-Devon.
By the time I came, I wasn't even present for it.
My body gave in, but my mind had already started drifting elsewhere, detached and buzzing with the static of everything I couldn't say out loud. I pulled out, let myself fall back into the mattress, arm flung across my forehead, chest rising and falling like I'd just run for miles. I didn't look at him. I didn't touch him. I stared at the ceiling like it might offer answers, or at the very least, nothing at all.
Neither did he.
And just like that, I made the decision in my head.
Fine.If this is what it takes to keep you around, then I'll take it.
If you want this for stress relief, then that's what it is. That's what I'll let it be. You can have it for release, and I'll take it for something far more pathetic—for the illusion of closeness, for the hollow shape of something I once thought could be real. You'll get to feel lighter, and I'll get to feel like I matter, even if just for half an hour.
That night we walked home and you told me you missed me, I wanted to say it back so badly. Not the same way you said it. Not with that easy, pleading tone like you missed your friend, like you missed laughter or routine or dumb shared dinners. I wanted to tell you I missed you in the way that made my chest ache.
But I couldn't say it. I couldn't say I was hurt because I care about you. I couldn't say I have feelings for you without sounding like a walking cliché. Like the emotional one. Like the one who got too attached to a game that wasn't meant to be anything more than convenient.
So I flipped it.
I told you you were selfish. And you were. But that wasn't the full story. That wasn't the real wound. It wasn't just that you hurt me—it's that I let you, and I still came back for more.
The mattress shifted beside me as he got up, heading to the shower without a word, his bare back catching the bathroom light for a split second before the door clicked shut behind him. The sound of the water starting filled the room, dull and steady.
We'd been doing this for two weeks now.
Two weeks of touches that said everything we couldn't. Two weeks of pretending our bodies didn't mean anything. Two weeks of me biting down my anger and letting it bleed into the way I held him, the way I kissed him, the way I fucked him. And still, he never complained. No matter how rough I got, no matter how distant I became after, he never pushed back. He never even asked if I was okay.
And that made it worse.
Because I wasn't okay. I hated this. I hated myself afterward. Every single time. And still, I kept letting it happen. Because it was the only version of closeness he would allow.
Maybe I thought if I stayed long enough, if I wore the mask well enough, he'd see me underneath. Maybe I wanted him to crack first. To admit something. To feel something deeper than thanks, I needed that.
But no. All I got were half-hearted apologies, blank expressions, and I didn't mean it like that. No real resolve. No true reflection. Maybe because he really doesn't get it. Maybe he truly doesn't know what he did.
Or maybe he knows exactly what he's doing, and he just doesn't want to face what it means.
I wiped my hand down my face and pressed my fingers against my eyes until colors bloomed behind my lids.
Should I just tell him?
Just say it plainly—I'm in love with you, and this is killing me—and watch him pull away, watch him politely thank me for my honesty before leaving me behind for good?
Would it be better than this slow erosion?
I didn't know anymore.
All I knew was that I hated this.
And I hated that I still wanted him anyway.
The shower stopped. A few seconds later, I heard the rustle of a towel, the click of the door opening, and then Treasure stepped out, steam trailing behind him like a slow-moving ghost. His hair was damp, curling at the ends, and he had wrapped himself in the thin gray robe we usually fought over on laundry days. It clung to his frame, tied loosely at the waist, his collarbone still beaded with water.
He crossed the room with that easy, unbothered air he always had after a shower, and without hesitation, leaned over and kissed me—quick and soft, but not absent.
"Happy birthday," he said, grinning. "You really managed to turn twenty? That's crazy."
I blinked at him, dazed from the kiss. "Twenty-one."
"Right," he laughed, dropping onto the edge of the bed. "My bad. You're basically ancient now."
I let out a breath, leaning back into the pillows. "Was that birthday sex, then?"
He snorted. "No, I didn't take it for that. Don't flatter yourself."
Treasure stood, walked over to the closet where we kept our mess of folded laundry and old notebooks and half-broken things. From behind a stack of hoodies, he pulled out a small black gift bag and returned to sit beside me, legs tucked under him, his knee brushing mine.
"I got you something," he said, handing it to me like it wasn't a big deal. "I remember when we were younger, you were into those, so… I hope you still are."
I sat up, taking the bag. The handles were knotted together, like he'd made sure it wouldn't peek open. I loosened the tie and pulled out the box. It was simple, matte black, with a little weight to it. When I opened it, my breath caught in my throat.
A watch.
Silver trim, clean black face, no unnecessary details. It was neat. Understated. Beautiful. Exactly the kind of thing I would've spent hours staring at through glass displays but never dared to buy.
"How much was this?" I asked before I could stop myself. "You splurged on a watch? We don't even have that kind of money right now."
