The icy cold of Christmas eased only slightly as the calendar crept into the new year. The snow kept falling, the wind kept rattling the windows, and every morning felt the same gray-blue. On the second day of January, I opened the door to find three cardboard boxes on the stoop, my name scrawled across them in black marker. My life, reduced to taped-up cardboard, damp at the edges from melting frost.
Inside were my things from the bedroom I’d grown up in. My books, my high school trophies, the blanket Grandma had quilted for me when I was ten. Nothing packed with care, just shoved in. It was their way of telling me that my room no longer existed. That my place in the house no longer existed.
The garage apartment went with the house, and I was told I had until the end of January to be gone.
The worst part wasn’t even the eviction. It was the phone call from my mother.
She was shocked that I’d had sex with Shane in the house. She repeated Arjun’s version of the story like it was gospel, and no matter how many times I tried to tell her it wasn’t true, that Shane and I hadn’t done that in her home, she talked right over me. The sharpness in her tone left no room for correction.
My eyes burned hot. Not just from anger but from the ache of knowing this might be the last real conversation I would ever have with her.
“And you’re not homeless,” she said briskly, like she was solving a math problem. “You have your grandmother’s house.”
Her words jolted me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She sounded almost impatient, as if I should have already known. “There was a manila envelope given to you on your eighteenth birthday.”
I clenched the phone tighter. “Except I never got an envelope.”
“Well, didn’t your father give it to you?” she asked, distracted, as though she were halfway through folding laundry.
“No,” I said flatly.
“Well, I’ll talk to him about it and have him call you. He’s pretty upset about your being gay, you know. Of course, I always knew you were a little funny. I just never said anything to him. I’ll have him call you today.”
And then, silence. The line went dead. No goodbye. No softening. Not even the courtesy of pretending.
I sat frozen on the couch, the phone still warm in my palm, staring out at the low, blustery clouds dragging themselves across the sky. A heavy stillness pressed in around me, as if the whole house were holding its breath.
The door creaked, and Shane came in with a stack of empty moving boxes from Walmart. He set them down by the wall and shook the cold off his jacket. “I just got off the phone with Coach.” He grinned faintly, the kind of grin that meant he was holding onto something big. “We’re lucky he has a gay brother…” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me. “What’s wrong?”
I swallowed, my throat raw. “Besides everything?”
Shane cocked his head, lips twitching into the beginning of a smile. “That’s no way to talk. You probably mean besides almost everything.”
He crossed the room in three strides and sat down hard beside me, cupping my face and pressing a kiss against my mouth, deep, lingering, full of the heat I’d been missing since the phone call. When he pulled back, he whispered, “Talk to me, Tay.”
“I just talked to my mother,” I said, the words brittle as glass. “For the very last time.”
His arm came around me instantly, pulling me in against his chest, tucking my head beneath his chin. “I’m sorry, babe.”
I let myself breathe him in, the warmth, the steadiness. Then I pushed lightly at his bangs, needing to see his eyes. “Tell me your good news. Please. I need it.”
Shane’s expression softened. “You sure?”
I nodded.
“Well,” he said, his grin slowly coming back, “we now have a room in the married students dorm. We’re getting classified as domestic partners. It’s an efficiency apartment, and it’s covered by my scholarship.”
The words landed like sunlight breaking through clouds. For a second, I couldn’t even take them in. Shane hadn’t told me he was working on anything like this, and the thought of a place, our place, made me dizzy.
“But… I’m not a student,” I said, almost afraid to believe it.
“Doesn’t matter,” Shane said quickly. “Only one person has to be. The apartment comes with my scholarship.” He paused, brushing his thumb over the back of my hand. “That doesn’t solve the problem of you taking classes, though. But Coach is talking to a friend in the dean’s office about getting you enrolled. If it works, you’d need to take at least eight hours.”
“Eight hours,” I repeated, my voice hollow.
“I think we can swing the tuition,” Shane went on. “We can pay it in three installments. It’s not perfect, but… it’s something. He wasn’t sure about a transfer yet, but I gave him all your info. We just have to wait and see.”
I leaned back, staring at him, trying to process it all. A week ago, I’d been staring down the idea of sleeping in my car. Now Shane was telling me we might have an apartment together, a roof, a plan, a life.
My chest tightened. “You did all this without telling me?”
