Don't say "I love you"

by HoneyxxxMoon

Summary:

They’re only acting. Until they’re not.

When Fort is cast opposite the guarded and impossibly magnetic Peat, he expects a good role—he doesn’t expect to fall for his co-star. But from the first rehearsal, something shifts. The chemistry is effortless. The tension, real. And Fort, who usually charms with ease, finds himself wanting more from someone who won’t let him in.

Peat keeps his distance. Fort keeps trying. Lines blur, touches linger, and what starts as fanservice becomes something far more complicated.

Behind the scenes, it’s a slow build of missed signals, too-long looks, and all the things neither of them will say. Until one moment cracks it open—and nothing feels like pretend anymore.

A slow-burn love story about restraint, risk, and the space between performance and the truth.

Chapter 1: Who the hell was that?

Fort
Fort didn’t expect much from the day—just another audition, another cold read with someone he’d forget before dinner.
He lounged in the cheap chair outside the casting room, legs stretched out, script folded in his lap like he’d been doodling on it. He wasn’t unprepared—just... unhurried. The kind of relaxed that came from knowing how little most auditions mattered.
Until someone called, “Peat. Fort. You’re up.”
He stood, tucking the script into his back pocket, and scanned the room for Peat.
Then the guy stood. Dark-haired, neatly pressed, still in a way that made Fort sit up a little straighter.
There was a precision to him—chin high, eyes guarded, posture like he’d never once slouched. Fort couldn’t help but smile.
Their eyes met—just for a second. Fort gave a nod.
Peat nodded back, exactly once, then looked away like even that had been a calculated risk.
They walked in together. No small talk. Fine by Fort.
The room was the usual: camera, blank walls, three people behind a folding table pretending to care.
Then the slate. The scene. The shift.
Peat didn’t overplay it. He didn’t try to impress. He just dropped into it—sharp, steady, locked in.
And Fort felt himself pulled in like gravity.
As Peat moved through his lines, Fort caught himself noticing the fine angles of his face—the curve of his jaw, the soft pale skin contrasting with dark lashes that shadowed those sharp eyes. The way his posture held a quiet tension, like a cat ready to spring, yet perfectly controlled.
It wasn’t that Peat was dramatic—he wasn’t. But he meant every beat. Every pause. Every inhale. He didn’t do the thing where actors overfill silence to prove they’re acting. He used it. Owned it.
It made Fort want to meet him there. Match that stillness with his own warmth. Not push. Not crowd. Just... offer.
Peat didn’t break character, but Fort could feel him clocking every move—every breath Fort took, every inflection. Not reacting. Registering.
Fort looked toward the casting panel, their faces unreadable, but something in their eyes flickered—like they could feel the current too.
It made Fort grin a little, mid-scene. Not because it was funny. Because it was rare.
He wanted to poke at it. Nudge it just enough to get a flicker of reaction. Like holding out a hand to a wary cat—not to pet it. Just to see if it would come closer.
The final line dropped into silence. Real, thick silence.
Then a voice behind the camera: “Thank you.”
Peat gave a nod, already turning, already leaving.
Didn’t look back.
Fort watched him go, mouth quirking as the door swung shut. His heart beat louder than it should have for a five-minute cold read.The silence hung between his breaths, the room suddenly feeling smaller, emptier.
He glanced back at the panel and caught a shared look—brief, unspoken—like they were thinking the same thing.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, hands on his hips. “Who the hell was that?”

Peat
Peat didn’t expect much from auditions.
The scene partners changed. The rooms didn’t.
Usually, it was someone loud. Someone overeager. Someone who played every line like it was a life-or-death monologue and expected applause for remembering to breathe.
So when the assistant called, “Peat. Fort. You’re up,” he stood, smoothing the edges of his script out of habit more than nerves.
Then Fort stood, too.
Tall. Looser. Tousled like he hadn’t checked a mirror since breakfast. Wore a denim jacket like he hadn’t noticed he was indoors.
And he had that kind of casual confidence Peat didn’t trust.
Their eyes met. Fort gave a lazy little nod, like they were about to play a pickup game instead of audition for the role in a romance.
Peat nodded back, stiff. Kept his face blank.
No introductions. No warm-up.
They stepped in. Slate. Camera. Scene.
And then Fort did something unexpected.
He just settled in. Found the rhythm and stayed in it. Reacted, not overacted. He didn’t try to hijack the scene or lean into chemistry that wasn’t there. He just... listened. Gave.
Peat held steady. He always did. But part of him noticed—how the give-and-take felt clean. Balanced.
How Fort’s energy filled the space without overtaking it.
And that was unsettling.
Because Peat wasn’t used to it feeling that easy. Like someone was picking up what he was putting down without trying to rewrite it.
Still, he kept the wall up. Delivered the last line. Didn’t break.
“Thank you,” someone said from the panel.
Peat nodded once. Professional. Dismissive. Turned and walked out.
He didn’t glance at Fort. Didn’t need to.
Back in the hallway, he sat down, carefully folding the script again even though the edges were already straight.
He hesitated just a moment, fingers pausing mid-fold like he wanted to hold on to something.
It had been a good read. Better than most.
That was all.
Probably.

Chapter 2: It doesn't mean anything, probably.

Fort
Fort didn’t expect the call to hit as hard as it did.
He’d been pretending not to think about it all week—refreshing emails he claimed he wasn’t watching, rehearsing lines in front of the mirror without much conviction.
He was sitting on the couch, warming up the pad see ew he’d cooked last night—a little something his mom had taught him that always felt like home. Fork in one hand, container balanced on his knee. The spicy sweetness lingered on his tongue, steadying his nerves.
When the phone lit up with a name he barely had saved—Mame—he almost dropped his fork.
“Hey,” he answered, trying to sound calm even though his heart was already racing.
“You’re in,” Mame said. “Lead role.”
Fort blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
“You and Peat. It’s your story.”
His mouth went dry for a second. “Peat?”
“Yeah. Chemistry was undeniable,” Mame said. “First read, and you had people looking up from their phones.”
Fort smiled softly, chest lifting with a quiet warmth. He remembered that day, sitting beside Peat in the casting room—Peat’s calm, unreadable presence, those sharp dark eyes that seemed to hold a quiet fire. Peat’s stillness had drawn him in, made Fort want to lean closer, to be seen without words.
He’d hoped, almost secretly, they’d be paired.
It felt like a small victory, like the universe giving him a sign.
“Thank you,” Fort said softly.
“Group chat’s going out later tonight. Get some rest. This is the big one.”
Fort hung up and stared at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a small, half-laugh that cracked open into something warmer and more real.
His first real lead.
Later that night, when the group chat notification popped up, Fort saw Peat’s name and number among the messages.
He stared at it for a moment, fingers hovering over the screen.
He wanted to send a message—something casual, maybe a simple hello or a good luck wish.
But then he pulled back, telling himself not to be too eager, not to risk pushing too hard.
So he locked his phone and let the silence stretch.
With a stupid smile plastered over his face.

