Chapter Text
The gravel path beneath their feet crunched quietly as Griffin and Billy walked side by side, the warmth of the day giving way to the cool hush of early night. The air still held the scent of distant, sun-warmed grass, but now the breeze carried something quieter: damp bark, street dust, and the faintest trace of wood smoke. Crickets had started up along the edges of the tree line, their soft, rhythmic chirping filling the silence that stretched between them.
They hadn’t said much since leaving the playground.
Griffin’s heart was still thudding in that same uneven rhythm it had found back at the fence, like it didn’t know what to do with the aftershocks of that moment of Billy’s forehead against his, of those nearly-spoken confessions, of fingers brushing together like secrets half-said.
He hadn’t meant for it to happen like that. He wasn’t even sure what it was, only that it felt important. Bigger than the two of them. And fragile.
Now, walking with Billy through the neighborhood that had always felt too small, Griffin couldn’t stop replaying it—every glance, every breath they shared, every time he almost leaned forward and didn’t.
Billy’s hands were in his pockets, the shape of his shoulders easy and unhurried, but there was a tightness in the corners of his mouth that Griffin recognized. Billy was thinking, too. Hard. Probably waiting for him to say something first.
Griffin glanced over at him, unsure of what he hoped to see. Billy’s profile was lit gold by the last fingers of light brushing the tops of the rooftops, his brow furrowed just slightly, like he was stuck between wanting to speak and not wanting to break whatever delicate thing was holding them together right now.
They passed the old market, closed early for the night, its sign flickering like it always did. A loose flyer on the bulletin board fluttered in the wind—a piano teacher ad, half torn, dancing quietly behind the glass.
Griffin cleared his throat. “So…”
Billy looked over. “Yeah?”
Griffin hesitated. “You okay?”
It came out too soft, like something too big wrapped in words too small.
Billy nodded slowly. “Yeah. Are you?”
Griffin gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think so.”
“Yeah?” Billy asked, and there was something gentler in his voice now. “You sure?”
“No,” Griffin admitted.
That made Billy smile—small, crooked. “Me neither.”
Griffin tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket and looked down at the sidewalk. They walked for a while like that—past the church with the busted bell tower, past the faded mural outside the rec center, past the mailbox where Billy once dropped off an apology letter to Vance after a fight in sophomore year. The memories clung to the landscape like mist. The same streets, the same houses, but now everything felt different.
Griffin’s mind wouldn’t shut up.
What does he think that meant?
Was it just the moment?
Did I ruin something by not saying more?
Why didn’t I move?
Why didn’t he?
He stole another glance at Billy. His eyes were forward again, jaw working like he was chewing on a thought he couldn’t quite swallow.
“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” Griffin said, his voice a little hoarse.
Billy blinked and looked at him, surprised. “You didn’t.”
“I feel like I did.”
“You didn’t,” Billy repeated, firmer this time. “Griff… I was there too, remember?”
Griffin’s chest tightened, and his fingers curled in his pockets.
“I wanted that moment just as much as you did,” Billy added quietly. “You didn’t make it weird.”
Griffin nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Okay.”
Another long pause stretched between them. The wind kicked up, tugging at Griffin’s hair. He thought about all the words he wanted to say but didn’t know how to start. I wanted to kiss you. I want to leave this town more than anything. I think I’m scared to do either of those things alone.
They reached the corner where their paths usually split.
Billy slowed, then stopped.
Griffin stopped, too. They stood facing each other, the streetlamp humming faintly overhead, casting soft light on their faces.
“I guess this is me,” Billy said, motioning with his chin toward the street that led to his place.
Griffin nodded, feeling his throat tighten.
Billy didn’t move right away.
His hands were still buried in his jacket pockets, but he was leaning forward slightly—like he wasn’t ready to go, like he was waiting.
Griffin met his eyes. “Tomorrow?”
Billy’s face softened, and a small, real smile pulled at his mouth. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Griffin nodded again. He didn’t move either, not at first. But eventually, he offered a faint wave and turned down his street, hearing Billy’s footsteps start in the opposite direction behind him.
Neither of them looked back.
The quiet returned the moment Billy’s footsteps faded behind him.
Griffin walked the rest of the way with his hands still buried in his hoodie pocket, shoulders hunched against the wind that had picked up since the sun went down. The sky was dark now, soft navy bleeding into black. The streetlights buzzed overhead with that old electric hum, casting pale, broken halos on the cracked sidewalk.
Each step echoed the weight of that moment at the fence, then the street corner. He didn’t know what to make of it. It was real, he knew that. The way Billy’s voice dropped when he said, “I wouldn’t go without you.” The way he touched Griffin’s wrist meant something like he meant something.
But now it all felt slippery, like a dream already fading around the edges.
He reached the front of the apartment complex—a squat two-story building with peeling paint and rusted stair rails—and climbed the creaking steps to the second floor. The light above the door flickered once before going dark completely.
He let out a breath, then slipped his key into the lock and pushed the door open quietly.
The apartment was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft blue glow of the TV in the corner of the living room. The news was on, muted. A rerun of the local station—two anchors smiling through a segment on a city council meeting no one cared about. The air inside smelled like stale coffee and the faint sour tang of leftover takeout.
