By the time the credits rolled on the second movie—a grainy sci-fi film with a creature made entirely of cardboard and fog machines—both Trench and Darling were starting to nod off. Trench blinked slowly, adjusting his head against the back of the couch, his neck stiff and mind fuzzy from the long day and the wine.

Darling shifted beside him, stifling a yawn. "I should probably head out before I become one with your upholstery."

Trench murmured, "You could stay. If you want."

Darling paused mid-yawn, blinking.

"You don't have to sleep on the couch," Trench added, more awake now, a touch of uncertainty in his voice. "It's late. You've been drinking. I've got a spare room—or, hell, you could share my bed. I don't mind. Just… stay."

Darling looked at him, eyes soft behind his glasses. "Okay," he said, quiet but sure. "I'll stay."

Trench stood, stretching, and disappeared down the hall. A few minutes later, he returned with a neatly folded pair of old pajamas—navy cotton pants, a T-shirt from a long-defunct Bureau softball team.

"They're clean," Trench said. "Ignore the logo. It was a mandatory team-building exercise."

Darling chuckled. "I can already feel the camaraderie radiating from the shirt."

Trench didn't watch him change—just turned toward the dresser to pull out his own clothes, only glancing back once Darling had disappeared into the bathroom. When Darling returned, toweling his hands dry, Trench caught sight of the way the borrowed shirt clung slightly to his arms. There was a quiet strength there, understated but undeniable—solid muscle beneath pale skin, usually hidden behind layers of lab coats and sweater vests.

Trench felt something stir in his chest. Not lust, not quite. Just awareness. Curiosity. A deeper noticing.

Still, he kept his eyes on the bed as he sat down, patting the other side lightly. "I, uh… I want to take things slow," he said, voice just above a whisper. "If that's okay."

Darling nodded without hesitation. "More than okay."

"I mean—I'm fine with this." Trench gestured between them, vague but sincere. "With… closeness. But not—nothing else. Not yet."

Darling smiled gently, warm and understanding. "Zach, I'm not expecting anything. I just like being here."

They settled under the covers, both staring at the ceiling for a while. The room smelled faintly of clean laundry and cedar. Outside the window, rain had started tapping gently against the glass—slow, steady, grounding. The ceiling fan clicked softly above them. It was Trench who finally broke the silence.

"Your eyes," he said, almost absently. "They're really something."

Darling turned his head. "Brown. Common. Kind of boring."

Trench shook his head. "Not boring. Not yours. There's this warmth to them. Like they remember sunlight even when it's dark out. And your smile. You've got a nice one. Makes the room feel lighter."

He felt more than heard Darling's breath hitch. "You're being sweet," Darling said, voice soft with surprise. "I like this version of you."

"It's still me," Trench said, lips twitching. "Just… a part of me I don't show at work."

"Then I'm lucky," Darling whispered.

Silence stretched again, but it was the kind that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just comfort, just warmth.

When sleep finally came, it came easily. And Trench, for the first time since before the divorce was even finalized, didn't wake up with the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.

He woke with the slow realization that someone he trusted was still there beside him—and that maybe, just maybe, he could let himself want more.

But not yet.

And that was okay.