. Four messages in their chat.
Noah Morgan: "Ethan, you never showed up at lunch. Are you okay?"
Noah Morgan: "This isn't funny."
Noah Morgan: "Seriously, I'm REALLY worried."
Noah Morgan: "Please call me when you can. If you don't, I'm coming over tomorrow. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, THOMSON!"
Ethan was already prepared for something far worse—fights, accusations, something sharp and messy. But Noah had kept his cool. Which honestly made the guilt burn even hotter.
"I'm going to Morgan's. I'll crash there if he lets me," Ethan said to his dad.
"He might not?"
"I ignored his texts and calls for most of the day."
"Ooh… Time to make amends. Buy him something sweet."
****
For the past twenty minutes, Ethan had just been sitting in his car, staring at the dark windows of Noah's place like he could will them to open. He couldn't bring himself to go up. He was running on empty—no energy for excuses, explanations, or tension. No energy for anything. He even debated calling an Uber, because he sure as hell couldn't drive himself home in this state. On the passenger seat there was a tub of Baskin-Robbins slowly melting. It was a peace offering. So what should he do now? Ethan didn't want to leave. But he wasn't sure he could handle whatever storm might be waiting upstairs, either.
Ethan Thomson: "Are you awake?"
The lights flicked on almost instantly. He was awake.
Noah Morgan: "Yes."
Ethan tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, trying to come up with something that captured the storm churning in his gut.
Ethan Thomson: "I want to see you."
It was a risky move. Noah could've easily fired back something like, "Didn't seem like you wanted that earlier" or "You should've thought of that before."
Noah Morgan: "Then come over."
Ethan froze for a beat, trying to read into it. Did Noah want him to come over to talk? Or to fight? Just… to be there? Yeah, they needed to talk. Obviously. But not now. Not tonight.
Ethan Thomson: "I'm already here. I'm outside your building."
A moment later, a silhouette appeared in one of the windows—Noah's messy hair sticking up in every direction as he peeked outside, checking if Ethan was telling the truth.
Noah Morgan: "Then what are you waiting for? Get up here!"
Ethan took a deep breath, grabbed the bag with the ice cream, and headed toward the building. By the time he made it to Noah's floor, the apartment door was already open. Noah was leaning casually against the doorframe, waiting.
"Hey," Ethan said, breathless, trying not to look as guilty as he felt.
"Hey," Noah nodded, his voice even.
"I…" Ethan exhaled loudly. "I really don't want to talk about what happened right now."
Noah stayed quiet for a moment, mulling it over.
"Then don't," he finally said, opening his arms wide, just like Michael had done at the hospital.
Only this time, Ethan didn't need a few minutes to warm up to the idea. He stepped right into Noah's embrace, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist and burying his nose in the curve of Noah's collarbone. They stood there in silence for a while. Ethan was holding Noah in his arms, while Morgan was gently patting his back in quiet reassurance.
"Thanks," Thomson managed, pulling away and handing over the bag of ice cream.
"Oh… uh… You didn't have to."
Ethan took off his shoes and wandered over to the table. He sat on a chair, took off his mask and gloves—something he always did the second it was just the two of them—and gave the small apartment an observant look. There were a few changes. One of the paintings above the bed had been replaced by a familiar target. It stuck out against the soft marine landscapes around it, clashing just enough to catch his eye. In the bottom left corner of the target, there was a photo. It was the picture Noah had snapped when he'd surprised Ethan with a kiss on the cheek. By the window there was an easel. The canvas was covered by a white cloth, slightly stained with blue-green paint along the edge. Was Noah now following in his grandma's footsteps and trying his hand at seascapes?
"Are you hungry?" Noah asked as he stashed the ice cream in the freezer. It wasn't until he said it that Ethan realized he hadn't eaten anything all day except a couple of cups of coffee. The gnawing in his gut that he'd mistaken for anxiety was just plain old hunger.
"Yeah, actually."
"I've got some mac and cheese."
"Sounds perfect."