His mom sat at the kitchen table in her faded robe, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, and a lukewarm mug of tea sitting untouched next to her elbow. Her eyes flicked toward the door when he stepped in.
“You’re late,” she said, not unkindly.
Griffin paused in the doorway, hand still on the knob. “Yeah.”
She took a long drag from the cigarette, then tapped the ash into the chipped ceramic tray in front of her. “Where were you?”
“Out,” he said, kicking his shoes off quietly. “With Billy.”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly—not in suspicion, exactly, but in something harder to place. “You two have been spending a lot of time together lately.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
A beat passed.
“You eat?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“There’s chicken in the fridge if you get hungry.”
Griffin gave a noncommittal grunt and headed for the hallway.
She didn’t stop him—but she didn’t let him leave cleanly, either.
“You okay?” she asked, voice softer now.
He froze in the hall, one hand on the frame of his bedroom door. The question hung in the air like smoke—faint, curling, half-hearted.
“Yeah,” he said after a pause.
She didn’t press. Just nodded once and turned back to the TV, her face half-lit by the flickering screen. Her cigarette had burned almost to the filter.
Griffin slipped into his room and shut the door behind him, the quiet even heavier in here. He didn’t bother turning on the light—just crossed the room in the dark and dropped his bag onto the floor beside his desk.
The sketchpad was still open where he’d left it that morning. The coastline. The cliffs. The curve of the ocean.
He hadn’t added anything yet. Not the two figures on the edge. Not until he was sure he wasn’t making it all up in his head.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his phone.
Part of him wanted to leave it alone. To not poke at the moment too much. If it meant something, maybe it was better not to analyze it. But his fingers itched to say something. Just enough to keep the thread between them from fraying overnight.
He tapped open his messages with Billy.
griff:
Did you get home okay?
The dots appeared almost immediately.
billy:
Yeah. You?
Griffin felt something unclench in his chest.
griff:
Yeah.
He didn’t send anything else. Neither did Billy.
But the messages stayed open on his screen until his eyes grew heavy, the soft blue light illuminating the room in place of a lamp. He lay back on his pillow and let the phone slip from his fingers, resting face-up on the blanket beside him.
The silence in Griffin’s room wasn’t new. It was a silence he knew too well — not the absence of sound, but the fullness of it. The kind that pressed against his chest and made it harder to breathe.
His bed was soft, familiar, but even with the weight of the blankets pulled over him, he didn’t feel grounded. The air had cooled since he walked in, and his fingers were still cold despite the warmth of his hoodie sleeves.
His phone sat on the blanket beside him, still glowing faintly. Billy’s name on the screen felt like a presence — quiet, patient. Griffin turned it face down, plunging the room into complete darkness, and closed his eyes.
But his mind didn’t stop.
It replayed everything in flashes.
The rusted fence.
Billy’s voice.
“You wouldn’t have to do it alone.”
That line had split something open in him.
He hadn’t realized how long he’d been telling himself the opposite, that no one could come with him into the dark, that it wasn’t fair to ask anyone to try. Not when he didn’t even have the words to explain it.
But Billy hadn’t asked for an explanation. He hadn’t flinched or pushed. He’d just been there, his forehead resting against Griffin’s, his hand warm and steady on Griffin’s wrist, like he belonged there.
And that was what scared him most.
Because Griffin didn’t know what to do with being seen like that. Or with the ache in his chest that hadn’t gone away since.
He turned onto his side and stared at the wall. His eyes adjusted to the dark slowly, outlining the familiar shapes of his room: the curve of his desk lamp, the tower of sketchbooks stacked under the windowsill, the old hoodie draped over the chair like a person waiting to say something.
A memory surfaced, uninvited.
He was nine, maybe ten, sitting on the floor of the living room, pencil in hand, paper balanced on a hardcover book. His mom was on the couch behind him, phone to her ear, voice low and tired. Griffin had been trying to draw the street outside. The sidewalk cracks, the angle of the neighbor’s porch, the loose siding on the building across the street. He’d gotten the perspective wrong, and the lines kept smudging. He’d been frustrated, close to tears, when she leaned forward, plucked the pencil from his hand, and said, “Let it breathe, kid. Don’t press so hard.”
Then she’d ruffled his hair, a rare smile tugging at her mouth, and went back to her call.
That was one of the last times she gave him drawing advice. Not because she didn’t care, he didn’t think that was it, but because things got harder after that. She picked up extra shifts. The apartment got smaller, somehow. And she stopped smiling as much. Not because she didn’t want to, Griffin figured, but because maybe she just forgot how.
Still, she never once told him to stop drawing. Never once threw out a sketch or tell him to grow up. That had to mean something.
He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling.
Tonight, she’d asked if he was okay. That was something too.
She hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t guilted. Just asked.
Griffin sighed and pulled the blanket up over his chest.
He wanted to tell her everything. About the fence. About the breathless moment under the streetlamp. About how he wasn’t sure what he felt, or how to name it, but that it mattered. He wanted to say: I think I’m falling for someone, and I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what happens next.
