The Men We Crave

Chapter One - The Break Up

Bret was standing in the liquor aisle, staring 1 aa aaat a wall of bottles like they might start talking to him, when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He almost ignored it. He had already spent ten minutes debating between two nearly identical brands of rye, and he was dangerously close to spiraling. But then he saw the name on the screen.

Steve.

Bret answered, smiling without thinking. “What’s up, disaster roommate? Please tell me you finally remembered to pay the internet bill.”

There was no immediate reply. Just breathing. Uneven. Ragged.

“Steve?” Bret straightened, suddenly alert. “Hey. You okay?”

Steve made a sound that barely qualified as a word. It came out cracked, like his throat was trying to close in on itself. “Bret… I need you to come home. Now.”

Bret’s stomach dropped. “What happened?”

“I can’t,” Steve said, and his voice wobbled in a way Bret had never heard before. “I can’t do this sober. Please. Get… I don’t know. Everything. As much booze as you can carry. Just come home.”

Then the call ended.

Bret stared at his phone, heart pounding, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights suddenly unbearable. Steve didn’t sound drunk. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded… shattered. Like something inside him had cracked clean in half.

Bret grabbed a basket. Then another one. He started loading bottles with no real plan. Vodka. Whiskey. Gin. A six-pack of beer Steve hated but drank anyway when things were bad. He didn’t bother comparing prices. He just kept grabbing, his mind racing.

What could have happened?

Steve’s job, maybe. He worked in marketing, some mid-level position he complained about but secretly cared too much about. Layoffs were always looming. Or maybe his dad. Steve didn’t talk about his family much, but Bret knew enough to know it would wreck him.

Or Bianca.

The thought felt wrong, like his brain rejected it outright. Steve and Bianca were a constant. They had been together since they were sixteen. High school sweethearts who survived college, distance, bad haircuts, worse fashion choices. Bianca was practically an extra roommate without the rent. She left shampoo bottles in the shower and criticized Bret’s cooking with a smile that made it hard to argue.

They were the couple Bret used as proof that real love actually existed.

He paid, barely registering the total, and rushed out, juggling clinking bags. The winter air slapped his face, sharp and cold, but it didn’t slow him down. He half-jogged the entire way home, replaying Steve’s voice over and over in his head.

By the time he reached their apartment, Bret was sweating despite the cold.

He fumbled with his keys and shoved the door open.

“Steve?” he called out.

The living room lights were off. The apartment felt wrong. Too quiet. Bret stepped inside and flicked on the lamp.

Steve was sitting on the couch.

He looked… smaller. Curled in on himself, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was praying. His hair, usually styled with irritating effort, was a mess. His broad shoulders slumped forward, T-shirt wrinkled, eyes red and unfocused.

Steve was objectively, unfairly good-looking. Tall, built without trying, the kind of guy who looked like he’d been sculpted out of American optimism. Sandy brown hair, green eyes that crinkled when he smiled, a jawline that made strangers double-take. Bret had always assumed life simply treated Steve well because of it.

Right now, he looked broken in a way Bret had never seen on him. Like none of that mattered.

“Hey,” Bret said softly, setting the bags down. “I’m here.”

Steve looked up, and his face crumpled.

That was it. That was the moment Bret knew this wasn’t about work or family or anything fixable with a drink and a rant.

Steve swallowed hard. His voice came out thin. “She’s gone.”

Bret’s chest tightened. “Who’s gone?”

Steve laughed once, hollow and sharp. “Bianca. Ten years. Ten fucking years, Bret.”

The words hit like a punch.

“No,” Bret said immediately, because it felt illegal to accept it. “What do you mean, gone? Like… fight gone? Cooling-off gone?”

Steve shook his head. Tears spilled over, no warning, sliding down his cheeks. He scrubbed at them angrily, like he was offended by his own face. “She packed a bag. Said she couldn’t do it anymore. That she’s been feeling… empty.”

Bret sat down next to him without thinking. “What happened?”

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. His shoulders started shaking.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I don’t even know how to say it out loud.”

Bret didn’t ask again.

He put the bags aside and pulled Steve into him.

Steve went willingly, collapsing into Bret’s chest like his body had been waiting for permission. His arms came up, tight around Bret’s waist, fingers digging in through the fabric of his hoodie.

Steve was warm. Solid. He smelled like soap and something familiar that made Bret’s chest ache.