His eyes searched mine, worried for a second. “You’re not mad, are you?”
I shook my head, a laugh bubbling up despite everything. “Mad? No. I think you just saved my life again.”
Shane smiled, his whole face lighting up. He kissed me once more, slow and sure, like he was staking a claim. “That’s kind of my thing, isn’t it?”
“You smug asshole,” I smiled and kissed him back.
His laugh warmed me inside.
By the end of the first week of the new semester, the shape of our days had settled into something that looked like routine, though it didn’t feel steady yet.
I hadn’t gotten into classes, so most mornings I walked across campus to the little pizzeria that sat between the student union and the bookstore. It was nothing glamorous, just flour, dough, and the rhythm of pressing circles flat so the chefs could pile on sauce and toppings for the lunch crowd. The air was always heavy with yeast and garlic, and by the time I clocked out, my arms were dusted white up to my elbows. The pay wasn’t much, but it kept me busy while Shane buried himself in classes and practice.
Our new apartment was smaller than the garage apartment had been, smaller and tighter in every way. The long full-sized bed ate up most of the bedroom wall, and if one of us got up in the middle of the night, the other felt it instantly. The kitchenette was barely big enough for one person at a time; if we tried to cook together, we spent half the time bumping hips or reaching over each other for utensils. The two-person table wobbled slightly no matter where we set it. Our desks squeezed in opposite corners, with just enough space for the sofa pushed up against the last free wall. The bathroom felt like a closet someone had installed a shower in. The two of us barely fit in the shower at the same time.
Cramped. Too small for two young men who needed space. But it was ours.
Shane had already made a friend in the next apartment over, Elliott. He was maybe a year or two older than us, with sandy hair and tired eyes, and he took care of his and Julie’s baby while she went to class. Julie was sharp, focused, every word out of her mouth seemed aimed at her law degree. Elliott was the opposite, easygoing and a little overwhelmed, but kind. Sometimes when I came back from work, I’d see him pacing the breezeway with the baby balanced against his shoulder, bouncing her gently while humming.
Shane, meanwhile, had barely enough time to breathe. Every night he dragged himself in from practice, his shirt clinging to him with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was always hungry, always tired, and always carrying a load of homework he had to squeeze in before morning. He’d drop his bag by the door, kiss me like it was the only thing keeping him upright, and then collapse onto the sofa while I reheated leftovers or threw together sandwiches.
I didn’t mind. Watching him fight through exhaustion to keep going filled me with something halfway between pride and fear. Pride because he was working so hard to build a future. Fear because I could see how thinly stretched he already was.
Our nights ended late, papers scattered across his desk, empty plates balanced on the table, and the hum of Elliott’s baby crying faintly through the wall. When we finally crawled into our narrow bed, Shane would wrap himself around me like he was afraid to let go, and the weight of his arm across my chest made the smallness of the apartment fade into something almost like safety.
It was on a Thursday night, just past eight, and the apartment smelled like garlic and melted cheese. I’d brought home a box of leftover slices from the pizzeria, an unofficial perk of working the lunch shift, and slid them into the oven to reheat. The oven ticked faintly as it warmed, and I leaned against the counter, trying not to think about how tiny the space was. One step to the left and I’d bump the fridge; one step to the right and I’d be standing in the living room.
The door rattled, and then Shane staggered in. His practice jersey was plastered to him with sweat, streaks of dirt running down his legs. His hair was damp, his shoulders slumped, but when his eyes found me, they lit just enough to keep me from worrying too hard.
“Smells like heaven,” he muttered, dropping his gym bag with a heavy thud.
“You’re in luck. Heaven’s name tonight is pepperoni and mushroom.” I crossed the room in three strides and kissed him before he even got the chance to kick off his shoes. His lips were salty with sweat, but I didn’t care.
He kissed me back, slow, tired, but grateful. Then he collapsed onto the sofa like someone had cut his strings. “I swear Coach is trying to kill us this week.”
“You said that last week,” I teased, sliding a glass of water into his hand.
He drank half of it in one gulp. “And it was true then, too.”
Before I could answer, a soft knock came at the door. Not hurried, just gentle.
I opened it to find Elliott, holding his baby against his chest. She was fussing, her tiny fists clenched, face red. Elliott gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry to bug you guys. Julie’s at the library and she’s been at it all day. I can’t get this one to calm down.”