But how do you say that to a mom who can barely ask you how your day was?
The words felt too delicate for this apartment, too real for the quiet war they both fought not to disappoint each other.
His fingers itched for his sketchpad.
But he didn’t reach for it. Not yet.
Instead, he rolled onto his side and stared at the faint line of light leaking through the base of his door. The sound of the TV was barely there now — just a low murmur under the static hush of silence.
Then, quietly, he heard his mom get up. The creak of her chair. The soft clink of her mug hitting the sink. The television clicked off, and for a moment, he thought she might come knock on his door.
She didn’t.
He wasn’t surprised. Just… disappointed in a way he couldn’t explain.
A few minutes later, he reached for his phone again.
Billy’s last text was still there: Yeah. You?
Griffin stared at the thread for a long time. His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
There were a thousand things he wanted to say.
I keep thinking about your hand on my wrist.
I wanted to kiss you.
I’m scared.
I think you’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not drowning.
But instead, he typed:
griff:
Thanks for walking with me.
Billy didn’t reply right away.
Griffin thought maybe that was the end of it.
Then, after a full minute:
billy:
Always.
Griffin’s chest clenched. He exhaled through his nose, his smile barely there, but real.
He set the phone back on his nightstand, rolled over, and let the quiet of the room settle around him like fog. His body ached with a tiredness he hadn’t felt in weeks — the kind that came from feeling too much in too little time.
Outside, a dog barked once and was silenced. A car rumbled down the street, headlights sweeping briefly across the ceiling before vanishing into the night.
Griffin let his eyes drift shut.
Tomorrow would come, whether he was ready or not.
But for tonight, this was enough. For the first time in weeks, sleep came without a fight.
————————————————
Griffin woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of water running in the kitchen — not loud, just enough to know he wasn’t alone in the apartment. His bedroom was still dim, the morning light leaking in through the blinds in pale slats that stretched across the floor like prison bars.
He lay there for a minute, watching the dust drift lazily in the sunlight, his phone still clutched loosely in one hand. The text from Billy — “Always.” — sat open on the screen, the timestamp from just after midnight. He hadn’t answered. He didn’t need to.
It said everything.
His chest was tight in that familiar way — the slow-building anxiety that always hit before school. But today it was different. Sharper. Not fear, exactly, but exposure. Like the world had shifted a degree overnight, and now everyone would know.
Know what, though?
Nothing had really happened. Not technically. No one had said the words. There hadn’t been a kiss. Just a shared breath. A hand on a wrist. A promise wrapped in silence.
Still, Griffin’s nerves fluttered under his skin.
He forced himself to sit up, rubbing a hand over his face. His stomach felt hollow, nerves curled tight inside it. But when he pulled open his drawer and reached for a hoodie, he paused, hand hovering.
The gray one was on top — the one he always wore, the one that made him feel invisible.
He pushed it aside and grabbed the navy one instead. The one Billy had once said made his eyes look like the ocean in that sketch of Big Sur.
It was a small thing. But it felt like something.
-------------------------------------------------------
By the time he got to school, the morning felt like it was already moving too fast.
Lockers slammed. Voices echoed. Someone’s earbuds were turned up too loud, leaking tinny guitar riffs into the hallway air. Griffin kept his head down as he wove through the crowd, the strap of his backpack cutting into his shoulder.
He saw Billy before Billy saw him.
Just ahead, leaning against a locker with one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, Billy was laughing at something Bruce said — that easy, half-laugh that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. He looked tired, but good. Relaxed in that way only Billy seemed capable of. Like the chaos of the world never touched him directly.
Finney stood off to the side, watching Robin unwrap a granola bar like it was a high-stakes mission. Vance hadn’t shown up yet — which was either a blessing or a warning sign.
Griffin slowed down, uncertain for a second if he should just keep walking. Slide into homeroom like nothing happened. Pretend yesterday was a story he made up in his head.
But Billy looked up.
And his whole face changed.
It wasn’t huge — not a grin, not a wave — just this subtle shift in his posture. His shoulders straightened, his eyes lit up, and for half a second, he looked like he might move toward Griffin.
He didn’t. Not with everyone watching. But the moment was there, suspended between them like a breath held too long.
Bruce noticed first.
His eyes flicked from Billy to Griffin and back again. A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, but he said nothing. Just nodded once at Griffin — easy, polite — and went back to teasing Finney about his pitch speed.
Robin was next.
He didn’t say anything either, but his gaze lingered longer. Calculating. Not judging, exactly, but definitely noticing.
And then there was Finney — quiet, observant Finney — who caught the whole thing like a snap in the air.
He looked at Griffin, blinked once, then leaned into Robin’s shoulder and whispered something under his breath.
Robin snorted. “For real?”
Finney shrugged, like you saw it too, don’t pretend you didn’t.
Griffin’s stomach twisted.
He finally reached the group, nodding awkwardly in greeting.
Billy, always steady, didn’t miss a beat. “Hey,” he said casually, like it wasn’t the first time they were seeing each other after everything. “You sleep?”
Griffin nodded. “Kinda.”
