Elias pushed the door open and the air left his lungs. Adrian Vale was shirtless on the lower bunk, a towel slung over one shoulder, skin still damp from the shower. Hockey-built—broad shoulders that seemed to take up half the room, the curve of his chest catching the yellow lamplight. Dark hair wet at the ends. Blue eyes cut through the dim and landed on him.
"You're Voss?"
Elias nodded. His throat had gone dry, the word stuck somewhere behind his tongue. The door clicked shut behind him and the room shrank. He could smell something clean and sharp—soap, fresh water, the warmth of a body still cooling from the heat.
Adrian's gaze dragged over him. Slow. From his glasses to the oversized sweater swallowing his shoulders to the duffel bag clutched in both hands. It wasn't a look—it was a weighing. Then the corner of his mouth lifted, just barely, and he looked away.
The smirk felt like a verdict Elias hadn't asked for.
His hands shook as he dropped the bag by the opposite bed. The thud was louder than he meant. He kept his eyes on the floor—scuffed linoleum, a crack running from the radiator to the window—because looking back at Adrian felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Adrian stretched, arms above his head, and the muscles in his back shifted under the damp skin. He didn't seem to care that Elias was in the room. He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, took a long drink, and settled back onto the mattress, one arm behind his head.
The room settled into silence. The radiator hissed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed and laughter faded.
Elias's pulse refused to settle. He could still smell the soap—something with bergamot, maybe—and it was everywhere, in the air, in his throat, in the sheets he'd have to sleep on for the next eight months.
He stood there, hands frozen at his sides, watching Adrian's chest rise and fall in the dim light. Adrian didn't look at him again. He just turned onto his side, facing the wall, and let the silence stretch.
Elias didn't move. The space between the two beds was barely three feet, but it felt like a country.
Elias stared at the floor. The crack in the linoleum, the rusted radiator leg, the dust motes swimming in the yellow light—anything but the broad back turned toward him. His chest felt too tight, his pulse a constant hum in his ears.
Then Adrian shifted. The mattress creaked. A soft exhale—not quite a sigh—and Elias felt the weight of something change in the air. He forced his gaze up.
Adrian had turned his head. Just slightly. His profile cut sharp against the dim wall, and his eyes—those blue eyes—were fixed on Elias. Waiting. No smirk. No judgment. Just a stare that said I see you standing there.
Elias's throat closed. He couldn't look away. The eye contact felt like a held breath, like the moment before a collision. Adrian didn't blink. Neither did he.
The radiator hissed. Somewhere a pipe groaned. The sound of a distant laugh echoed through the hallway, muffled by the door.
"You gonna stand there all night?" Adrian's voice was low, rougher than before. Not unkind. Just tired.
Elias's lips parted. Nothing came out. He swallowed, hard, and managed a shake of his head. "No. I—" His voice cracked. He stopped.
Adrian's gaze held for another heartbeat. Then the corner of his mouth twitched—not a smirk this time. Something softer. He turned back to the wall, pulling the thin blanket up over his shoulder.
"Lights off when you're done," he said, the words muffled against the pillow. "I've got practice at five."
Elias's fingers trembled as he reached for the desk lamp. The click of the switch was deafening in the silence. Darkness swallowed the room—the hiss of the radiator, the soft rhythm of Adrian's breathing, the ghost of bergamot still lodged in Elias's lungs.
He stood there a moment longer, blind in the dark, before finding the edge of his bed by touch. The sheets were cold. He didn't change. He just lay down, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the man three feet away breathe.
His phone buzzed against the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark space above his head. Elias fumbled for it, the glow catching his fingers—pale, trembling, the ink stains dark against his skin. The notification read Mom.
He unlocked it without thinking. The brightness flooded his face, casting his features into sharp relief against the shadowed ceiling. Got your text. Settled in okay? Your father says hello.
Elias blinked against the light, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He typed Yeah, then deleted it. Typed It's fine, deleted that too. The cursor blinked at him, patient and empty.
Across the room, he heard Adrian shift. The mattress creaked. A soft exhale, the sound of someone turning over. Elias's thumb froze. The phone tilted in his grip, and the glow slid across the ceiling, catching the edge of the other bunk.
Adrian's face was half-lit now. His eyes were closed, but the light had touched him—the sharp line of his jaw, the dark arc of his brow, the faint shadow beneath his cheekbone. He looked younger like this. Softer. The violence of his body asleep.
Elias's pulse stumbled. He watched the slow rise and fall of Adrian's chest beneath the thin blanket, the way his arm hung loose over the edge of the mattress. In the dim glow, the scar on his knuckle was visible—a pale line against olive skin.
His phone screen dimmed. The room sank back into darkness, but the image stayed behind his eyes.
Elias pressed his phone against his chest and stared at the ceiling, heart still hammering. The radiator hissed. The silence pressed in. He could still smell bergamot, lingering in the air, in the sheets, in his lungs.
He didn't type a reply. He just held the phone, the screen dark now, and listened to the rhythm of Adrian's breathing—steady, deep, close enough to reach.