“Come in,” I said quickly, stepping aside.
He hesitated, glancing past me to the cramped apartment, but then he nodded and shuffled inside. The baby’s cries filled the space immediately, high-pitched but not unbearable. Shane was already sitting up straighter, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
“Want me to try?” I asked, reaching out my arms.
Elliott looked relieved. “Be my guest. She’s always watching you.”
Shane watched as cradled her, awkward for a second, then adjusting naturally, bouncing her gently against his chest. My voice softened, almost a whisper, as I murmured nonsense words to her. To my surprise, she quieted quickly, her tiny body going limp against me.
“Of course,” Elliott said with a laugh. “She likes fast cars.”
Shane grinned, tired but pleased. “And auto mechanics that keep them running. Guess she’s got good taste.”
The oven dinged. Shane went over and pulled out the reheated pizza, the smell filling the room even more. “Want a slice, Elliott?”
His eyes went wide. “You serious? I’ll owe you forever.”
“You won’t,” I said, as Shane slid a plate his way.
So we sat, me with the baby in his arms, Elliott wolfing down a slice like he hadn’t eaten since morning, and me leaning against the counter, just watching it all. The tiny apartment, the leftover pizza, the borrowed baby, none of it was glamorous. But it felt like life. Real, messy, crowded, ordinary life.
When Elliott left a half hour later, the baby finally asleep against his shoulder, Shane leaned back on the sofa with a sigh. His hair was plastered to his forehead again, his shirt still damp, but his smile was wide.
“You’d make a good dad,” he said, and then he bit his lower lip.
He looked at me then, really looked, and the exhaustion fell away for just a second. “Only if it was with you,” he said softly.
The apartment seemed smaller than ever, but at that moment, it felt big enough to hold the world.
By the time Saturday rolled around, I was desperate for a break, some sign that we weren’t just running ourselves into the ground. Shane had a game that afternoon, and I walked over to the field, bundled against the wind, to watch.
It was a disaster.
The team they played wasn’t even good, everyone around me in the bleachers kept muttering that this was supposed to be an easy win. But from the first pitch, nothing went right. Their throws went wild, their bats went cold, their energy drained with every inning.
And Shane, my Shane, had the worst game I’d ever seen him play. A bobbled grounder in the third. A bad throw in the sixth. His shoulders slumped lower every time he walked back to the dugout. I wanted to shout that it didn’t matter, that one game didn’t erase everything he was, but the look on his face told me that he wouldn’t have believed me.
By the end, the score wasn’t even close. Their opponents celebrated like they’d taken down giants, while our team trudged off the field in silence.
I beat him back to the apartment. The space felt colder than usual, shadows stretching long in the dim light of the single lamp. I reheated leftover spaghetti and set out a plate, not sure if he’d even eat.
When the door opened, Shane walked in with his cap pulled low, his face dark. His uniform was streaked with dirt, and he looked like he hadn’t spoken a word since the game ended. He didn’t even drop his bag this time, just set it down carefully, like every movement cost him.
“Hey,” I said softly.
He didn’t answer right away. He moved to the table, sat, and put his face in his hands. For a long moment, the only sound was his breathing, ragged, heavy.
Everything in me wanted to rush to him, but something about the way he sat there, still, coiled, holding himself together with sheer force, made me pause.
Finally, his voice cracked the silence. “I screwed up. Twice. Two errors. Cost us runs we shouldn’t have given up.” He dragged his hands down his face, leaving his eyes red. “They weren’t even good, Tay. And we still got crushed.”
I pulled the chair out across from him, close enough to touch his knee. “One bad game doesn’t erase everything you’ve done.”
His head snapped up, his eyes flashing. “It wasn’t just a bad game. It was humiliating.” He swallowed hard. “I’m supposed to be better than that.”
The spaghetti sat untouched between us, steam curling upward into the tense air.
I reached for his hand. He hesitated, then let me take it, his fingers trembling. “You’re allowed to have bad days,” I said. “You’re human.”
“Human doesn’t cut it if I want to stay on the team,” he muttered.
The pressure that had been building all week, his exhaustion, my exhaustion, the smallness of our world, the weight of everything we’d lost, pressed down on us both.
I squeezed his hand tighter. “Then let’s figure it out together.”
His jaw worked, tight and stubborn, but his eyes softened, just a little. “Together,” he echoed, though the word sounded like it cost him something to say.