Billy smiled — soft, just for him. “Same.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Vance’s voice rang out down the hall like a firecracker.
“Are you losers flirting already, or did I catch this romantic tension thing just in time?”
He swaggered toward them with that loose, reckless confidence that always made people look twice. His hoodie was half-zipped, and his hair was still damp from a rushed shower. Bruce reached out to slap the back of his head.
“Be cool,” Bruce muttered, but Vance just grinned and draped his arm over Billy’s shoulder, ignoring the warning.
“Come on,” Vance said, mock-sweet. “Tell the group how in love you two are.”
Griffin flushed instantly.
Billy just rolled his eyes. “You’re projecting again, Vance.”
“Me? Never.” Vance smirked. “Just saying. I saw you guys at lunch yesterday. And a study hall. And the day before that. You’re not exactly low-key, man.”
“Maybe I like my friends,” Billy said flatly.
“Sure,” Robin muttered, chewing on a granola bar like it owed him money.
Bruce gave Griffin a glance — not pitying, not smug — just checking in. A silent you?
Griffin nodded once.
Finney offered him half a smile. “Don’t let them get to you,” he said, and it was the first time he’d spoken directly to Griffin. His voice was soft but honest.
Griffin blinked. “Thanks.”
The bell rang.
As the group started to scatter, Billy fell into step beside Griffin.
“You okay?” he asked under his breath.
Griffin shrugged. “They’re not wrong.”
Billy smiled sideways at him. “They don’t have to be.”
Griffin didn’t respond, but something in his chest eased just a little.
He wasn’t used to this. Being noticed. Being seen.
But maybe, with Billy beside him, it wouldn’t be so bad.
By the third period, Griffin was unraveling.
Not outwardly. On the surface, he kept it together — took notes, kept his eyes down, answered a question about the Spanish Civil War when Ms. Trevino called on him. But inside? Inside was a completely different story.
His thoughts were a mess — looping, clawing, turning in on themselves.
Did Finney whisper about me? Did Robin laugh because he thinks it’s funny? Does Bruce know? What if Vance tells someone? What if Billy changes his mind now that people are noticing? What if this whole thing collapses the second someone says it out loud?
He kept replaying that moment at the lockers. The way Billy had looked at him — soft, sure. The way the group had watched. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither of them had. But it didn’t matter.
Because being seen — seen — felt dangerous.
It made everything fragile. Breakable. Like if someone looked too closely, they’d ruin it without even trying.
Griffin shifted in his seat and pulled his hoodie sleeves down over his hands. His palms were sweaty, and his throat felt tight.
He knew this feeling. Knew it too well.
This was what it felt like right before everything went wrong.
At lunch, it got worse.
They sat at their usual table in the back corner of the cafeteria, half-shielded by a vending machine and a row of old lockers. But even in that little bubble, Griffin could feel eyes. He imagined them, maybe — or maybe they were real. It didn’t matter. The feeling was the same.
Billy was across from him, talking with Bruce about baseball schedules. Robin was trying to convince Finney to skip sixth period. Vance was texting someone under the table and laughing to himself.
No one was looking at Griffin. But he still couldn’t breathe right.
Every time Billy’s knee bumped his under the table, Griffin flinched like he’d been shocked. Not because he didn’t want the contact — he did — but because it felt like someone might notice. Someone might know.
He poked at his lunch and said nothing.
Billy glanced at him a few times, brows pulled slightly together like he knew something was off. But he didn’t say anything. Not in front of the group.
Griffin appreciated that. Even if it made the silence feel worse.
Robin tossed a grape across the table and hit Vance in the forehead. “You gonna ask Bruce to the Sadie Hawkins dance or am I gonna have to do it for you?”
Vance caught the next grape midair. “We both know I’d make a hotter date.”
Bruce smirked. “You say that like it isn’t already settled.”
“Gross,” Finney mumbled, but he was smiling as he leaned against Robin’s shoulder.
Billy chuckled softly, then looked over at Griffin, voice quieter now. “You okay?”
Griffin nodded too fast. “Yeah.”
Billy didn’t push. Just nudged Griffin’s foot gently under the table.
It grounded him, but barely.
------------------------------------------------------
After lunch, Griffin ducked into the bathroom and locked himself in a stall.
He sat on the closed toilet lid, backpack in his lap, staring at the graffiti scratched into the door. Eddie + Marco, Sam sucks, fuck this school.
He felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.
He didn’t want to be scared. He wanted to be like Billy — steady, unbothered, unflinching in the face of attention. But he wasn’t. His body didn’t work that way. His brain didn’t work that way.
People noticing things about him never led to good outcomes. People noticing made him a target. Too quiet. Too weird. Too soft.
Too gay.
He rubbed his hands over his face.
I’m not even out. He’d never said the word out loud. Not to his mom. Not to his friends. Not even to Billy.
Not yet.
So why did it already feel like the whole school was holding its breath, waiting for him to slip?
He avoided Billy for most of the fifth period.
Then, right before sixth, he felt a gentle tug at his hoodie sleeve while he stood at his locker.
“Hey,” Billy said quietly.
Griffin jumped, startled, then looked around quickly. “What—?”