Noah was busy fixing the dinner in the microwave while Ethan was sitting there, still half-zoned out, staring at the covered canvas. Childlike curiosity sparked inside him impulsively. He got up, crossed the room, and reached out to lift the cloth. But Noah stopped him. His grip on Ethan's wrist was unexpectedly firm, which caught him off guard.
"Not yet," Noah said softly. "It's not finished."
"So?"
"So," Noah muttered, tugging Ethan back to the table, where a steaming plate of mac and cheese was already waiting. Thomson frowned; he didn't like the sharpness in Noah's voice. It was suspicious. Sure, maybe Morgan was pissed about being ignored all day. But this felt different.
"Is it for me?" Ethan asked point-blank. Noah flinched—just enough to give himself away. "Is it my birthday present?" Ethan pressed, and watched as Morgan turned red.
"Do you have to be so damn smart all the time?!" Noah snapped, dragging the easel into the farthest corner of the room. Ethan couldn't help but smile.
"Sorry for being brilliant," he chuckled. "And I don't mean to sound rude, but if you're planning to give me a portrait of myself, just know—there's no way in hell I'm hanging my own face in my room. Even if you painted it," he added with mock warning.
"Yeah, that's what I figured too," Morgan waved him off, all casual. So… he hadn't been painting Ethan.
"So it's not me on that canvas?"
"Nope."
"The ocean?"
"Nope."
"You?"
"Ethan, quit your guessing game. You'll find out on your birthday!"
"So it is you."
"I'm done talking!"
"You, wrapped in tentacles like some kind of shibari art piece?"
"Jesus, Ethan! That thought never even crossed my mind!"
"Liar."
"Okay, if it did, I sure as hell didn't paint it!"
"That's a shame. That would've been the perfect blend of your kinks and mine."
"I'm not in that painting. There are no tentacles. No shibari. Got it? Now calm down and eat."
"You're just making me more curious."
"Just eat your mac and cheese!"
The moment Ethan picked up his fork, he felt a light brush against his legs. He looked down to see Peanut staring up at him with the soulful eyes of a creature who hadn't eaten in three weeks. The cat's round body said otherwise.
"Don't give him anything," Noah warned immediately.
"Didn't plan to."
Fluffy didn't beg for food; he just sat there in silence, keeping an eye on Ethan like he was always on guard. Meanwhile, Ethan chewed the mac and cheese absentmindedly. He couldn't taste it, but he could feel the gnawing in his stomach slowly start to fade. Noah straightened the bed by fluffing pillows and smoothing the sheets. But this time, he didn't build that pillow barricade he'd used the last time Ethan stayed over. Before Ethan could even finish his meal, Noah handed him a towel and a change of clothes and practically shoved him toward the shower. When Ethan offered to let him come in and scrub his back, Noah was still grumbling from the other side of the bathroom door long after it shut.
Noah hadn't done anything over-the-top, really. Just the basics—dinner, clean clothes, and a bed. But even that low-level care threw Ethan off his game. It took effort not to let his brain go into paranoia mode, whispering, 'He probably wants something from you,' or, 'You'll owe him for this later.' But most importantly, what got to him was this: Ethan hadn't even said a word that he wanted to spend the night at Morgan's. Noah just knew.
The pants Noah gave him were roomy enough but way too long. Ethan had to cuff the hems, or he'd end up tripping over them. The t-shirt, on the other hand, fit like a glove, thanks to Noah's love for oversized clothes, which often led him to buy things a size bigger.
When Ethan came back into the room, Noah was already lying on the right side of the bed, sketching something. But the second he saw Thomson, Morgan put both the pencil and the sketchbook without hesitation.
Ethan folded his clothes and placed them on the chair he'd been using earlier.
"I can get you a hanger if you wanna put those in the closet," Noah offered.
"No need."
"Hm… Well, if you want, you can keep the pajamas," he added after a beat, almost too casually.
"I'll just toss them in the laundry basket," Ethan replied, noticing exactly what Noah was doing. First the offer, then the suggestion. Testing the waters. Smart move.