“It’s okay,” Bret murmured, one hand coming up to Steve’s back, rubbing slow circles. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to explain anything right now.”

Steve let out a broken sound and held on tighter.

They had hugged before. Of course they had. Quick greetings. Celebratory moments. Drunk bro hugs that ended with laughter and insults. This was different. This was full-body, desperate, no-space-left kind of contact.

Bret felt it immediately. That strange warmth blooming low in his chest, spreading outward. A softness that had nothing to do with pity and everything to do with… comfort. Connection.

It caught him off guard.

He told himself it was just empathy. Just adrenaline. Just the intensity of the moment.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

Steve’s face pressed into his shoulder, breath hot against his neck. His grip loosened and tightened again, like he was afraid Bret might disappear.

“I don’t know who I am without her,” Steve whispered. “She’s been there my whole adult life.”

“I know,” Bret said quietly. “Anyone would be wrecked.”

Steve sniffed, then huffed a weak laugh. “You’re being very calm about this.”

“Internally, I’m panicking,” Bret admitted. “Externally, I’m the responsible one because you called me crying from a liquor store.”

That earned him a real laugh. Short, but real.

Bret smiled despite himself, his heart doing something annoyingly tender. He kept rubbing Steve’s back, aware of the way Steve fit against him. The weight. The closeness. Bret had always known Steve was attractive in the abstract way you know the sky is blue. This was… different. Personal. Intimate.

He tried not to think about the fact that his body was reacting in ways it absolutely should not be reacting.

Steve pulled back slightly, wiping his face with the heel of his hand. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way that made Bret want to punch the universe.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re allowed to be,” Bret replied. “Also, I brought enough alcohol to drown a small country, so clearly I came prepared.”

Steve glanced at the bags and snorted. “Jesus. Planning to kill me?”

“Only spiritually. Physically, I’d prefer you alive. You still owe me rent.”

Steve leaned back into the couch, exhausted. Bret stayed close, their shoulders touching. He could feel Steve’s arm pressed against his, solid and warm, and it sent a stupid little shiver through him.

“So,” Bret said gently. “Want to talk? Or want to drink until words stop existing?”

Steve considered it. “Both.”

“Healthy choice,” Bret said. He stood and started pulling bottles out. “Dealer’s choice?”

“Surprise me.”

Bret poured them both a generous drink and handed one over. Steve took it, their fingers brushing briefly.

It was nothing. Completely nothing.

Bret’s brain, however, filed it away like evidence.

They clinked glasses.

“To heartbreak,” Steve said flatly.

“To surviving it,” Bret corrected.

Steve hesitated, then nodded and drank.

Bret watched him over the rim of his glass. The way Steve’s throat moved when he swallowed. The way his shoulders relaxed just a fraction as the alcohol hit.

This was his best friend. His roommate. The guy who knew his worst habits and still chose to live with him. Bret had never questioned the shape of their bond before.

Now, sitting too close on the couch, Steve’s knee brushing his, Bret felt that warmth again. The confusing, unwelcome flutter that settled in his chest and lower.

He pushed it away.

This was not the time.

Steve leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Bret didn’t even think. “You’re not.”

Steve looked at him then. Really looked. His gaze lingered in a way that made Bret’s pulse jump.

“Thanks,” Steve said softly.

Bret smiled. “Always.”

And for reasons he couldn’t quite name, that word felt heavier than it ever had before.

Chapter Two - The Night 

The drinks kept coming.

Not fast at first. Just steady. Like they were pacing themselves through the night, even though neither of them had any idea where it was headed. The bottle moved between them, the clink of glass against glass becoming familiar, almost comforting.

Steve talked. A lot.

At first it was the kind of stuff Bret had heard before. Stories polished by repetition. Moments Steve had always told with a fond smile and an eye roll.

“She used to steal my hoodies,” Steve said, staring into his drink. “All of them. Even the ugly ones. Said they smelled like me.”

Bret nodded. “She left one here once. Blue one.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. That one. I never got it back.”

Then the stories got smaller. Softer. The kind you only tell when you are drunk and hurting and no longer trying to protect yourself.

“She used to trace shapes on my chest when she couldn’t sleep,” Steve murmured. “Like she was drawing constellations or something. Said it helped her calm down.”

Bret listened. He stayed quiet. Let Steve take up the space. Let him say her name as many times as he needed to.