Billy stepped back, hands raised. “Sorry. I just… wanted to check on you.”
Griffin swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”
Billy tilted his head. “You sure?”
“No.” It slipped out before Griffin could stop it. Then he winced. “Sorry. I just…”
Billy nodded. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
Griffin looked at him. “Do you?”
“Yeah.” Billy offered a small smile. “I see you panicking. I’ve seen it before. Not like this, but… You know. I’m not gonna push.”
Griffin’s chest cracked open a little at that. Just a sliver.
Billy leaned against the locker beside him. “I don’t care what they think, by the way. Robin. Vance. Whoever else. Doesn’t change anything for me.”
Griffin nodded slowly. “I know. I just… I do care. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”
“That’s okay.”
“It doesn’t scare you?”
Billy hesitated, then said, “Yeah. A little. But you scare me more.”
Griffin blinked. “What?”
Billy grinned. “In a good way.”
Griffin laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it cracked the tension in his chest just enough to let some air in.
Billy bumped his shoulder against Griffin’s. “We’ll take it slow, okay? No pressure. No announcements.”
Griffin nodded. “Thanks.”
They stood there a moment longer, just breathing side by side.
Then the bell rang.
Billy pushed off the locker. “Wanna meet up after school? We don’t have to do anything. Just hang.”
Griffin nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Billy smiled, something soft and real, and walked off down the hall.
Griffin watched him go, his heartbeat slowing for the first time all day.
Maybe he didn’t have to panic. Maybe not everything had to feel like a trap.
Maybe, just maybe, he could want this and be scared.
Maybe both things could be true.
They hadn’t meant to stay so long.
What started as a quick walk to the public library after last bell had turned into two hours tucked into the Archive Wing with barely a word spoken between them — just sketches passed back and forth, stories murmured under breath, and that sense of something blooming between them. Quiet. Real.
The sun outside had already dipped low, slanting across the carpeted floor through the warped glass windows. Griffin had no idea how late it was — but the library’s usual gentle buzz had shifted. It was quieter now, heavier, like the space itself was starting to close in.
Billy sat on the floor beside him, one long leg stretched out, the other folded beneath him as he leaned against the shelf. Griffin’s sketchbook rested between them.
“You still haven’t drawn the bridge,” Billy said, voice low, tapping the edge of a blank page.
Griffin glanced at him. “What bridge?”
“The one from the coast sketch. The one I added us to. Every time I picture it now, I think we’re standing on a bridge. Not a cliff.”
Griffin felt the warmth rise in his chest — not embarrassment, but something… tender. Dangerous.
“I’ll draw it,” he said.
But before he could move, voices drifted in from the far end of the library.
“Third floor’s supposed to be locked, isn’t it?” someone called — a man’s voice, unfamiliar and close.
Another voice replied, annoyed: “Apparently, someone left the Archive access open again.”
Billy’s head snapped up. “Shit.”
Griffin looked around, eyes wide.
Billy stood fast, grabbing their bags.
Footsteps echoed — hard-soled shoes clacking against the marble tile. Close. Too close.
“Come on,” Billy hissed, grabbing Griffin’s arm.
He yanked open a side panel at the end of the row — a maintenance nook barely wide enough for a person to stand in, let alone two. It had once held a cleaning cart, but now just housed a few plastic bins and broken office chairs.
Griffin stumbled in first, heart pounding, trying not to knock over the broom balanced precariously against the wall.
Billy followed, pulling the panel door mostly shut — not all the way, just enough that they could see through the crack but stay hidden behind the shelving and half-lit shadows.
The footsteps reached the Archive Wing a few seconds later.
“I told her to double-check the doors,” the first man said, annoyed. “This wing’s not climate-controlled. If someone walks off with one of the county ledgers, we’ll never know.”
The second voice grumbled in agreement. “Or if those kids start screwing around in here again—”
A pause.
“You smell weed?”
Griffin’s eyes widened in panic. Weed?! He almost laughed out loud — out of nerves. His heart thundered in his chest.
Billy’s hand touched his — a light press, grounding.
They stood perfectly still in the narrow space, bodies pressed together from shoulder to shin. Griffin could feel Billy’s breath on his cheek, warm and fast. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow pulses, barely daring to move.
The voices outside lingered for another minute, checking shelves, opening drawers, muttering about irresponsible volunteers. A key rattled. Somewhere across the floor, a cabinet slammed.
Griffin held his breath.
Billy’s hand was still pressed lightly to his, their pinkies barely hooked. Not even a real hold, but it might as well have been.
Finally, one of the men said, “Whatever. Let’s just lock the doors and leave a note for Ellen.”
Their footsteps faded — slower now — retreating down the hall toward the elevator.
Griffin exhaled shakily, his voice no louder than a whisper. “You didn’t tell me we were breaking library law.”
Billy grinned — he was close enough that Griffin could see it in the dark, the way his cheeks lifted, even in the low light. “I didn’t know either. Consider this a shared felony.”
Griffin rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move. Neither did Billy.