Treasure's expression dropped instantly. "Why do you care? I just gave you a gift and the first thing you say is how much is it? Are you fucking insane?"
"I'm sorry," I said quickly, regret rushing in. "I just… I don't feel like I deserve it. And I don't want you wasting money on me."
He didn't hesitate. His hand came up to cup my face, his palm warm against my cheek, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. Then he kissed me again—firmer this time, like punctuation. And when he pulled back, he looked me dead in the eye.
"I get to say what you deserve and what you don't," he said. "And I get a say in what I spend my money on. Don't worry—I still have enough to pay rent. Still have enough to eat. I can even buy myself that dumb new hoodie I wanted. And I'm saying you deserve this. So take the watch, say thank you, and shut the fuck up, Devon."
I felt myself soften beneath his words, the corners of my mouth pulling slightly upward. I leaned in, kissed him back slowly, and whispered, "Thank you. It's… really nice. It's perfect."
Treasure stood and wandered toward the mini fridge in the corner, pulling out a cold bottle of water. His robe slipped slightly as he leaned down, exposing the curve of his shoulder, but he didn't notice. Or maybe he didn't care.
"Are your parents coming this year?" he asked, twisting the cap off the bottle.
I shook my head. "I don't know. I don't think so."
He nodded once, casually, as if that answer didn't sting. "That's okay. I'll be your family this year."
The words hit me harder than I expected.
I turned my face away, not wanting him to see what that did to me. Because it was exactly the kind of thing Treasure would say without realizing the weight of it. Without knowing that it lodged itself deep inside me, where the love lived. Where the fear lived.
And in that moment, I thought—
Maybe I really need to stop this. Maybe I need to start suppressing whatever this is before it takes over everything.
Because he was right. He was like family. We'd known each other since we were kids. Since we were six or seven, kicking bags in karate class and cutting each other's hair in bathroom sinks. He'd grown up beside me, through every failure and every flameout. And that's what made it feel so wrong.
Because I wanted him.
Not in passing. Not in lust.
I wanted him like someone who couldn't tell the difference anymore between love and habit. Between needing someone and needing them.
And I couldn't afford to want him like that.
Because if I did… if I let that truth take shape, and he didn't feel the same…
I wouldn't just lose a crush. I'd lose my best friend. My anchor. My family.
So maybe this was just a phase. A fascination. Something I could outgrow, eventually, if I just stopped feeding it. Maybe I could bury it deep enough that it stopped asking to be seen.
Maybe if I convinced myself long enough, it'd finally let go of me.
Maybe.
And just like that, we were graduating.
It started with the bodyguard training. We passed our evaluations, earned the certificate, shook the hands we were supposed to shake, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the cohort, knowing we'd made it through something people didn't always take seriously—but we knew how grueling it had been. That piece of paper said we could protect someone's life. That we had precision, judgment, discipline. It meant something.
But the bigger one was yet to come.
Our actual graduation.
The one we had spent years crawling toward, on bare knees some days, with bags under our eyes and not enough food in the fridge and too many bills lined up on the table. It was surreal. University—college—was over. Physical education: completed. No more dragging ourselves across campus half-dead after a double shift. No more waiting for grades with our stomachs tied in knots. It was ending.
And it was huge.
The ceremony was held in the large university auditorium, decked out in banners with school colors, strings of lights curling above the crowd, and the dry rustle of fabric swishing as people fidgeted in their seats. The air smelled of perfume, sweat, hairspray, and flowers. Rows and rows of chairs, each filled with someone who got through it somehow. It felt like time had warped to bring us here.
I wore the cap and gown like armor.
It wasn't just a tradition. It was proof. That I'd survived it. That I had made something out of the mess I came from. I wasn't the boy from Riverfort anymore. I wasn't just Kevin's little brother or the kid who left karate class without saying goodbye. I was someone now. Not in a loud, flashy way. But in a steady, grounded one.
My mother came. She sat beside my sister, both of them dressed sharp, proud, tearful in that controlled way our family has of showing emotion. Kevin was there too, with his wife and the two kids climbing on his lap. The youngest kept playing with my tassel when I walked past them earlier, trying to grab it like it was a toy. I let him. I didn't mind. Seeing them there did something to my chest that I couldn't explain, something warm and painful all at once.
But what I didn't expect was to see Monica.
Miss Monica.
She sat two rows behind my mother, smaller than I remembered, but her face was exactly the same. Kind, patient, steady. She waved when she saw me looking. That simple wave nearly unspooled me. Treasure hadn't stopped smiling since the moment he spotted her. It lit up his face in a way that reminded me of who he used to be—before all of this, before us, before confusion turned our bond into a knot.
And then the names began.
The announcer's voice echoed across the room, calling names we'd heard a hundred times in our classes, friends and classmates rising to cross the stage with pride or relief or both. The clapping built like waves—some louder than others, depending on who was beloved, who was shy, who had a cheering section.