Peat
Peat was halfway through folding laundry when his phone buzzed.
He didn’t check the caller ID. Just answered, flat and automatic. “Hello?”
“Peat? It’s Mame.”
His heart stuttered.
“We want you for the lead,” she said. “The romance. With Fort.”
There was a pause before he replied. Not because he didn’t hear it. Every word had landed loud and clear, like a weight dropped into still water.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“We’re sure. You nailed it. Schedule’s going out later tonight.”
He leaned back against the washing machine, staring at nothing.
He hadn’t given up. Not exactly. But he’d started the slow work of letting go. Too many younger guys at the audition. Too many times he’d almost made it and didn’t.
He hadn’t thought they’d pick him.
And if they had, it was probably because of Fort.
Fort had that thing. That natural, easy kind of likability. Confident without trying. The kind of guy casting directors remembered without needing a résumé.
Peat had just… kept up.
He rubbed a hand over his face, the tiniest laugh escaping him—barely sound. Just breath. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling. Letting himself feel it too much felt dangerous.
He didn’t know Fort, not really. But he hadn’t been a bad scene partner. Stayed in the moment. Gave space.
And maybe that was what worked. Maybe Peat had just gotten lucky, landing next to someone who made it easier.
Still, it was his name on the call sheet now. His role.
He went back to folding clothes. Slowly. Carefully.
But the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop twitching up.

Chapter 3: Not rude. Not cold. Just… firm.

Peat
He sat cross-legged on his unmade bed, the screen light soft against the wall.
The group chat had been buzzing since last night—excited messages, emojis flying, inside jokes zipping by like everyone was trying to fast-track a friendship.
Apparently, the other couple in the series were two newbies named Boss and Noeul.
They were already flirting through the phone, Peat could tell just by the way their messages bounced off each other.
Already? He smirked quietly to himself.
Peat kept his responses polite but sparse. He’d already muted the chat to save his sanity.
Late afternoon, a message popped up—direct, outside the group.
Fort:
Hey. Want to grab dinner sometime this week? Just to talk through the script?
Peat stared at it for a few seconds.
Casual. Friendly. Even threw in the “talk through the script” line to keep it professional.
Still, something in Peat bristled.
So Fort was like that.
The audition chemistry? Yeah, it had clicked. But part of that was Fort’s charm. His presence.
Peat was just lucky to be paired with him.
He didn’t mind it. Might even admire it a little. But that kind of presence could fill the whole room if you weren’t careful.
Peat had worked too hard not to be careful.
Peat’s thumb hovered over the keyboard longer than necessary. His breath caught in a way he didn’t expect—brief, almost like the slightest stumble. He shook it off, fingers steadying as he typed.
Appreciate it, but I think I’d rather keep things professional right now. Looking forward to rehearsals though.
No exclamation points. Just enough warmth to not be cold.
He hit send. Watched the message go through.
No reply. Just the little “read” mark.
Peat set the phone down, rubbing the back of his neck.

Fort
He wasn’t nervous when he sent the message.
Scene partners grabbing dinner? Totally normal.
Thoughtful, even.
The other couple—Boss and Noeul? Already flirting like they were two teenagers at a school dance.
Boss had even sent actual flowers. Fort wasn’t sure if that was charming or wildly premature.
And Peat? The man basically ignored the group chat.
Probably muted it.
Fort wanted to connect. Maybe celebrate. Not as some grand gesture, but just so they weren’t strangers on set.
He’d drafted the message, deleted it, then kept it light. Just enough to leave the door open.
Then came the reply.
Appreciate it, but I think I’d rather keep things professional right now. Looking forward to rehearsals though.
He read it twice.
Not rude. Not cold. Just… firm.
That was new.
People usually said yes to Fort. Or if they said no, it came with a laugh, a “not tonight, maybe later.”
This—this was a solid line.
He sat back, phone in hand, a grin tugging at his lips despite the firm no.
Interesting, he thought.
He hadn’t known what to make of Peat after the audition. The guy barely said a word. Didn’t stick around. But on camera? Electric—like a spark had flipped on between them.
Now he was curious all over again.
He typed nothing back. Let it be.
But inside, a small voice nudged like a playful poke.
So that’s how it’s going to be. Alright, then.
He grinned wider.
No big deal. I’ll crack that armor yet.

Chapter 4: It’s good for chemistry

Peat
He already knew the lines.
They’d been shuffling around in his head all week—in quiet moments, between casting calls, errands, and too many sleepless nights.
Still, as he stepped onto the taped outline of the set, he glanced at the page one more time.
A couch, two chairs, nothing else. No lights except fluorescents. No cameras yet.
“Let’s walk it,” the director said.
Fort gave a short nod. He was already in place, one hand loose in his pocket, watching Peat with that same quiet ease he always seemed to carry.
Peat kept his face neutral.
They began.
Fort’s voice broke the quiet. “So. Dinner?”
Peat didn’t look at him. He kept his gaze past Fort’s shoulder, somewhere at the corner of the taped wall.
“No.”
“But—”
“Stop asking.”
Peat sat. Folded his arms. Waited.
They kept going like that. Fort’s character took the no as a challenge, because that’s what it was. Fort leaned into the question again with all the warmth he could muster.
“Just once. If you hate it, we won’t do it again. I promise.” He said it in a way that made it hard to say no—soft around the edges, like he meant it.
Peat held the pause.
“Fine. One dinner.” He said it flatly.
The director didn’t say cut. Just scribbled something down. “Again.”
Each time, Peat felt the smallest shift. Fort adjusting his tone—lighter, then warmer, then closer. Always just inside the line of what was written.
Peat didn’t let it affect his delivery, but on the last run-through, Fort shifted closer—just half a step, enough that Peat could feel the warmth of him in the space between. He smelled clean, something faintly soft and sun-warmed, like skin after a long day outside.
It wasn’t much.
But Peat’s breath hitched—just briefly—“Fine.”
The director gave a low, “Okay. Good.”
Peat stepped off the taped set and headed for his bag. He didn’t look back.
His face felt a bit warm and he could still feel Fort watching him.