Their faces were inches apart. Their bodies pressed close. Billy’s hoodie was soft, warm against Griffin’s arm, and somewhere between panic and relief, something else had taken root — something quieter. Charged.
“I thought they were going to find us,” Griffin murmured.
Billy didn’t say anything at first. Then, quietly, “Would it have been that bad?”
Griffin hesitated. “If it was just about the library? No.”
He didn’t say the rest.
That if they’d been seen together, alone, this close — that would’ve been enough to start a wildfire.
But Billy didn’t press.
He stepped back slowly, giving Griffin space as he pushed the panel open again. The library floor beyond was empty, dim. Safe.
They stepped out together, careful and quiet.
Griffin reached for his sketchbook automatically — a reflex, like putting on armor.
Billy nudged his shoulder. “Come on. I know a way down the back stairs.”
As they slipped toward the emergency exit, quiet laughter bubbled in Griffin’s chest — nervous, real. His heart was still hammering from the close call, from the press of Billy’s chest against his, from the unspoken something they kept circling like a flame.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Billy paused before opening the door.
“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.
Griffin nodded.
But his voice caught a little as he said, “You?”
Billy’s answer was immediate. “I’m good. Just making memories.”
Griffin gave him a look, half-glare, half-smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
Billy shrugged. “Tell me you’ll remember this next time you draw something. I wanna see that closet show up in one of your sketches.”
Griffin huffed a laugh and shoved open the door into the cooling evening. “Only if I get to draw you looking scared for once.”
Billy laughed, close behind him. “Deal.”
They stepped out into the twilight.
And though neither said it, the moment had changed things.
They’d hidden — not just from the librarians, but from the world. From being seen too clearly.
But inside that tight, dark space… Griffin hadn’t felt small.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Griffin knew it would start small.
A look that lasted half a second too long. A question that came a little too casually. A joke that wasn’t quite a joke.
He wasn’t naïve — not about this. He knew how high school worked. Word didn’t have to spread like wildfire to burn. It could leak — quiet and slow and lethal, like smoke under a locked door.
And that morning? The smoke was already there.
It started at lunch.
He and Billy had been sitting at the far end of their usual cafeteria table — two trays between them, two notebooks open. Technically, they were working on a history project. Realistically, they were both drawing in the margins and pretending to be productive.
Billy’s thigh brushed against Griffin’s once, briefly. Neither of them moved.
It might have meant nothing — except Robin caught it.
He’d just sat down across from them, tray in one hand, hoodie half zipped, when he looked between them and said, “You guys get assigned extra homework or something?”
Griffin’s shoulders tightened. He kept his head down, chewing on the end of his pen.
Billy answered easily. “We’re overachievers now.”
Robin’s grin was sharp. “Cute.”
Griffin’s heart dropped.
Billy just raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.”
Robin laughed, already distracted by Finney dropping into the seat beside him. Finney gave Billy a polite nod, then leaned into Robin’s side like gravity pulled him there.
Griffin kept quiet for the rest of lunch. His hand hovered above his sketchbook, but he didn’t draw.
Vance noticed next.
Later that day in the hall, Griffin caught sight of Vance standing near the vending machines, talking to Bruce and some junior from the baseball team. Vance had one arm slung around Bruce’s neck, his tone teasing but edged. He wasn’t subtle — he never was.
Griffin only heard the tail end: “—I’m just saying, he’s been ditching lunch, and you know where he’s been going.”
Bruce smacked him lightly in the chest with a bottle of Sprite. “Leave him alone. It’s none of your business.”
“Bullshit it’s not,” Vance replied. “He's my best friend. You think I don’t notice when he starts hiding shit?”
Bruce just sighed and shook his head.
Griffin ducked into the side hall before they saw him.
His skin buzzed with nerves for the rest of the day.
After school, Billy found him by the lockers.
Griffin was stuffing his sketchbook into his bag, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched. Every sound — the clang of locker doors, the squeak of sneakers, the rise and fall of conversations — felt like it could be about him.
Billy leaned against the locker beside his and said, “You okay?”
Griffin didn’t answer at first. Then, low: “Robin commented. So did Vance.”
Billy nodded like he’d expected that. “People notice stuff.”
“I know.” Griffin zipped up his bag. “I just… I didn’t think it would be so fast.”
“They don’t know anything.”
Griffin looked up. “They know somethings up.”
Billy’s expression didn’t change. “Let them. We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s not how it works,” Griffin muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Billy stepped into his path before he could walk away. “Hey.”
Griffin stopped.
Billy’s voice was quieter now. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Just because people are nosy doesn’t mean we owe them anything.”
Griffin stared at the ground. “I don’t want to be a rumor.”
“You’re not.”
Billy’s hand brushed his — a light touch, quick, gone in a second. But it was enough.
“Walk with me?” Billy asked.
Griffin hesitated… then nodded.
The walk home was quiet at first.
They cut behind the school instead of taking the main street. The gravel path between the track field and the tree line was empty — just dirt, autumn leaves, and the whisper of wind through the dry grass.
Griffin kicked a loose rock ahead of him and watched it bounce. “This feels like a countdown.”
Billy glanced over. “To what?”