Inside, something twisted. Not jealousy. Not yet. Just a dull ache that sat behind Bret’s ribs. He told himself it was sympathy. Of course it was. Anyone would feel like this listening to someone they cared about unravel in real time.

Steve laughed suddenly, sharp and wet. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“You sound heartbroken,” Bret said gently. “There’s a difference.”

Steve shrugged, eyes glossy. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

The alcohol softened Steve. Made him looser, heavier, more honest. He leaned closer without realizing it. His knee pressed against Bret’s thigh and stayed there. Bret noticed. He did not move away.

At some point, Steve stopped talking mid sentence.

His face crumpled. Like whatever was holding him together finally gave out.

He inhaled, shaky and shallow, and then the tears came. Fast. Unfiltered. His hands came up to his face too late.

“Oh,” Bret breathed.

He moved instinctively. The glass was set aside. His arms were already around Steve before either of them thought about it.

Steve collapsed into him.

Not carefully. Not politely. He folded forward like his body had been waiting for permission to fall apart. His forehead knocked against Bret’s shoulder, then his face buried into the side of Bret’s neck.

Steve clutched him too hard. Fingers digging in, arms locking tight, like he was afraid Bret might vanish if he loosened his grip even a little.

Bret held him back just as firmly.

One hand slid up to cradle the back of Steve’s head, fingers threading through messy hair. The other pressed flat against Steve’s back, rubbing slow circles, grounding him, anchoring him.

Steve sobbed quietly against his skin.

Bret felt everything. The heat of Steve’s body. The way his breath stuttered. The dampness of tears soaking into his hoodie, sliding warm and salty against his neck.

One of Steve’s sobs broke too close to Bret’s throat. His mouth brushed Bret’s skin, accidental and intimate, and Bret’s breath caught hard.

He swallowed.

This was not about him. This was about Steve. About being there. About holding someone together when they were coming apart.

“You’re not losing everything,” Bret whispered, lips close to Steve’s hair. “I know it feels like that, but you’re not.”

Steve shook his head violently. “I am. I am. She was my whole life. I don’t get that again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Steve said, voice cracking. “I can’t love another girl. I just can’t.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Honest.

Bret tightened his arms around him. “Then don’t.”

Steve stilled.

Bret pulled back just enough to look at him. Steve’s face was flushed and wet, eyes red, lashes clumped with tears. He looked wrecked. Open. Beautiful in a way that hurt.

“If you can’t,” Bret said quietly, “then you don’t have to. We’ll be us. We’ll live together. Be friends. Be idiots. Figure it out as we go.”

Steve stared at him. “You’d really stay?”

“Yes,” Bret said without hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in Steve’s face broke all over again. He surged forward, arms tightening even more, mouth pressing against the side of Bret’s neck as he cried.

Bret closed his eyes.

He could taste Steve’s tears now. Salt and alcohol and something raw and aching. His own body reacted before his brain could stop it. A deep, confusing warmth spread through him. His grip tightened, protective and dangerous all at once.

“Not everything’s lost,” Bret murmured. “I promise.”

Steve nodded weakly against him.

They stayed like that until Steve’s breathing slowed. Until the shaking eased. Until the room felt quieter again.

Bret lifted his hand and brushed his thumb gently under Steve’s eye, wiping away a tear. It was a small, intimate gesture. He did not think about it until it was already done.

Steve looked up.

Their faces were close. Too close. Bret could see every detail. The faint freckle near Steve’s eyebrow. The way his pupils were blown wide. Steve’s gaze flicked down, just briefly, to Bret’s mouth.

Before Bret could react, Steve leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

It was clumsy. Barely there. Warm and grateful and full of emotion.

“Thank you,” Steve whispered.

Bret froze for half a second.

Then he relaxed. Let it happen. Let his cheek rest against Steve’s lips just a fraction longer than necessary.

“Anytime,” he said, voice low.

He cleared his throat and leaned back. “Okay. You need to eat something.”

Steve groaned. “No.”

“Yes.”

Bret went to the kitchen and came back with half a sandwich. He crouched in front of Steve and tore off a piece.

“Open.”

Steve frowned. “I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care.”

Bret pressed the food gently to Steve’s lips. After a beat, Steve sighed and opened his mouth. Bret fed him slowly, his fingers brushing Steve’s lips each time. Steve chewed obediently, eyes half lidded, watching Bret like he was something solid and good.

After a few bites, Steve shook his head. “Can’t.”