Fort
He liked the way Peat acted. Clean. Focused. Present.
The scene didn’t feel like a performance—it felt like something taut and real that could snap at any second.
Fort kept his expression easy during each run, but his attention never drifted. He watched how Peat shifted his weight during the pause. How his arms folded a little tighter when he had to agree.
And his eyes—big, dark, expressive—flashed with something just under the surface, even when the rest of him stayed still.
There was tension there. Not the bad kind.
But there was something under it. Or at least something interesting.
And Fort liked interesting.
Afterward, he slung his bag over one shoulder and didn’t rush out. Peat was already at the far end of the room, zipping up a slim black jacket. His posture, as always, perfect. Compact. Composed.
Fort waited until they were outside the studio—where the air smelled like wet pavement and exhaust, and everyone was peeling off in different directions.
Peat was checking his phone, already turned halfway toward the parking lot.
Fort stepped closer—not enough to crowd, just enough to speak low.
“You still owe me dinner,” he said, casual.
Peat looked up, eyes narrowing slightly beneath the fall of dark hair.
“Do I?”
Fort grinned. “You said yes. I’m just following the script.”
Peat hesitated. Then pocketed his phone.
“Are you serious?” His tone was level, but something flickered in his eyes—catlike.
“What’s the harm? It’s good for chemistry,” Fort said, like it didn’t matter either way.
There was a long beat. Peat glanced toward the lot, then back at Fort.
“Fine. But I’m choosing the place.”
Fort kept his smile easy, but something in his chest unknotted. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been bracing for a no.

Peat
He didn’t really mean to say yes.
But it had been a long day, and Fort had asked in that calm, needling way that felt more like teasing than insistence.
Saying no again would’ve felt like making a statement. He didn’t want to make a statement.
So they ended up in a little noodle shop two streets over—his favorite kind. Plastic chairs, hand-written menus taped to the counter, steam curling out of a big open kitchen in the back.
Fort looked around once they were seated, brows raised. “You come here often?”
“Often enough,” Peat said, flipping the menu to the back. “Don’t let the chairs fool you. Their duck noodles are solid.”
“Noted.” Fort leaned forward slightly, resting one sturdy forearm on the table. His skin was a warm bronze under the harsh fluorescent lighting, and his smile—open and unguarded—made it almost too easy to look at him.
Peat looked away before it showed. It wasn’t a date. It didn’t mean anything. Still, he was too aware of Fort’s eyes lingering.
“You ordering for both of us?” he teased.
Peat didn’t answer, just flagged down the auntie behind the counter and pointed to two things. She nodded like she already knew.
Fort looked impressed. “Confident.”
Peat shrugged, but the corner of his mouth ticked up.

Fort
He didn’t expect Peat to talk much.
But once the food came—broth still bubbling hot, steam curling up like fog—something shifted.
Peat sat forward when he ate. Rolled his sleeves, revealing the toned lines of his forearms. Explained, almost offhand, how the chili oil here was better than the other place two blocks over. How they used different soy sauce bases. How he always added vinegar halfway through.
He didn’t say it like a flex. More like he couldn’t help it.
Fort just listened.
He liked this version of Peat—focused, slightly animated, his dark eyes catching the light. His posture still perfect, but more relaxed now. Like he’d forgotten to guard himself for a second.
After a moment, Fort’s smile softened.
“You really know your food.”
Peat gave a small shrug, cheeks flushing faintly.
“Yeah, well... I just really like it. Doesn’t mean I can cook for shit.”

Peat
He realized about halfway through the meal that he wasn’t on edge anymore.
Fort wasn’t pressing. He didn’t fill every silence or ask personal questions. Just ate, complimented the broth, and made a face when he added too much chili.
It was… easy.
Peat didn’t expect easy with someone like Fort. Too charming by default. Too comfortable in his skin. Usually that meant pushy. Overconfident. A little too much.
But Fort kept his energy just on the right side of playful. Enough to meet Peat’s walls without trying to scale them.
Peat set his chopsticks down. “So, was this dinner part of a bet, or are you just this persistent with everyone?”
Fort wiped his mouth, leaned back a bit. “Honestly?”
Peat nodded.
“I liked our scene. And I figured, if we’re going to be stuck pretending to fall in love for the next few months…” He gave a small shrug, eyes steady. “It’s good for chemistry”
Peat studied him for a long moment.
“Fair enough.”

Chapter 5: Just us?

Fort
It was subtle, the way Peat shifted.
On set, Peat was composed to the point of precision — lines crisp, posture straight, face unreadable unless the scene demanded more.
Fort couldn’t fault it. Professional. Controlled.
But then they’d break for lunch or finish the day, and Fort saw the edges soften. Peat’s voice would drop a fraction, his shoulders ease.
He’d glance at his phone with a faint, almost imperceptible smile — like someone remembering something privately funny.
The first time Fort really noticed the contrast, they were walking out of rehearsal.
Peat half-grumbled about the director’s notes, pulling a crumpled snack pack from his bag.
He ate as he talked — focused on texture, the spice — offhandedly offering Fort a bite like it wasn’t a big deal.
But it was.
That unguarded, unknowingly warm version of Peat snuck under Fort’s skin.
He thought about it more than he should have.
The quiet laugh when Peat described how badly he’d messed up cooking rice in college.
The genuine excitement over a new noodle shop last week, when Peat texted Fort a photo, no caption.
Peat probably didn’t even realize he let pieces of himself slip through — when food was involved, or when the pressure lifted just enough.
Fort wasn’t in a rush. But he was watching.
What he saw made him want to get closer.