“Someone asking the wrong question. Saying the wrong thing. Starting shit I’m not ready for.”
They walked a few more paces in silence.
Then Billy said, “Would you be okay if they knew?”
Griffin didn’t answer.
“Not everyone,” Billy added. “Just… some people. If the group figured it out.”
Griffin’s throat tightened. “I don’t know. I think I want it and don’t want it at the same time.”
Billy nodded, not pushing.
After a while, Griffin said, “Robin’s not stupid. Neither is Finney. They’re already picking up on it.”
“Bruce probably knows,” Billy said. “But he won’t say anything.”
“Vance?”
Billy was quiet.
Griffin looked at him. “What?”
“He’ll come around. He’s just slow sometimes. And loud.”
Griffin barked a soft laugh. “Accurate.”
They walked a little longer, their shoulders brushing now and then.
By the time they reached the intersection where Griffin would usually turn left to head home, the sun had dipped below the trees. The sky was lavender and orange, glowing behind the power lines.
Billy stopped walking.
Griffin did too.
“Tomorrow?” Billy asked, voice soft.
Griffin looked at him, really looked, and the anxiety didn’t vanish, but it settled. Just a little.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
Billy smiled slightly, warm, genuine, and turned to go.
Griffin watched him walk away.
And for once, he didn’t feel entirely alone.
The sun was already skimming the horizon when they pulled away from the quarry. Billy rolled the windows down halfway, and the cool evening air slipped in, carrying the faint scent of pine and the sharper bite of autumn. The road stretched ahead in long, unbroken lines, the sky bleeding from pale orange to a muted lavender.
Griffin leaned his head against the passenger-side window, watching the blur of trees go past. His hands were clasped loosely in his lap, but his mind wasn’t still at all. It replayed the ledge—the still water below, the wind brushing his face, the impossible closeness of Billy’s shoulder. The way his chest had tightened, not in discomfort, but in that sharp, sweet ache of almost.
Almost was dangerous.
Billy didn’t say much at first. His focus stayed on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his thigh to whatever song was humming low from the speakers. The sound of tires against asphalt filled the quiet.
After a while, he said, “You got real quiet back there.”
Griffin’s eyes stayed on the passing treeline. “Was just… thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitated. “Leaving. What it would take. If we’d do it or just talk about it.”
Billy gave a short laugh—not mocking, but low and warm. “You think I’m just talking?”
Griffin turned his head. Billy was looking at the road, but there was something sharp in the curve of his mouth. Determined. “I don’t know,” Griffin admitted. “You sound like you mean it.”
“I do mean it,” Billy said. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t.” He paused, then glanced over briefly. “But I get it. You’re not sure.”
Griffin swallowed. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just—” He trailed off, fumbling for words. “If we go, we can’t come back. Not like things are now.”
Billy nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s the point.”
They fell into another stretch of silence. The music shifted—something slower now, guitars soft in the background. Griffin closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound blur into the hum of the engine.
When he opened them again, Billy was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Not staring, but not casual either.
“What?” Griffin asked.
Billy smirked faintly. “Just thinking about what you’d be like on the road.”
Griffin arched an eyebrow. “And?”
Billy shrugged, eyes flicking back to the asphalt. “I think you’d surprise yourself.”
“Surprise myself how?”
“You’ve got this… thing,” Billy said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand. “Like you think too much before you do anything. But once you do, you’re all in.”
Griffin felt his face warm, though he wasn’t sure why. “That’s not a bad thing.”
“Didn’t say it was,” Billy said, his voice low enough that Griffin had to lean a little to hear. “Just means if we left, I think you’d find a version of yourself you haven’t met yet.”
The light outside dimmed until the world beyond the windshield was all shadow and the occasional glow of headlights from the opposite lane. Billy flicked the dashboard lights lower. The music softened even more.
Griffin spoke without thinking. “Back at the quarry… I almost—” He stopped, realizing what he’d been about to say.
Billy didn’t look at him. “I know.”
The quiet stretched tight for a beat.
Billy’s voice was calm when he finally added, “You don’t have to explain. You’ll know when it’s the right time.”
Griffin turned back toward the window, his throat tight. The glass was cool against his temple, the reflection of Billy’s profile sharp in the passing light.
They reached town slower than they needed to, neither of them rushing the drive. When Billy finally pulled up to Griffin’s street, he left the car idling, his fingers still drumming on the wheel.
Griffin unbuckled but didn’t open the door just yet. “Thanks. For today.”
Billy’s mouth quirked into a softer smile. “Anytime.”
Griffin hesitated, his hand resting on the door handle. “We’re gonna talk about this plan, right? Not just let it fade?”
Billy’s gaze locked on his. “Yeah. We will.”
Griffin nodded once, then stepped out, the cool night air wrapping around him. Billy’s taillights glowed red as the car eased down the street, and Griffin stood there for a long moment before heading inside.
---------------------------------------------------
The cafeteria the next day smelled like reheated fries and bleach, the kind of combination that clung to the air long after lunch ended. Their table—back corner, by the window—was already half-full when Griffin and Billy got there.
