Chapter 1: THE CALL THAT UNRAVELS HIM
The hum of the nightlight was a constant, low buzz against the silence of the room, a sound he’d grown so accustomed to it was like another layer of stillness. Blake lay on his back, staring at the ceiling where the pale blue paint was chipped in a corner, exposing a whisper of grey plaster beneath. The air tasted of dust and old paper, the scent of novels he hadn’t cracked in years leaching from the overflowing shelves. Three days until Christmas, and the only decoration was the faint, cold light from the streetlamp outside slicing through the blinds, painting bars across the rumpled sheets.
His body was a taut wire. Every nerve ending felt raw, scraped clean by the phantom sound of Brad’s voice still looping in his head from an hour ago. That last call. It had started about nothing, the usual how’s-work-how’s-the-weather bullshit, but then Brad’s tone had shifted, dropping into that intimate, gravelly register that bypassed Blake’s brain and went straight to his spine.
“You still think about it, don’t you?” Brad had said, not a question but an accusation, a shared secret. “That afternoon in the shed. The rain on the tin roof. I do.”
Blake’s fingers, which had been resting on his stomach, began to move almost of their own volition. They traced slow, idle circles through the soft cotton of his thin t-shirt, down towards the waistband of his boxers. The memory unspooled behind his eyes, vivid and punishing. The humid squeeze of the shed, the smell of gasoline and cut grass. The way Brad’s knuckles had brushed against his ribs, a touch that was supposed to be accidental but lasted a second too long. The sharp, electrifying pain-pleasure of splinters biting into his bare back as Brad pressed him against the rough wood, the sound of their breathing louder than the downpour.
His hand slid under theelastic. The touch was clinical at first, just pressure. But then he closed his eyes and let the fantasy take over. Brad’s mouth on his neck, Brad’s hands—not tentative, not like Scott’s—but sure, possessive. He pumped his fist, his rhythm frantic, desperate. It was a pathetic race, a cheap attempt to capture a feeling that was years gone, to fuck the memory back into existence. His breath hitched, the sheets tangling around his legs. It was over quickly, a burst of heat and a choked-off gasp that sounded more like a sob in the quiet room.
The shame arrived instantly, a cold wave washing over the sweat-slicked heat of his skin. He pulled his hand away, sticky, and wiped it roughly on the sheet. disgust a bitter taste in his throat. This wasn't him. This wasn't the man he was trying to be, the man Scott thought he was. He rolled onto his side, facing the empty space beside him.
The other pillow was pristine, fluffed and untouched. Scott’s side. Scott was supposed to be here tonight, but there’d been a last-minute thing with his sister, a family dinner Blake had been gratefully excused from. “I’ll be back late, don’t wait up,” Scott had said, kissing his forehead with a chaste, dry-lipped peck. The space where Scott should be was a vast, cold continent. Blake reached out and pressed his palm against the cool cotton of the pillowcase. He imagined Scott’s steady breathing, the solid, reliable warmth of him. But all he could feel was the ghost of a different heat, a different pressure.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a violent shudder against the wood. He flinched. For a wild second, he thought it might be Brad, calling back to dismantle him further. Or worse, Scott, checking in with his easy, unfounded trust. The screen glowed, illuminating a dust mote dancing in the air. It was just a notification. A weather alert. More snow coming.
He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards were icy under his feet. He needed a shower. He needed to scrub the scent of dishonesty off his skin. But he just sat there, head in his hands, the momentum of his own pathetic longing finally stalling into a grim, familiar stillness. The silence in the room was no longer peaceful. It was waiting.