Peat
He didn’t see what the big deal was.
Rehearsals ended late. They had to eat anyway. Fort just happened to ask. Again.
It wasn’t like he minded.
Fort had decent taste, listened when Peat talked food, didn’t try too hard to impress.
That helped.
Some people smiled like they wanted something.
Fort smiled like he was just… there.
Maybe a little too pleased with himself sometimes.
Peat didn’t overthink it.
He liked food, and Fort always invited him to places he was dying to try.
It worked.
If he caught himself talking more than usual — explaining why this broth was better than that one, or how rice should stick just enough —
It didn’t mean anything.
He just… didn’t hate it.
That was all.

Fort
He found himself scanning menus and scouting new spots weeks before their next rehearsal — little restaurants tucked away down side streets, hidden rooftops with city views.
Every place was a chance to see Peat again, to hear him talk in that free way he only did when they weren’t working.
There was something about how Peat spoke about food — eyes bright, animated — that pulled Fort in. Different from the usual rehearsals, the usual small talk.
When Peat explained how to taste the broth or why a particular dish worked, Fort leaned in a little closer, unable to help himself.
He didn’t try too hard. Just listened, asked a few questions, and smiled when Peat’s guard softened ever so slightly.
Those moments — the easy silences, the brush of Peat’s hand against his as they reached for the same dish — made Fort’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain.
Peat’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, a quiet invitation wrapped in his usual cautious grace. Fort’s grin widened, warmed by the subtle dance of proximity and restraint.
He found himself looking forward to these dinners more than he expected.

Peat
At first, he thought it was just polite — going along because Fort asked. A casual dinner after rehearsal. No big deal.
But the routine crept in, slow and steady. The way Fort picked restaurants, always something unique on the menu or a quiet corner to sit.
The way he listened — not just waiting to talk, but really listening when Peat went on about spices or cooking techniques.
Peat caught himself actually looking forward to the invitations.

Fort
He’d found the place by accident — scrolling half-asleep, thumb dragging through late-night food reels — when a plate of hand-pulled noodles stopped him cold.
Bright chili oil, garlic slick, strands coiled like rope.
He didn’t even need to think. Saved the post.
It looked like something Peat would love.
The next day, after rehearsal Fort asked like he always did “Dinner after? Got a spot you’ll like.”
Peat was zipping up his bag but stopped and smiled “Absolutely. Is it spicy? I’ve been craving something spicy all week.”
Fort grinned to himself.
That was how it was now. Easy. Unspoken.
Rehearsal, then food.
Fort never called it a routine out loud — maybe in case it broke the spell — but it had become one, built on quiet momentum.
They were both packing up quicker when Fort suddenly remembered something Boss had said a few days ago…
Peat’s a foodie? You have to invite me next time. Don’t keep him all to yourself.
The words left his mouth before he really thought about it, “Might invite Boss too. He’s been asking to tag along.”
There was a long pause Peat started packing up slower.
Then he said “Oh yeah I forgot I had plans tonight”
Fort blinked.
Plans?
He felt something uneasy slipping beneath his ribs.
Peat had never said no before. Not once.
He hovered for a while, unsure what to say, “All good. Next time.”
But it wasn’t all good.
Not really.
At dinner, Boss went on and on about work.
Fort nodded and smiled, barely tasting the noodles he’d been excited about.
He didn’t find this place for Boss.
He found it for Peat.
Peat would’ve liked it.
Would’ve had opinions about texture, heat, broth ratio.
Fort was a little disappointed.
Peat said yes.
But as soon as Boss was mentioned, he had plans..
Maybe he really did.
But maybe Peat didn’t bail because he didn’t want dinner.
He bailed because it wasn’t just them.
It wasn’t a fact. Not something Fort could say with confidence.
Just a thought, small and persistent, lodged in his chest.
He might be wrong.
But it felt like something worth paying attention to.

Peat
He said yes without thinking.
He always did lately.
Fort would ask about dinner, and something in him loosened.
They’d go. Eat. Talk.
It was easy in a way not much else was.
So when Fort asked— Dinner after? Got a spot you’ll like — he was halfway to craving something spicy already.
But then came
“Might invite Boss too. He’s been asking to tag along.”
It should’ve been fine.
Normal.
It was just food.
But something in him recoiled.
“Actually, I think I’ve got plans tonight.”
Peat didn’t have plans.
But the thought of Boss joining annoyed him.
At rehearsal, he kept a little distance.
Nothing obvious — just enough to feel like he hadn’t been the one who backed out.
Fort didn’t press.
Didn’t ask.
He just smiled that unreadable way of his.
Easy.
Composed.
Peat told himself that was good.
Professional.
Still, all evening, he wondered what the noodles had tasted like.
If Fort had gone.
If Boss had ordered something ridiculous and Fort had laughed.
Not that it mattered.

Peat
He zipped his bag slowly, dragging out the post-rehearsal moment without thinking much.
He wasn’t stalling.
Not really.
“You hungry?” Fort asked, just like always.
Peat looked over, expecting it.
His brain was already cycling through responses, bracing.
Except — last time, Boss had come up.
Something about that felt off.
Not wrong exactly.
Just… not what they usually did.
He couldn’t explain it.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
He glanced at Fort, keeping his tone even.
“Where?”
There was a pause.
Barely anything.
But Fort watched him a little too closely, like working something out.
“New ramen place,” Fort said. “Tiny shop. Barely any tables. Not a group hangout kind of thing. Thought you could judge the broth. If it’s even close to your standards.”
Peat blinked.
He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until that moment.
The vague unease he’d carried since last time — it dropped.
Just like that.
He almost smiled.
It felt stupid, but it crept up before he could stop it.
“Oh,” he said. “Just us?”
Fort nodded, like it was obvious.
“Yeah. Figured you’d want to focus.”
Peat snorted.
“Right. For chemistry.”
He meant it as a joke.
Mostly.
But the thing was — their scenes were better. Easier.
Comfortable.
Real.
He could justify that.
“Fine,” he said, grabbing his jacket.
“But if it smells like truffle oil, I’m walking out.”
“You’d complain either way,” Fort said, too pleased.
Peat bumped his shoulder lightly as they left.
Familiar.
Unthinking.
He didn’t think too hard about why it mattered.
Didn’t want to.