Shane’s voice broke mid-sentence, and before I could say anything else, his hands slammed flat on the table. He pushed back so hard the chair scraped against the linoleum.
“I can’t do this,” he choked. His voice cracked again, ragged. “I’m supposed to be better. I’m supposed to be strong. And I, ” His chest heaved, and then he just folded forward, covering his face with both hands. The sound that came out of him wasn’t words, but raw, muffled anguish.
I stood and pulled him up before he could argue. He didn’t fight me, just sagged against me, shuddering, as I led him to the bathroom. The space was barely big enough for one person, but I crowded us both inside, shutting the door behind us. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, pale and unforgiving, but I didn’t care.
“Come on,” I whispered, steady, calm. “Let’s wash this off you.”
He let me strip away his dirty uniform, each layer falling damply to the floor. My own clothes followed, not out of desire at first, but out of necessity. The shower stall was barely wider than our shoulders, but I got him inside and turned on the water.
It steamed quickly, hot and sharp. Shane leaned against the tile, eyes closed, his breathing still jagged. I worked shampoo into my hands and began massaging it through his hair. His whole body twitched at first, tense, but then slowly, with each careful motion of my fingers, I felt him begin to melt.
“You don’t have to carry it all alone,” I murmured, working the lather down to his scalp, circling my thumbs behind his ears. “Not with me here.”
His reply was nothing but a shuddering breath.
I let my hands wander down, rinsing the suds, then working the soap over his shoulders, his arms, his chest. The muscles beneath my palms were hard knots of tension, so I kneaded them until they loosened. He leaned heavier against me, eyes half-open now, letting me guide him, letting me hold him together.
By the time I finished, he was breathing evenly, the anguish drained away with the water swirling down the drain. I kissed him then, deep and slow, the steam rising around us. He kissed me back with a desperation that was no longer fear, but need.
We stepped out, dripping, and I wrapped him in the one luxurious towel we owned, rubbing him down, drawing laughter out of him as the soft fabric tickled his sides. His laugh cracked once, but didn’t break, this time, I kept him steady.
We tumbled onto the bed, the sheets cool against our overheated skin, the towel half-kicked aside. I straddled him, my hands planted on either side of his chest, water droplets still clinging to my arms and dripping onto him. His body was tense, hard, alive beneath me.
I bent low, kissing him fiercely, my tongue sliding against his. He groaned into my mouth, fingers digging into my hips like he wanted to fuse me to him. I kissed down his jaw, to the salt of his throat, then lower, biting lightly across his collarbone until his chest rose and fell in ragged gasps.
My mouth moved over his chest, lingering at his nipples, teasing them with my tongue until he arched, his hands clutching at my shoulders. His voice cracked out of him, half a plea, half a curse, and I smiled against his skin, knowing I had him right there on the edge.
“Tay…” he begged, his breath hot against my ear when I came back up to kiss him.
I slid lower, letting my hand trail down his stomach, slow, deliberate, until he was twitching beneath my touch. I wrapped my fingers around him, stroking hard, then slow, teasing him until his head tipped back into the pillow and his hips lifted desperately into my hand. His thighs trembled, his voice broke on my name again and again.
When I finally slid inside him, he cried out, clutching me tight. The heat of him wrapped around me, drawing a guttural groan from my chest. I kissed him through the shock of it, holding still until I felt him relax, then began to move.
Each thrust drove the breath from him, replaced with a broken moan that only made me harder, hungrier. He wrapped his legs around me, pulling me deeper, faster, until our bodies slapped together in a rhythm that left no space, no air, nothing but raw need.
We kissed between gasps, lips crashing, teeth grazing, tongues tangled. My hand slid down, stroking him in time with the thrusts, until he was shuddering, his whole body taut with the pressure building inside him.
When he came, it was with a hoarse cry that tore out of his throat, his release spilling hot across my stomach and chest. The sight of him unraveling, the feel of his body tightening around me, dragged me over the edge with him. I buried myself deep, trembling, groaning his name into his mouth as I spilled inside him.
We collapsed together, slick with sweat and breathless, clinging to each other like we’d drown if we let go. His chest heaved under my cheek, the steady thud of his heart anchoring me.
“We’re on the same team,” he whispered hoarsely, his fingers tightening in my hair.
“Always,” I whispered back.
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