Vance was in his usual sprawl, chair tipped back, one boot braced against the table leg. Bruce sat next to him, lunch tray neatly organized—sandwich cut into precise halves, chips arranged like he’d counted them. Robin and Finney were on the opposite side, Robin halfway through a carton of chocolate milk while Finney poked at something unrecognizable on his tray.
Billy dropped into the seat beside Vance, leaving Griffin the spot across from Robin. For a split second, Griffin considered moving to the end of the table, but it would’ve looked obvious. Too obvious.
The noise of the cafeteria rose and fell around them, but the group’s conversation felt sharper than usual. Vance was in the middle of recounting how some guy at the gas station had “looked at him wrong.”
“Swear to God, he was asking for it,” Vance said, leaning forward like he was about to punch the table for emphasis. “One more word and—boom—straight to the pavement.”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because you didn’t start it.”
“Shut up,” Vance shot back, though there wasn’t much bite in it. “Guy was begging.”
Robin smirked. “You’re always one second away from throwing hands. Kinda predictable.”
Vance pointed a finger at him. “Better predictable than boring.”
Griffin tried to focus on unwrapping his sandwich, but his skin prickled. Every time his gaze drifted upward, Robin’s eyes were already there.
Halfway through lunch, Robin leaned in, resting his elbow on the table, chin in hand.
“You’ve been in a good mood lately,” he said casually, but his tone didn’t match the words. There was a glint there—testing, maybe.
Griffin’s throat felt dry. “I guess.”
Robin tilted his head, still watching him. “Guess? Or yeah?”
“I don’t know,” Griffin muttered.
Vance’s eyes slid over to him then, one brow raised. “Guess you’ve been skipping lunch for a reason.”
Billy didn’t look up from his tray. “Some of us study.”
“Study,” Robin echoed, smirking. “Right.”
Griffin stabbed at the sandwich with his thumb, wishing it would just disappear. “It’s not—”
“Relax,” Robin cut in, smiling in that slow, deliberate way. “Just asking.”
Finney nudged him under the table, but Robin ignored it.
The next few minutes felt like wading through wet cement. Bruce tried to redirect—asking Griffin about a book he’d seen him reading in the library—but the way he said it made Griffin’s chest tighten. It wasn’t accusatory, but it was curious. Too curious.
“What was it?” Bruce asked again, mild as ever.
“Just…history stuff,” Griffin replied, fumbling with the edge of his napkin.
“Right,” Bruce said, and left it there—but the weight of the moment hung.
By the time the bell rang, Griffin’s pulse was a steady thrum in his ears. He dumped his tray and headed for the doors without looking back, but Billy caught up to him easily in the hallway.
“You’re wound up,” Billy said, keeping his voice low.
Griffin glanced sideways. “Felt like they were all watching.”
Billy shrugged. “Let ‘em. Doesn’t mean they know anything.”
“Feels like they do,” Griffin muttered.
Billy smiled—not the easy, teasing kind, but one that was almost reassuring. “Then it’s still none of their business.”
That night, Griffin sat at his desk, the hum of the fridge in the next room seeping through the walls. He sketched without thinking—long cliffs, restless ocean, the sky stretching wide and endless. Two figures stood at the edge, facing it all.
He stared at the drawing for a while before snapping a photo and sending it to Billy. No caption.
The reply came seconds later:
Billy:
Someday.
The rest of the afternoon crawled by in a haze. Griffin sat through his last two classes without hearing half of what was said. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the shuffle of papers, the teacher’s voice—all of it blurred into the background against the echo of Robin’s smirk and Vance’s raised brow.
By the time the final bell rang, the knot in his stomach hadn’t loosened.
Billy was waiting just outside the school’s main doors, leaning against the railing like he had all the time in the world. Griffin’s chest eased at the sight of him, but only a little.
They didn’t say much as they started walking—just fell into step the way they always did. The early evening air was cool, heavy with the smell of damp pavement from a short rain earlier. Their sneakers scuffed against the sidewalk, the sound filling the spaces where words didn’t fit.
When they reached Griffin’s street, they slowed without meaning to.
“You okay?” Billy asked, his eyes catching Griffin’s for just a second before sliding away again.
“Yeah. Just…tired,” Griffin said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
Billy nodded like he understood, though Griffin wasn’t sure he did.
At Griffin’s building, they lingered by the stoop. Billy’s hands were shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, his posture loose but his gaze steady.
“Tomorrow?” Billy asked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Griffin felt the tension in his chest shift—still there, but warmer somehow. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Billy gave him a small nod, then turned to go, the sound of his footsteps fading into the street noise.
Inside, the apartment was dim and quiet. His mom’s bedroom door was closed, no light leaking from underneath. Griffin stood in the narrow hallway for a moment, listening to the hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of the overhead light in the kitchen.
In his room, he tossed his backpack onto the floor and sat at his desk, flipping to the last page of his sketchbook. The drawing from earlier stared back at him—the cliff, the sea, the two small figures.
He picked up his pencil and darkened the lines of the horizon until his wrist ached.
For a moment, he imagined standing there with Billy for real. No cafeteria eyes, no careful pauses in conversation, no hiding.
Just open air. And a way forward.