The room dimmed with the passing hours, shadows stretching long across the walls.
Wrapped in warmth, both had drifted, breaths syncing, the fever's sharp edge softened into uneasy sleep.
When Ethan stirred again, the light outside had shifted dusk bleeding into evening.
His eyes blinked open, heavy-lidded, and there he found him.
Gabriel, so close the lines of his face blurred into focus, the steady rhythm of his breathing a lull of its own.
They were lying face to face now, as though the world itself had folded smaller just for them.
Ethan didn't move. He only watched.
Every detail seemed to etch itself deeper the faint crease at Gabriel's brow, the way his lashes cut dark against his cheek, the rough edge of stubble catching the fading light.
Angel.
The word echoed in Ethan's head again, not fever-born this time, but something sharper, more certain.
Gabriel's lashes flickered, then lifted.
Their eyes met—his gaze still clouded with the weight of sleep until it sharpened, finding Ethan awake and watching.
For a long beat, he said nothing. Only raised his hand, steady as ever, and pressed his palm lightly to Ethan's forehead.
The heat had broken. Relief flickered in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable.
"Better," he murmured, almost to himself.
Ethan's mind, however, was far from relief. He didn't think about fevers or exhaustion or consequences. He didn't even think at all.
He just moved-leaning forward until their lips brushed, tentative at first, then firmer when Gabriel didn't pull away.
For a moment, the world stilled.
Gabriel's eyes closed, breath hitching, and he leaned into it slow, inevitable answering the kiss without words.
But then reality snapped like a whip.
Gabriel pulled back sharply, chest rising hard, eyes searching Ethan's as though for an anchor. His hand fell from the boy's temple, retreating.
"Don't," he said hoarsely, more to himself than Ethan, the word cracked with restraint.
Yet the echo of that kiss hung between them, fragile and unbroken, as if even Gabriel's retreat couldn't erase it.
The space between them widening like a barrier thrown up in haste.
His breath came uneven, though his face tried to harden into something steadier.
Ethan pushed himself up slowly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.
His body was still weak, but his eyes held a glint that no fever could burn away.
"Angel," he whispered, voice rough yet soft as if the word itself was a plea. He took a step forward, careful, deliberate.
Gabriel's hand shot up, not touching him, but halting him with air alone. "Stop," he said, the word clipped, frayed at the edges. "Don't come near."
Ethan tilted his head, studying him. No fear this time just a quiet kind of daring. His lips curled into the faintest smile.
"What's wrong?" he asked gently. "Afraid I'll fall for you again if I get too close?"
Gabriel's jaw clenched, but he didn't answer. His silence was louder than words, a silence that only made Ethan's grin deepen.
"Too late, Angel," Ethan murmured, voice low, teasing but tender, like a thread tugging at the walls Gabriel kept trying to build. "Already fell. Right in that alley. Remember?"
And for the first time that evening, the tension shifted not vanished, but thinned like the sharp edge of a storm softening into something neither could escape.
Gabriel's jaw flexed, and at last he broke the silence, his voice low but edged.
"Don't play games with me, Ace. You don't know what you're saying."
Ethan raised his brows, not moving back, not flinching. His smile tilted, faint and maddening.
"Oh, I know exactly what I'm saying. You just don't like hearing it."
Gabriel's throat worked. He turned slightly, as though the space between them could be widened by will alone, but Ethan's eyes followed him, warm, unyielding.
"You think this is a joke?" Gabriel muttered, frustration curling in his tone. "You don't even know me."
Ethan chuckled softly, the sound far too tender for mockery. "Maybe not. But I know what I feel when you look at me. And I know you feel it too, Angel."
The word lingered in the air like heat.
Gabriel's chest rose sharply, but he said nothing, eyes narrowing in warning that wasn't quite convincing.
Ethan leaned closer, just enough that Gabriel could feel the warmth of him without their bodies touching. His voice dropped, almost conspiratorial.
"Don't tell me to stop when you're the one who let me hold you."
For a beat, Gabriel couldn't breathe. He tore his gaze away, muttering under his breath, "You're impossible…"
But Ethan only grinned wider, as though that was exactly the answer he wanted.
Gabriel's shoulders were rigid, the distance he'd created between them already too fragile. His voice came out rougher than he meant.