“That’s fine,” Bret said softly. He wiped Steve’s fingers with a napkin, the simple intimacy of it making his chest tighten. “You tried.”

Steve slumped back. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“You need to.”

“I can’t. The bed smells like her.”

Bret did not hesitate. “Then sleep in my room.”

Steve blinked. “With you?”

“I’ll stay,” Bret said. “You won’t be alone.”

Steve nodded, relief washing over his face.

Getting him up was slow. Steve’s legs barely worked. Bret hooked Steve’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. Steve leaned into him completely, head resting against Bret’s neck.

Every step felt charged. Every brush of skin felt deliberate, even when it was not.

Steve mumbled nonsense as they walked. Apologies. Half sentences. Bret murmured back, steady and low, guiding him carefully.

When they reached Bret’s room, he eased Steve onto the bed. His hands lingered at Steve’s hips for a second too long.

“You’re safe,” Bret said softly.

Steve looked up at him, eyes heavy, mouth slightly open.

“Don’t leave,” he whispered.

Bret stayed.

And whatever line they had been circling all night now felt dangerously thin.

Chapter Three - Before Sleeping 

Bret gets him to the bed with that gentle stubbornness he uses when Steve is drunk and emotional and pretending he is not. One hand at Steve’s wrist, the other at his lower back, steering him like he is fragile cargo even though Steve is tall and solid and keeps insisting he is fine.

“Lie down,” Bret says softly.

“I am lying down,” Steve says, already halfway horizontal, words slurring as he flops onto the mattress.

“That was falling,” Bret says. “This is lying down.”

He nudges Steve’s shoulder until Steve stretches out properly, head hitting the pillow with a soft bounce. Steve squints up at him, pupils blown wide, mouth turned down at the corners like he is afraid Bret is about to vanish.

Steve reaches out and grabs Bret’s hands, both of them, clumsy and tight.

“Don’t go,” Steve says. It comes out small. Almost scared.

Bret’s chest does this weird painful squeeze. He squeezes Steve’s hands back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Bret says. “Relax. I’m literally just making you comfortable.”

Steve blinks. “You promise.”

“I promise,” Bret says. “You are stuck with me. Unfortunately.”

Steve snorts weakly. “Rude.”

Bret smiles despite himself. He eases his hands free gently and points at Steve’s feet. “You sleep like an absolute disaster, by the way.”

Steve frowns. “I do not.”

“You do,” Bret says. “You sleep naked. Clothes thrown on the floor like you were attacked by a ghost. One sock under the bed. One sock somehow in the kitchen.”

Steve laughs, a soft broken sound. “That’s efficient.”

“That’s chaos,” Bret says. He crouches and starts tugging Steve’s shoes off. “You kick these off every night like they personally betrayed you.”

Steve watches him, heavy-lidded. “You know me so well.”

“Unfortunately,” Bret says again, but his hands are careful, thumbs brushing over Steve’s ankles. He sets the shoes aside neatly, because of course he does.

He straightens up and looks at Steve for a second. Really looks.

Steve is sprawled out, long legs, broad shoulders, chest rising and falling slow and uneven. His hair is messy, curls falling into his eyes. His T shirt has ridden up slightly, showing a strip of warm skin at his waist.

Bret swallows.

“Okay,” Bret says, more to himself than anything. “Let’s get this off.”

Steve lifts his arms immediately, cooperative as hell. “Strip me.”

“Wow,” Bret says. “Did not even hesitate.”

Steve grins lazily. “I trust you.”

That does something dangerous to Bret’s insides.

He peels the T shirt up and over Steve’s head, the fabric catching for a second on Steve’s wrists before coming free. Steve’s skin is warm. Really warm. Bret’s fingers linger accidentally on Steve’s ribs, then his chest.

Steve’s body is ridiculous. Broad but soft in the way that means comfort. A dusting of hair across his chest, darker trail disappearing down beneath the waistband of his jeans. Arms thick with muscle from hauling groceries and moving furniture and pretending he does not go to the gym. Shoulders that look like they were designed for hugging someone into oblivion.

Bret stares a beat too long.

Steve notices. He always notices.

“Hi,” Steve says.

“Hi,” Bret replies, voice a little off. “You’re… fine.”

Steve laughs. “I know.”

Bret rolls his eyes and reaches for the button on Steve’s jeans. “Lift your hips.”

