Noah's fingers tightened slightly around Evan's wrist.
Not to stop him.
Not to hold him captive.
Just to feel him.
To confirm that he was warm. That he was solid. That he hadn't slipped back into the fragile, half-real thing Noah sometimes feared he was becoming.
A heartbeat lived beneath Noah's thumb.
Fast.
Unsteady.
Human.
He held it for one quiet moment longer than necessary before letting go.
His other hand rose slowly, uncertain in a way his hands never were when holding weapons or files or steering wheels. This was unfamiliar territory. Dangerous in a different way.
He touched the side of Evan's neck.
Soft.
Too soft for a world like theirs.
His thumb brushed the hollow beneath Evan's jaw.
Evan inhaled sharply.
Then—without thinking, without planning—tilted his head into the touch.
A small movement.
But it felt like trust.
Something inside Noah shifted.
He had always known himself as a creature of control. Of distance. Of sharp edges and sharper instincts.
But here, with Evan trembling quietly under his hands, he discovered something else.
A gentler animal.
One that knew how to be careful.
The space between them closed, not in a rush, but in a slow surrender to gravity.
Their lips met.
The kiss was quiet.
Uncertain.
Built from restraint and months of fear and unsaid longing.
Evan's breath ghosted against Noah's mouth before he dared to respond, hesitant at first—like he was waiting for permission to exist in this moment.
Then he did.
Softly.
Fully.
The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the fragile press of bodies learning each other's language.
When they finally parted, their foreheads rested together, breaths tangled.
Noah whispered his name like it was something sacred.
"Evan."
"Still here," Evan murmured, almost surprised by it himself.
His hands came up slowly, resting on Noah's chest, over the steady rhythm beneath his borrowed shirt.
He felt it.
Proof that Noah was real too.
Noah's hands drifted downward, tracing Evan's sides, careful along his ribs as if learning the shape of something precious. They settled at his hips, grounding him, pulling him just close enough to erase the last fragile distance.
The room held its breath.
Evan's fingers curled into Noah's shirt.
He wasn't pulling him closer.
He wasn't pushing him away.
He was anchoring himself to something solid before courage could vanish.
"You're shaking," Noah whispered.
Evan let out a quiet, broken laugh.
"I always do."
Noah shook his head faintly. "Not like this."
His thumb brushed Evan's side again, slow and reverent.
Evan closed his eyes.
"I don't know how to do this."
Noah rested his forehead against his.
"Me neither."
And somehow, that made it safer.
They stood there, breathing each other in.
Rain whispered against the windows.
The city moved on, unaware.
Inside the small apartment, something delicate unfolded.
"You don't have to be strong with me," Noah said.
Evan swallowed.
"I don't know how to turn it off."
"Then don't."
Noah didn't chase his mouth again.
He stayed close.
Evan shifted first.
Closer.
He rested his forehead against Noah's shoulder, where his heartbeat lived openly beneath skin.
Testing the shape of safety.
Noah froze.
Then wrapped one arm around him.
Not tight.
Not claiming.
Just… there.
Evan melted into it.
The tension he carried in his bones loosened, inch by inch, like frost thawing after a long winter.
He had been touched before.
But never like this.
Never without expectation.
Never without calculation.
Never with gentleness that asked for nothing in return.
Noah held him like he was something fragile and rare.
And for the first time, Evan believed he might be.
"I'm not used to quiet that doesn't want something from me," Evan whispered.
Noah's voice was rough. "It can want you. That's all."
Evan closed his eyes.
He was scared.
His heartbeat too fast.
His thoughts trembled.
But he didn't want this night to end.
Didn't want to analyze it.
Didn't want to protect himself from it.
He wanted to be inside it.
To keep it.
To remember what it felt like to be chosen.
Noah tilted his head slightly, his lips brushing Evan's hair, his temple, his skin—small, reverent gestures, like learning a sacred text written in warmth and breath.
Evan's hands slipped under Noah's jacket, clutching fabric like he might fall if he let go.
They moved together slowly, quietly—toward the bedroom, toward the fragile privacy of shadows and rain-muted glass.
No urgency.
No hunger sharp enough to hurt.
Only the quiet gravity of two lonely souls finding shelter in each other's arms.
The door closed softly behind them.
The city never heard.
The night kept their secret.
Far away,
in a room where no warmth lived,
a screen went dark.
A man leaned back in his chair.
Smiling.
"No more games," he whispered.
"No more dogs chasing cats."
His eyes gleamed.
"Now… it's time for the real hunt."
The knife buried itself in the wall, its blade piercing straight through a photograph.
Noah's photograph.