Ethan made his way toward the bed, not noticing that one of the pant cuffs had come undone. He stepped right on it and lost his balance, tumbling onto the mattress in the most awkward way imaginable. Morgan burst out laughing.
"Your pants are too damn long," Ethan grumbled, righting himself on the bed.
"Sorry. I don't exactly stock clothes from the kids' section," Noah teased.
"Oh, that's how it is?" Ethan narrowed his eyes. "Trying to prey on my insecurities now?"
"You don't have a complex about your height," Noah snorted, still laughing.
"Yeah? Maybe I'll develop one now."
"You're not the type to let other people's words give you complexes."
It was a fair point.
"Huh… black. And here I was, so intrigued," Noah said, rolling his eyes theatrically.
It took Ethan a second to realize Noah was talking about his underwear—the waistband must've peeked out from the too-long pants. He raised his left eyebrow.
"Too boring for Your Highness?"
"Illegally boring," Noah confirmed.
"Oh, and I suppose Your Highness wears something more exciting?"
"Obviously! I told you before!"
"I'm not buying it unless you show me."
Noah pulled his knees up slowly to his chest and, in an exaggerated whisper, breathed, "You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I'd absolutely dare," Ethan said with mock menace as he crept toward him. For a second, they both froze—then Thomson lunged. Noah was trying to get ready for the attack, but it didn't help to stop him. The bed let out a long creak. Laughter echoed through the tangle of sheets.
"That's… not… fair!" Noah's yell startled both Peanut and Fluffy, sending them springing to their feet, eyes locked on the bed like they were watching live-action chaos unfold. "Ethan! Stop! I'm! Ticklish! Cut it out!"
Thomson only stopped once he got the reaction he was going for, and the resulting freeze-frame was one for the books. Noah was flat on his back, showing how actually flexible he was, his right heel pressed firmly against Ethan's forehead. Ethan, sitting right up against him, had both hands gripping the waistband of Noah's pajama pants, which were now halfway down his hips.
"These aren't stripes," Ethan observed, motioning for Morgan to move his leg out of the way.
"They were earlier," Noah said, still catching his breath between laughs.
"So what am I looking at now?" Ethan leaned in, squinting at the pattern, but Noah shoved a knee into his chest to keep him at bay.
"Pink flamingos," he admitted. "God, don't look at me like that! It was a gift from Andrea," he added quickly, yanking the pants back up to his belly button. Ethan had mixed feelings. On one side of his brain played a grim slideshow: Duncan with three bullets in him, Audrey's furious face, and a father drowning in sorrow. On the other—Noah, blushing and awkward in flamingo-print underwear. The emotional whiplash was enough to short-circuit anyone.
"I'm tired. Can we go to bed?"
"Sure," Noah agreed. He waited until Ethan slid over to his side of the bed before reaching up to switch off the light. The room fell into darkness. Ethan was lying on his side, facing Noah. Morgan mirrored him. Ethan could feel him itching to ask about what happened today—but he didn't.
"Can you turn away?" Ethan asked quietly. There was no way he'd be able to fall asleep under Noah's steady gaze. Without a word, Morgan rolled over. The sharpness of the movement practically radiated disappointment. Thomson didn't let it sit. He scooted closer, wrapping both arms around Noah's waist from behind and sliding one knee between his legs.
"E-Ethan? What are you doing?"
"Humans call this cuddling."
"Oh. Uh…"
"And that's all it is," Ethan clarified just in case.
"Your 'all it is' is kind of poking my thigh," Noah mumbled.
"Oops…" Ethan still hadn't fully reconnected with reality. "Don't worry. It's just a physical reaction. Morally, I'm dead inside right now. I don't want sex. You're completely safe."
"With you, I'm always safe," Noah said, and Ethan heard the smile in his voice.
Something about those words wrapped Ethan in a strange but welcome warmth.
"Goodnight," he whispered, brushing a light kiss against the side of Noah's neck.
"Goodnight, Ethan."