And then they called my name.
"Devon Miles Calloway."
I stood.
I walked down the aisle, my robe brushing against the sides of the chairs. I felt the stage under my feet, the glare of lights on my skin, the audience stretching wide in front of me. For a second, I didn't see them. I saw me—the version of myself who had nothing. Who used to sit in bed at sixteen wondering if anything would ever be okay. Who missed Treasure every day but never said it out loud.
Now, here I was.
I walked across that stage proud. Not because I had everything figured out, but because I didn't give up. I fought for this. I earned it. From nowhere to somewhere. And even now, standing up there, certificate handed into my palm like a key, I knew I still had so far to go. But that was okay. I could carry that weight. I had before.
I returned to my seat and looked down at the paper in my hands. It didn't feel real.
Then, a few students later, I heard it.
"Treasure Elian Quinn."
I turned instinctively.
Treasure stood slowly, adjusting his gown like it was slipping off one shoulder. His cap was slightly crooked, but he didn't fix it. He walked down the aisle grinning, eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto Monica. He raised his hand in a lazy little wave as he stepped onto the stage, and I watched as the light hit his face—sharp cheekbones, warm eyes, lips pulled into the kind of smile that made people fall in love with him without meaning to.
He took his certificate like he'd just won the lottery, and when he turned to face the audience, his eyes found mine.
And for that one second, he looked like he was shining.
I couldn't help it.
I smiled.
Because despite everything we'd been through—every word unsaid, every tangled feeling, every mistake—we'd made it here. Together.
And that had to mean something.
After the ceremony, we lingered in the bright swirl of post-graduation euphoria. There were flowers in people's arms, camera flashes from every direction, children darting between legs, and the scent of too many perfumes fighting for air. We hugged our families, took too many photos—Treasure's cap kept slipping off in every single one of mine—and for a few brief hours, everything felt light. Almost like we were just two normal guys who had made it out of university, who had done what they came to do.
My mom cried but tried to hide it. Kevin slapped my back so hard my shoulder ached. Monica gave Treasure a small handwritten note I wasn't allowed to read, and I saw his fingers tighten around it like it was something he'd keep for life. It felt good. It felt full.
But I couldn't stay long.
By five-thirty, I was peeling off my gown, buttoning up my black shirt, and heading toward the club. The air had started to cool by then, that kind of late-spring sharpness that hits just after sunset. I arrived earlier than I needed to. Part of it was habit. Part of it was that I didn't really want to go back to the apartment yet.
The back room smelled like sweat and metal and faint leftover cologne. The floor was dusty in places no one bothered to sweep. I found the crew sitting around a half-broken table, all leaning back in mismatched chairs, talking over one another, beers cracked open even though technically we weren't supposed to drink before our shifts. They were laughing about a fight that had broken out earlier in the week—some guy trying to smuggle in a bottle under his jacket, and the new hire completely misreading the situation and calling for backup like the guy had a weapon.
It felt good to laugh with them. Like I was easing back into a version of myself that still knew how to function in loud places.
And then the door creaked open. Trevor walked in like he had never left.
He wore dark jeans and a jacket too nice for this place. His beard was trimmed now, not the scruffy mess it used to be, and he had this calm weight about him—like someone who didn't have to prove anything anymore. A few of the guys clapped him on the back, called him by name. He smiled, sat down, pulled up a chair like he'd only missed a day or two.
Trevor used to work with us a couple years ago, back when I first started. He had a reputation—not loud, not aggressive, but solid. Reliable. He left all of a sudden, and rumors swirled like they always do. Some said he met a rich woman at the bar who decided he was worth saving. Others said he just got tired and found something better. Whatever it was, he never disappeared completely. He still came by sometimes. Some people forget where they came from. Trevor wasn't one of them.
He looked at me after a bit, like he'd been waiting for a quiet moment to shift the tone.
"So, Devon," he said, nodding once. "Heard you got certified."
I gave a small shrug. "Yeah. Like a week ago."
"With the firearm handling and protection license?"
"Yeah."
He nodded, pleased. "Good. Real good."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I know this guy, Jack Wallace. Runs an agency. Real deal. Not just weekend gigs and nightclub security. I'm actually a co-founder with him, helped set things up back when we didn't have more than two chairs and a clipboard."
I watched him talk, careful not to look too eager.
Trevor continued, "Anyway. We're expanding. Got a proper office now. Picking up real contracts. Celebrities. Private security for high-profile clients. Discrete work, sharp pay. It's growing faster than we thought."
He let that sit for a second before adding, "You should come by. Talk to Jack. See if you'd be a good fit. We're not looking for people who just pass the course—we want people who've lived through it. Earned it."
I nodded slowly, still not sure where this was going.