Steve does, immediately, like he has been waiting for instructions his whole life. Bret slides the jeans down slowly, deliberately, because if he rushes he might panic. Steve’s thighs are thick and strong. His knees knock together as the jeans come free.

Bret tugs them off completely and tosses them aside, already joining the growing pile on the floor.

Steve is in his underwear now, stretched out and loose and flushed. Bret takes a second. Then another.

He has seen Steve like this before. Changing at the pool. Drunk nights. Accidental mornings. But this feels different. Private. Intentional.

Steve reaches out again, fingers brushing Bret’s wrist. “You okay?”

Bret nods. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He pulls the blanket up over Steve, tucking it around his sides like he has done a hundred times before when Steve crashes on the couch. Only this time Steve is watching him like he is something precious.

Bret climbs onto the bed and lies down beside him, stiff at first, hands folded awkwardly on his chest.

They stare at the ceiling.

Steve mumbles, “Since when do you sleep with your clothes on.”

Bret snorts. “Since always.”

“No you don’t,” Steve says. “You sleep in like… boxers. Sometimes less.”

Bret turns his head. “Are you keeping a log.”

Steve smiles sleepily. “I have eyes.”

“Well,” Bret says. “Tonight I am being decent.”

Steve hums, unimpressed. “Lame.”

He reaches out and pokes Bret’s side. “You’re too dressed.”

“Steve,” Bret explains patiently, “you are drunk.”

Steve nods. “Yes.”

“And emotional.”

“Yes.”

“And I am being responsible.”

Steve pokes him again. “You’re warm though.”

That poke turns into a palm pressed flat against Bret’s ribs. Bret freezes.

Steve sighs contentedly. “So warm. Like a space heater.”

Bret laughs quietly, breath shaky. “You are unbelievable.”

Steve squints at him. “Take it off.”

“Take what off.”

“All of it,” Steve says vaguely, waving his hand. “You’re hogging the warmth.”

Bret hesitates. Then, carefully, he sits up and pulls his hoodie over his head. Tosses it aside. Then his T shirt. The air feels colder immediately.

Steve’s gaze follows every movement. He looks reverent. Drunk and soft and sincere in the way that makes Bret’s chest ache.

“Wow,” Steve says. “You’re really pretty.”

Bret scoffs. “Go to sleep.”

“No,” Steve says. “Your skin is all like… smooth. And you smell nice.”

Bret’s face is on fire. “That’s deodorant.”

“Still,” Steve says. “Very cuddleable.”

Bret exhales, slow. He pushes his jeans down and off, heart pounding, movements clumsy now. He is hyper aware of himself. His body. The way he is being seen.

He slides back under the blanket in his boxers, leaving a careful inch of space between them.

Steve immediately scoots closer.

“Hey,” Bret says softly. “Personal space.”

Steve ignores that completely and drapes an arm across Bret’s stomach, face nuzzling into his shoulder.

“Oh,” Steve murmurs. “You’re so soft.”

Bret stiffens. Then forces himself to relax. Steve’s skin is hot. His breath fans across Bret’s collarbone.

“I work out,” Bret says weakly.

Steve laughs. “Sure you do.”

They lie there, tangled and breathing, the room quiet except for Steve’s soft drunken murmurs.

Bret stares at the wall, heart racing, nerves buzzing, not understanding what he is feeling at all. He just knows he does not want this to end.

Chapter Four - Pillow Talk 

They do not fall asleep immediately. Not even close.

At first there is space between them. Not a dramatic amount, but enough to feel intentional. Steve is on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. Bret is on his side, facing away, staring at the wall like it might give him instructions.

The room is quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside and Steve’s uneven breathing.

After a minute, Steve shifts.

“Bret.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not asleep.”

“I gathered,” Bret says. “You just sighed like you’re auditioning for a sad indie film.”

Steve snorts. Then goes quiet again.

A few seconds pass. Then Steve’s arm flops down. He turns his head.

“I keep thinking I should text her,” Steve says.

Bret turns back immediately. “Nope.”

“I just want to see if she—”

“No,” Bret says again. “Absolutely not.”

Steve groans. “Bret.”

“Nope nope nope,” Bret says, rolling onto his back so he can see Steve properly. “You are not drunk texting Bianca at one in the morning.”

Steve squints. “It’s not drunk texting. It’s emotional processing.”

“It’s self sabotage,” Bret says. “Give me the phone.”