Fort
He hadn’t been sure how Peat would respond.
The last time left a weird taste in his mouth — Peat had bailed with no explanation, polite but clipped.
Fort spent the night half-listening to Boss gush about Neoul, wondering if he’d messed something up.
This time, he chose carefully.
A small place.
Just a few stools.
Nothing flashy.
He mentioned the broth on purpose.
He knew Peat wouldn’t resist.
When Peat asked, “Just us?” — voice light but not careless — Fort nodded.
“Figured you’d want to focus.”
It was true, in a way.
They worked better when relaxed.
Peat was never more himself than when he had a fork in hand and a strong food opinion on the tip of his tongue.
But it wasn’t just about chemistry.
Not just dinner.
Fort watched Peat’s expression shift — careful turning curious, guarded becoming softer — and felt something quiet settle in his chest.
They walked out together.
Shoulders brushing.
The warmth of Peat’s controlled posture against his own relaxed strength sent a quiet thrill through Fort.
Fort didn’t say more.
He didn’t need to.
He’d made his offer.
Peat had said yes.

Chapter 6: I don't care if you hug me

Peat
The heat on set clung like a second skin—humid, stubborn, inescapable.
Break time meant folding chairs under a sagging tent, lukewarm drinks, and everyone melting in their own way.
Peat sat with his water bottle between his hands, slowly peeling back the corner of the label.
It was just something to do—not because he was paying attention.
Except he was.
Noeul kicked Fort’s shin. “You’re literally a koala. Do you even know how many people you’ve hugged today?”
Fort didn’t even open his eyes. Just sipped his drink and shrugged. “It’s called being friendly.”
Boss snorted. “Friendly? Bro, you draped yourself over the sound guy like he was a beanbag.”
“I like the sound guy.”
“You hugged the producer.”
“She looked stressed.”
“You hugged me,” Boss added, hand to chest like he’d been betrayed. “And I’m never stressed. I’m just hot.”
Fort grinned around his straw. “Can’t argue with that.”
Peat didn’t laugh, but he didn’t frown either. His thumb traced along the edge of the label, catching on the seam again and again.
He hadn’t thought much about Fort’s touchiness. Everyone liked it. Fort was that guy—laid-back, warm, always leaning against someone like he belonged there. It made people feel seen. Safe.
But now, Peat’s gaze drifted sideways, not fully on purpose.
Fort’s hand rested on Boss’s shoulder—lazy and familiar. Noeul’s foot nudged Fort’s ankle like a game they’d played for years. There was no hesitation in any of it. No tension.
And suddenly it was obvious.
Fort touched everyone.
Everyone but him.
Not once. Not even accidentally. Not off-camera.
Peat blinked, caught off guard by the realization. During scenes, sure—Fort would brush close, linger a second too long in the frame, let his fingers find Peat’s wrist like gravity. But that was acting. Scripted. Professional.
This wasn’t.
This was instinct. Unthinking. Easy.
And Peat wasn’t part of it.
He was used to being left out—always on the edge. But he thought they were close.
He peeled at the label harder, the crackle of plastic too loud in the quiet.
Boss turned his head. “You’re awfully quiet, Mr. Professional. Jealous Fort hasn’t groped you yet?”
Peat rolled his eyes automatically. “Don’t be weird.”
But the joke sat there anyway.
Not because it was true.
Because now he was wondering why it wasn’t.
He looked up—just briefly—and Fort was already watching him, smiling like he always did. Like nothing was different.
Peat looked away first.
The label tore.

Fort
The tent was too damn hot, but Fort barely felt it.
He was still running on the afterglow of a good take—muscles loose, mind soft, everything humming just under the surface.
Breaks like this hit differently when the scene landed right.
Boss and Neoul chirped beside him, tossing jabs back and forth like always—a familiar rhythm, easy background noise.
“You’re literally a menace,” Neoul said. “You hugged the producer.”
Fort smiled around his straw. “She looked like she needed it.”
“You hugged me,” Boss added, mock-wounded. “I never look like I need it.”
“You always need it,” Fort shot back, lazy.
They laughed. Fort leaned into it, shoulder knocking into Boss like punctuation.
It was muscle memory at this point. He was that guy—the one who leaned close, slung his arm over the back of chairs, hugged without thinking twice.
Not to make a point. Just because it was how he moved through the world.
Especially on set, where closeness made the job easier. Touch built trust. Trust made everything else smoother.
But then his eyes drifted. Just for a second.
Peat sat a little off to the side, back straight, elbows resting on his knees. He was holding his water bottle with both hands, slowly tearing at the edge of the label. Fort might not have noticed before, but spending time together, he’d learned to read the quieter cues.
The ones Peat didn’t know he was giving.
He followed Peat’s gaze, tracking it like a current. And there it was: the space between them. The shape of it.
He was touching everyone.
Everyone but him.
Fort’s fingers stilled on his cup. A beat passed, quiet and invisible, like a hitch in the breath.
He hadn’t done it on purpose, had he?
He’d never wrapped an arm around Peat’s shoulder off-screen. Never slumped against him during downtime. Never reached out without a reason. Not once.
And now that he was thinking about it, it wasn’t an accident.
Peat wasn’t the kind of person you got casual with. He didn’t move aside to make room—you had to earn it. And Fort had always known that, even if he’d never said it out loud.
Even if he’d never let himself think too hard about why he always kept that one boundary when he crossed every other one without blinking.
Not because he didn’t want to touch him.
Because he did.
Across the tent, Peat looked up—and their eyes met.
For a second, Fort forgot how to act normal. He smiled without thinking, easy, the way he did with everyone.
But Peat looked away too fast.
Fort blinked, slow. The straw in his drink made a soft sound as it shifted.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.
But the moment curled warm and strange in his chest.