He saw the hesitation. "I know you still work this job," he said. "It's not like we're expecting you to leave everything behind tonight. But if we place you with someone, if you get picked up, then you won't need this anymore."
I folded my arms, trying to stay grounded. "Alright. You got a card or something?"
Trevor pulled a sleek business card from his wallet, held it between two fingers. "Jack's expecting to meet a few new faces next week. You show up, tell them I sent you. That'll carry weight."
I took the card.
It was matte, black, and simple. No frills. Just the name, the logo, and a phone number. It looked like something meant to be taken seriously.
Trevor leaned back and added, "And hey—if that friend of yours is certified too, bring him along. The quiet one. You know, the guy you're always running jobs with."
Treasure.
He didn't say the name, but he didn't have to. Everyone knew we came as a pair, even when we didn't move like one anymore. We'd been hustling side by side for years. If someone was offering me a step forward, it only made sense they'd ask about him too.
I looked down at the card again, flipped it between my fingers.
Could this be it?
The thing that opens a door wider than the ones we'd been standing in front of for years? The break that didn't come with a warning?
Maybe.
I tucked the card in my wallet and said nothing else.
But I didn't stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.
That night, I went home buzzing.
There was this pulse in me that wouldn't calm down, like I'd swallowed a live wire. I couldn't stop thinking about the card sitting in my wallet. The agency. The possibility. A door that didn't just creak open—it had been pushed wide, like it had been waiting for me.
I walked up the narrow stairwell, still a little damp from rain earlier in the evening. The apartment smelled like cheap incense and leftover noodles, probably from whatever Treasure had for dinner. The lights were dim, the small TV casting a blue glow across the floor. He was curled on the mattress, knees up, hoodie half-slipped off one shoulder, headphones over his ears, scrolling through something on his phone like the world wasn't about to shift.
I didn't say anything. I just nudged the edge of the mattress with my foot.
He glanced up, tugged one side of the headphones down. "Oh—you're back early."
I dropped my keys in the bowl and kicked off my boots. "Yeah. They wrapped up early tonight. It's midweek, wasn't much going on."
Treasure nodded absently, but I wasn't finished. I walked over, crouched near the mattress, and grinned.
"Listen. Some cool shit happened tonight. I need to tell you."
He blinked slowly, eyes still a little unfocused from whatever video he'd been watching. "Yeah?"
"Trevor. You remember me mentioning him before? He used to work at the club a couple years back. He still drops by sometimes. Anyway—turns out he's a co-founder of this private security firm now. Jack Wallace something, I forget the full name, but it's real. It's established. He said they're looking for people who've got the kind of certification we just earned. Like us. And they're expanding. Like, actual clients. Big ones. Real bodyguard work."
Treasure sat up straighter, his expression shifting from tired curiosity to something a little more alert.
"Like real bodyguards? Protecting people and all that?" he asked, his tone halfway between disbelief and amusement.
"Yeah," I said, still grinning. "I mean, isn't that what we've been training for? This is it. The point of all that work."
He laughed under his breath, rubbing at his face. "I don't know, man. I was kind of just there for the vibes."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding."
"I mean, I didn't think it would turn into anything like that. I liked the drills, the adrenaline, sure. But I didn't imagine we'd be, like, standing in front of actual celebrities trying to protect them from crazy fans or something."
"Well, I'm going," I said, sitting down beside him. "Think about it. If you come too, that'd be perfect. We'd work together. No more café shifts in the afternoon, no more you at the restaurant, me at the club at night. Just one job. One real job. Stable hours. Better pay. Maybe we finally get out of this apartment. Maybe we even get a car."
His face softened for a moment, eyes flickering toward the cracked ceiling above us.
"This could be the thing," I added. "The thing that gets us out."
"I know," he murmured. "But it's also… big. Don't you think I should start small? Ease into it? I mean, you've been a bouncer. You've dealt with real tension, real fights. You've seen shit. I haven't. I've only done the training. What if I mess it up?"
I shook my head. "You don't need to worry about that. Trevor didn't ask questions. He didn't care about resumes or backgrounds. He just asked if you were certified. That's it. If you are, you're in."
Treasure didn't answer, so I kept going.
"And you'll learn with time. I mean, we both will. It's not like they're gonna throw us into some VIP convoy on day one. We'll probably be manning doors or walking perimeters. But it's something. Better than running food to tables where no one tips."
He looked down at his hands, picking at the edge of his hoodie sleeve. That little habit he always had when his thoughts were spiraling.
"Just think about it, alright?" I said, quieter now. "You don't have to decide tonight."
He gave me a small nod.
And I could tell—he was actually considering it.
For once, I saw the same flicker of want in his expression that I'd been carrying around all night. The want for something better. Something more stable than this cracked apartment and this stitched-together routine of ours.
And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, we were thinking in the same direction.