Steve clutches it to his chest. “What if she’s also sad.”

“She is sleeping peacefully,” Bret says. “Like a villain.”

Steve laughs weakly. “You hate her so much.”

“I do not hate her,” Bret says. “I just think she is… aggressively wrong for you.”

Steve sighs. His thumb hovers over the screen.

Bret reacts without thinking. He scoots closer and gently but firmly wraps an arm around Steve’s chest, pinning Steve’s hands down.

“No,” Bret says softly but seriously. “Do not.”

Steve freezes. Then relaxes into the hold.

“You’re literally restraining me,” Steve says.

“Yes,” Bret replies. “For your own good.”

Steve exhales, phone slipping from his fingers onto the mattress. “Okay. Okay. You win.”

Bret doesn’t let go right away.

They lie there, Bret half draped over Steve, Steve warm and solid beneath him. Bret is suddenly very aware of how close they are again. Of how his thigh is pressed against Steve’s. Of how Steve smells like soap and alcohol and something familiar.

Steve turns his head slightly. “You always do this.”

“Do what.”

“Save me from my own worst instincts,” Steve says. “Like when I tried to quit my job via email.”

“That email was unhinged,” Bret says. “You thanked your boss for the trauma.”

Steve chuckles. “He deserved it.”

“Maybe,” Bret admits. He loosens his hold but doesn’t pull away completely. His arm stays around Steve, more hug than restraint now.

Steve shifts closer, instinctive, seeking warmth.

“You know,” Steve says quietly, “I really did think she was the one.”

“I know,” Bret says.

“I had this whole picture,” Steve continues. “House. Dog. You stealing our spare key and never giving it back.”

“That part was accurate,” Bret says.

Steve smiles faintly. Then his voice wobbles. “I feel like an idiot.”

Bret’s chest tightens. He turns fully toward Steve and pulls him in properly this time. Steve goes easily, melting into him, forehead pressed to Bret’s shoulder.

“You’re not an idiot,” Bret murmurs. “You loved someone. That’s not embarrassing.”

Steve huffs. “It kind of is.”

“No,” Bret says. “What’s embarrassing is her telling everyone you snore.”

“I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do,” Bret says. “Like a haunted lawnmower.”

Steve laughs, face still buried against him. “You’re awful.”

“And yet,” Bret says, rubbing slow circles on Steve’s back, “here you are.”

Steve tightens his arms around Bret’s waist. Their boxers brush. Skin presses to skin. The heat between them builds again, unavoidable.

“You’re really warm,” Steve says sleepily.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true,” Steve says. He sighs. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You’re not,” Bret says immediately. “I’m here.”

Steve nods, breathing evening out for a moment. Then it cracks again.

“What if this was it,” Steve whispers. “What if I already messed up my one chance.”

Bret’s throat goes tight. He presses his cheek to Steve’s hair. “That’s not how it works.”

“How do you know,” Steve asks.

“Because I know you,” Bret says. “And you’re not done. Not even close.”

Steve goes quiet. He hugs Bret tighter, like he’s anchoring himself.

“I don’t deserve you,” Steve murmurs.

Bret laughs softly, even though his chest hurts. “You absolutely do. I’m not a prize.”

“You are to me,” Steve says, very matter of fact.

That lands heavy. Bret’s heart stumbles.

“Hey,” Bret says gently. “You’re drunk.”

Steve hums. “Still true.”

They lie there, tangled and breathing, the space between them completely gone now. Bret can feel everything. Steve’s weight. Steve’s warmth. The steady rise and fall of his chest.

Steve’s hand slides absentmindedly over Bret’s side. Not intentional. Just comfort. Bret’s skin tingles everywhere it touches.

“Bret,” Steve murmurs, already half asleep. “Promise you won’t disappear.”

“I promise,” Bret says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve relaxes fully then. His body goes heavy and trusting. His breathing deepens.

Bret stays awake longer, staring into the dark, heart racing, trying to make sense of the feeling blooming in his chest. It feels like care. Like fear. Like something dangerous he doesn’t have a name for yet.

Carefully, he adjusts the blanket around them both. Steve murmurs but doesn’t wake.

Bret lets himself pull Steve closer. Just a little. Enough that they fit perfectly together.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. His thoughts blur. His grip loosens into something gentle and instinctive.

They fall asleep wrapped around each other, warm and safe and unaware of how much this is about to matter.

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