Peat
Peat didn’t realize he’d gone quiet until Fort looked up from his noodles.
It wasn’t awkward silence—Fort talked like usual, animated about something Noeul said on set, something dumb Boss did, how he swore the director was shipping their characters now.
Peat nodded, responded here and there, but he wasn’t really in it. He was too focused on what he couldn’t stop seeing now.
Fort hugged three people today. Arms slung around shoulders, a full-on back hug for Boss, even some playful hair-ruffling for Noeul.
Peat had been there for all of it, watching. He hadn’t thought much of it before, hadn’t really noticed—but now he couldn’t unsee it.
Because Fort never touches him like that.
Outside of scenes, Fort doesn’t hug him. Doesn’t sling his arm over his shoulders. Doesn’t ruffle his hair.
Peat didn’t know when it started bothering him, but now it gnawed at him like a dull ache.
He’d thought they were close. Fort always invited him out. Remembered what he liked to eat. Laughed at his dry humor like it was the best thing in the world. They’d got rhythm, chemistry, some kind of ease that Peat never had with anyone this quickly. He thought it meant something.
But maybe it didn’t.
Maybe Fort was just like this with everyone. Friendly. Warm. Close.
Except for the part where he didn’t touch Peat.
And that made Peat start questioning everything else.
“Hey,” Fort said, reaching for his drink. “You good?”
Peat nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Fort hummed like he didn’t quite buy it, but he didn’t push. Went back to his food.
They sat like that for a while. Peat tried to focus on his plate, but something felt heavy in his chest.
Fort said something light: “I’m glad we’re doing this again. Feels like we’re getting close, yeah?”
It hit wrong.
Peat didn’t think—he just brushed Fort’s hand on the table. A simple touch. Barely there.
Fort flinched.
And that was enough.
Peat pulled back, leaned into the back of his chair, forced a smile.
“Are we?” Peat asked, voice quieter than he meant.
Fort froze.
That did it. His whole vibe shifted—less casual, more present. “Peat—”
“It’s not a big deal,” Peat said quickly, shaking his head.
Fort got up.
Peat blinked. “Where—?”
Then he stepped around the table and hugged him.
Just a quiet, steady hug, arms wrapped around him in a way Fort’s never done before. Warm. Solid.
“I thought you’d hate it,” Fort said, voice low against his ear.
Peat’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood there, letting himself be held.

Fort
Fort lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above his bed, his phone screen dim beside him. He hadn’t moved in a while.
He should be tired. Long day, early call time tomorrow. But his brain wouldn’t stop replaying dinner.
Not the food, not the stupid jokes he made, not even the way Peat barely touched his noodles—just that one moment.
“Are we?”
He hadn’t seen it coming. Not from Peat.
Fort had been trying to play it cool—like always. Keep things easy.
Keep Peat comfortable. That’s the whole point, right? Peat’s not the clingy type. He’s got boundaries.
Fort knew that from day one. So he didn’t hug him. Didn’t mess with his hair. Didn’t push.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because it felt like Peat wouldn’t want him to.
He noticed things. The way Peat stiffens when someone gets too close without warning. The way he laughs when Boss grabs him, but doesn’t lean in.
The way he tilts just slightly away when someone reaches across him, even if it’s harmless.
Fort saw all that.
So he kept his hands to himself.
And now Peat’s voice is echoing in his head, soft but sharp: “Are we?”
Fort had flinched when he felt Peat’s fingers brush his.
Not because he didn’t like it—but because he did. And he wasn’t expecting it. Peat never initiates. That’s not how their thing works.
Only… maybe Fort doesn’t really know how their thing works.
He sat up slowly, elbows on his knees. The room felt still. Too still.
He thought about the look on Peat’s face—tight smile, eyes not quite meeting his, like he was holding something back but couldn’t quite swallow it down.
“You’re just… more comfortable with other people, I guess.”
It stung to hear. More than he wanted to admit.
Because that’s not true. He’s not more comfortable. He’s more cautious with Peat. He watches himself more. Measures his reactions. Holds back.
Because it’s Peat.
Fort had hugged Neoul without thinking. Grabbed Boss like he always does. But when it comes to Peat, he second-guesses. Double-checks. Keeps space between them like it’s a kind of respect.
Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s just fear.
He doesn’t know what Peat wants from him, and he’s been so careful not to push, he didn’t stop to wonder what that might look like from the outside. From Peat’s side.
Maybe all that space Fort thought was polite and considerate just… looked like distance.
Or indifference.
And that thought—that Peat might’ve been sitting there thinking Fort didn’t want to touch him—makes his chest tighten in a way he doesn’t like.
The hug came from instinct. Not logic. He hadn’t thought it through. Just got up and did it, arms around Peat like it could explain everything he didn’t know how to say.
And Peat didn’t pull away.
Didn’t joke. Didn’t tense.
Just stood there, letting it happen.
Fort doesn’t know what it means yet—not exactly.
But it feels like something shifted.

Chapter 7: A “yes” that lives in body language

Peat
It starts the next morning.
They’re waiting for touch-ups before the first scene, and Fort wanders over like it’s casual.
He doesn’t say anything. Just flops down next to Peat, thigh pressed against his, leans in like a heat-seeking missile and rests his head on Peat’s shoulder.
Peat freezes.
Just for a second.
The heat of Fort’s skin seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, grounding and impossible to ignore.
Then he glances around—no behind the scenes camera, no reason for Fort to be doing this except that he wants to.
And Fort’s just… there. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Peat doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t shrug him off. Doesn’t move.
He doesn’t hate it.
Which surprises him more than it should.

Fort
He knows he’s pushing it.
Not in a bad way—he’s watching Peat’s body language like a hawk—but something about last night cracked the door open, and Fort is walking through it before he can think too hard.
Touch used to be off-limits. Something for the characters they played, something not for him.
Now?
Peat doesn’t lean away.
So Fort lets himself lean in.
After the first hug, he doesn’t go back to neutral. He perches on the edge of Peat’s personal space every chance he gets.
When they’re reading lines.
When they’re crammed into the backseat of the van.
When they’re watching playback and Fort hooks his chin over Peat’s shoulder like he’s trying to see better, even though he’s already seen the clip three times.
Peat doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t shift away either.
And that silence says a lot.