"Stay where you are, Ace. Don't come closer."
Ethan tilted his head, smile lazy, eyes sharp with mischief.
"Why? Afraid I might catch you slipping, Angel?"
Gabriel's jaw clenched. "I'm not afraid of anything."
"Mm." Ethan dragged the sound out, stepping just close enough that Gabriel felt the warmth radiating from him. His voice softened, teasing but threaded with something real.
"Then why do your eyes keep running from mine?"
Gabriel's didn't answer. He turned, as if the angle of his body could shield him from those words.
Ethan chuckled low, leaning in a fraction.
"You keep telling me I don't know you. Fine. But answer me this_why did you let me hold you back there? Why didn't you push me away then?"
The question hung heavy between them. Gabriel's lips parted, but nothing came out. His chest rose and fell too fast for the stillness of the room.
Ethan's grin softened, almost tender.
"See? You can warn me all you like, Angel. But you can't lie to me. Not with those eyes."
Gabriel finally met his gaze, sharp, conflicted, but unable to look away.
For a fleeting second, his hand twitched like he almost reached for him. Almost.
Then he caught himself, straightened, and muttered under his breath, "You're impossible."
Ethan's smile broke wider, triumphant but warm, as though he'd just been handed proof of what he already knew.
Ethan edged closer, ignoring the warning in Gabriel's stare.
His hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly against Gabriel's forearm.
The touch was nothing bare skin to skin but Gabriel stiffened as if it carried fire.
Ethan's voice dropped, soft but sure.
"You can push me back all you want, Angel… but thank you. For not letting me drown out there. For staying."
Gabriel's lips parted, words caught somewhere in the back of his throat.
His chest rose too quick, but before he could shape a reply—
Grrrnnn.
The sound tore through the silence. Ethan froze. Gabriel blinked.
Ethan's cheeks flushed, but he grinned through it, hand still lingering on Gabriel's arm.
"Well. Thank goodness for timing. Otherwise, I was about to say something really dangerous."
Gabriel exhaled hard, half-frustrated, half-relieved, finally prying Ethan's hand off him.
"You're unbelievable."
"And hungry," Ethan shot back without shame, pressing a hand to his stomach. "What's for dinner, Angel? Don't tell me saving strays doesn't include feeding them."
For the first time that day, a reluctant twitch pulled at Gabriel's lips, almost_almost a smile.
He shook his head, stood abruptly, and said,
"Sit. Don't touch anything. I'll make something."
Ethan sprawled back on the blanket, hands behind his head, grin bright as if he'd won a small victory.
"Careful, Angel," he called after him, sing-song and unbothered. "You keep feeding me like this, I might never leave."
Gabriel didn't dignify that with an answer, but the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed him as he moved into the tiny kitchen.
The sound of pans clinking filled the space, steady, methodical.
Ethan shifted onto his elbow, eyes trailing after him.
"You know, I could help," he offered, then shrugged dramatically. "But honestly? I don't know how to cook. I mean....I once burned instant noodles. That takes talent."
Gabriel shot him a flat look over his shoulder, knife in hand, before returning to slicing vegetables with precise, quiet strokes.
Ethan grinned wider, encouraged by the silence.
"Seriously, though. Watching you do this… it's kind of unfair. Muscles, suits, and you cook? What are you, Angel? Some divine punishment sent just for me?"
"Or a curse," Gabriel muttered, more to the cutting board than to him.
Ethan sat up straighter, pretending to ponder.
"No, no, not a curse. Definitely divine punishment. God took one look at me and said, 'Yeah, this one needs humbling.' And then *bam*. He sends Gabriel."
The corners of Gabriel's mouth twitched again, betraying him for a heartbeat before he clamped it down.
He stirred the pan, shoulders tight with restraint, as Ethan's voice kept spilling into the small kitchen—relentless, playful, alive.
"Don't worry, I'll keep my distance," Ethan went on, reclining again with mock innocence. "Just saying… if the food's as good as breakfast, Angel, you might just have me worshipping at your stove every night."
The only reply was the low hiss of oil meeting heat but the faintest hum lingered in Gabriel's chest, almost like a laugh he wouldn't allow to escape.
Ethan watched him from the floor, chin propped on his hand, eyes soft with something he couldn't quite name yet.
This, he thought, this is what home feels like.