Peat
He’s not used to this.
Not just the touch—he can deal with that. It’s Fort. He knows Fort.
Knows the shape of his energy, the way he crashes through space like he was born to fill it.
But it’s the softness that gets him.
The quiet way Fort presses his knee to Peat’s under the table. The way his fingers find Peat’s wrist during breaks, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself there.
Peat catches himself looking for it. When Fort walks into a room, he finds himself bracing—waiting to see if he’ll come over, if he’ll lean into him like he did yesterday. And when he does, Peat’s shoulders stop being tight. His breath evens out.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but—
He likes it.

Fort
He still checks in, silently. Always watching Peat out of the corner of his eye—how still he is, where his hands sit, the way his eyes flick when someone’s too close.
But Fort’s getting braver.
It’s like the hug unlocked a kind of permission—like Peat didn’t just tolerate it, he wanted it.
That thought powers Fort through long days, stressful shoots, quiet nights.

Peat
The surprising part isn’t Fort clinging.
It’s how easy it is to let him.
Peat used to think he hated clingy people.
Too loud, too much, too close.
But Fort doesn’t feel like too much. Fort feels like just enough.
He gives space, but only if Peat asks for it. And Peat never does.

Fort
He leans in again after lunch, using Peat as a pillow while the crew resets lights.
“You’re heavy,” Peat mutters, voice muffled against the solid weight of Fort’s shoulder and chest.
But then—barely noticeably—he shifts, just enough so that Fort’s arm brushes his side, his warmth settling along Peat’s back like a secret.
And Fort doesn’t miss it.
Peat doesn’t always say what he means.
And maybe this is what yes looks like.
Just quiet consent. A kind of “yes” that lives in body language.

Chapter 8: Did I screw it all up?

Peat
The fake apartment is warm under the lights, but his hands are cold.
They’ve gone through the scene a dozen times in rehearsal—every line, every beat, every breath—but never the kiss. That part was always just a note in the script.
But now the cameras are rolling.
Fort says his line, calm and steady:
“I’ve been holding back.”
Peat answers like they practiced. “I didn’t ask you to.”
And then Fort leans in.
Peat moves with him. Hits his mark.
Their mouths meet.
It should work. It should land.
It doesn’t.
Peat’s mind goes blank.
He can’t feel his lips.
He can’t feel anything.
“Cut,” the director says.
Peat steps back automatically. Doesn’t look at Fort. Doesn’t look at anyone. Just resets. Quiet, professional.
They run it again. And again.
Each time, Fort shifts—adjusting the tempo, the distance, trying to find the rhythm. He’s easy to follow, easy to watch.
Peat still can’t feel it.
It’s just a kiss. Just move. Do something.
He keeps thinking about how Fort makes it look effortless. He wants nothing more but to meet him there.
He tells himself he’s just off today.
Too in his head.
By the fifth take, the director exhales through her nose and calls it. “Okay. Let’s pause here. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
Peat nods. Doesn't say much.
Peat wants to say
Let me do it again! Let me prove I can do it!
But not having the confidence to actually pull it off he lets the words fade without ever being said.
There is an even more pressing question in his head.
Why is this so hard?

Fort
He’d been waiting for this moment all week. Not just the scene—the kiss itself.
First kiss on camera. First kiss with Peat.
His stomach tightened at the thought, a mix of nerves and something quieter, more tentative. He pictured how it might feel: the soft press of lips, the heat of skin against skin, the electric hum of something real breaking through the script.
There was something about Peat—something Fort had felt in the silence between takes, in the way Peat looked at him sometimes, in the moments that weren’t said aloud.
Like that night after rehearsal, when they went out to dinner alone. Peat had let Fort slide close, let him curl an arm around his shoulder. Peat had leaned into the touch, hadn’t pulled away. When Fort’s fingers brushed Peat’s hand, there was a spark—electric and real—that lingered in his skin long after.
He told himself it was just a scene. Professional. Nothing more.
But deep down, a small, stubborn hope had kindled. Maybe this could be more than acting.
They hit their marks. Said their lines.
Fort leaned in, slow and careful—just like they’d rehearsed.
Peat met him.
And then—
Nothing.
Peat’s mouth was flat, unmoving, like a mask.
No warmth. No give. No spark.
The brush of breath was dry and distant.
The silence between their lips was louder than any line.
“Cut,” the director said sharply.
Peat stepped back, eyes locked to the floor, careful not to meet Fort’s gaze.
He looked painfully uncomfortable.
And Fort froze, heart pounding unevenly.
Because in that instant, a thought hit him like a truck—
He never asked.
He’d assumed.
He’d hoped.
But he never asked if Peat liked men.
They’d never talked about it.
But now, that certainty cracked wide open.
Had Fort been too eager—too ready to see something that wasn’t there?
The faint scent of Peat’s cologne—woodsy, clean—lingered in the air, but it did nothing to warm the space between them.
Fort felt exposed. Raw. Like he’d been the only one expecting the kiss to mean something.
The director called for a reset.
They ran it again.
And again.
Each time Fort leaned in and Peat’s lips stayed locked in that same blank stillness Fort’s hope dwindled.
The room was heavy—thick with a tension that squeezed the breath from Fort’s chest.
This wasn’t the fire he’d hoped for.
It wasn’t even a flicker.
It was silence.
They were told to rest. Try again tomorrow.
Fort didn’t argue.
He didn’t say a word.

Peat
The director’s disappointed look replays behind his eyelids like a bad scene he can’t cut. Fort’s silence feels heavier than any critique, louder than the director’s voice.
Did I screw it all up? Was that kiss such a mess they’re already regretting casting me?
God it was just a simple kiss.
His hands shake a little as he folds the script, tries to steady his breath.
Peat swallows hard, wishing he could rewind. Pretend this never happened.
Peat steals a glance at Fort who looks focused on packing up paying no mind to him or anyone else.
Usually, Fort would’ve trotted over by now, arms open, voice bright with impatience. "Let’s go, Peat, they close in twenty!" But tonight, nothing. No hug. No voice. Just the quiet scrape of a zipper and the echo of his own heartbeat.
Fort has gone quiet.
Of course he has. It’s his fault after all. Even Fort who is endlessly kind and patient would be annoyed with him. Peat is annoyed with himself.

Fort
He doesn’t look at Peat.
Not because he doesn’t want to—but because he’s afraid if he does, something in him will come undone.
The scene is still playing on a loop in his head. The kiss. The stillness. The cold echo of nothing where something should’ve been.
Fort busies his hands—folding the sides of his script, re-zipping a bag that doesn’t need it. Just something to do so he doesn’t have to feel the heaviness settling behind his ribs.
Peat is slower than usual. Not in a lazy way—hesitant, like the air around him is thicker than it should be.
Fort feels it without looking. A shift in pace. A change in shape.
He waits. Pretends to check a message he didn’t get. Lets the crew finish peeling the set around them.
He could leave. Part of him wants to—just to escape the noise in his head. But something else—something softer—keeps him still.
By the time Peat reaches the edge of the set, Fort falls into step beside him. Quiet. Careful.
They walk in silence to the parking garage. The echo of their footsteps fills the gaps between them.
Fort keeps his eyes forward, the words in his chest pressing too tight against his ribs. He wants to ask—Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? Did you feel anything at all?
But he can’t. Not yet.
The kiss hadn’t just gone badly. It had left him feeling exposed.
He reaches his car. Lingers, keys loose in his fingers.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly and turns to his car door.
And then—
A hand on his arm.
Not forceful. Just… there.
Fort freezes. Turns.
Peat’s eyes are unsteady, and a little…desperate? His mouth parts like he wants to speak—but no words come.
Fort doesn’t know what he is going to say until the words come crashing out.
“You wanna come over? Just to run it again. No pressure.”
Peat swallows. Eyes flick to Fort, then away.
He nods—small.
And Fort lets himself breathe.

Chapter 9: Good work

Peat
He expected clutter. Something chaotic. Socks kicked off, a half-empty coffee mug left on a stack of scripts—typical Fort energy.
But the apartment is nothing like that.
Everything’s neat. Comfortable.
It throws him off balance, just a little.
He sets his bag down, lowers himself onto the couch. Script in his lap, fingers curling the pages.

Fort
For a moment, he wonders if inviting Peat over was a mistake.
Fort has a dozen questions, tucked away behind his ribs. But none of them feels right to ask just yet.
They need to focus.
Tomorrow, the scene will be filmed again. The kiss needs to land.
He exhales slowly, steels himself, then starts again.
“I’ve been holding back.”
Peat’s voice is steady, measured.
“I never asked you to.”
A silence falls—thick, fragile.
They’re supposed to kiss now.
Fort leans in, slow, careful, just enough to meet him.
Peat doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
But he doesn’t melt into it either.
Their lips brush, hesitant, pause, then break apart.
Nothing sticks.
No weight. No spark.
No chemistry.
They both pull back, eyes briefly locking—searching for something lost in the space between them.

Peat
The kiss falls flat again, just like before. Like he’s trapped behind a glass wall, unable to reach the part of himself that should be there.
Fort’s soft sigh feels like a quiet judgment. Peat’s stomach twists. Maybe this was a mistake.
His mouth runs dry, words spilling out before he can catch them.
“Ugh. I suck. I’m sorry. You probably want me to go home.”
He hates how small he sounds. How the weight of his own doubt presses against his ribs. How exposed and clumsy he feels, like the awkwardness is written all over his face.
But then Fort doesn’t pull away. He steps closer, steady—solid—like an anchor.
“No. I don’t want you to go anywhere,” Fort says, voice low and patient. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Peat’s breath catches. For a second, he almost believes it—almost lets himself feel safe.
His fingers tighten around the script without thinking, a small shield against the mess of nerves inside.
“Okay,” he says, quiet.

Fort
Peat’s apology catches Fort off guard—“Ugh. I suck. I’m sorry. You probably want me to go home.”
There’s a crack in that voice, a truth spilling out that Fort hadn’t expected to hear so plainly. Like maybe Peat’s been carrying more doubt beneath the surface than Fort realized. It stings, not because he’s disappointed, but because he’s worried.
He swallows the knot tightening in his throat and steps closer. Doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let the moment slip into distance.
“No. I don’t want you to go anywhere,” he says softly, steady. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
But the next tries don’t get easier. They go back to the scene, again and again, Peat’s lips still hesitant, still stiff. Fort’s heart pounds with every failed attempt, the space between them stubbornly empty. The magic they both want—refuses to spark.
Fort can feel the weight settling in the room. The exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet pressure pulling tight between them.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“Want a drink?”
Peat nods, and Fort reaches for the bottle—something to take the edge off, to soften the air, to bridge whatever this is between them.

Peat
The first sip makes his face scrunch, but he covers it with a cough. Fort doesn’t say anything—just pours a second, casual. Like they’re not about to try kissing again.
Peat leans back into the couch, just a little more than before. He’s not relaxed, not really, but the sharp edge of his posture dulls.
Across from him, Fort takes his own drink with both hands like it’s something to hold onto.
The quiet between them isn’t heavy now. It just... is.
“So,” Peat says, clearing his throat, “what’s the protocol when your scene partner keeps ruining the shot?”
Fort glances over. “Pretty sure it’s whiskey.”
Peat huffs out a laugh. “That explains a lot about your directing style.”
Fort raises his glass in mock toast. “I only bring it out when I think it’ll work.”
Peat looks down at his drink. Then back at Fort.
He doesn’t know what to do with that. So he takes the second sip.
It burns less. Just warmth now, sliding low in his chest. His fingers loosen around the glass. Some of the static in his head clears.
The script’s still on the coffee table. Pages slightly crumpled. Neither of them reaches for it.
Peat shifts. Thigh brushes Fort’s.
He doesn’t move away.

Fort
The whiskey settles slow, threading through his chest like a hum. Not enough to blur anything—just enough to quiet the noise.
Peat leans back, a few inches more open than before. It’s subtle, but Fort sees it. Feels it. The way the sharp line of Peat’s shoulders has softened, the way his fingers aren’t clenching the glass like it might shatter.
When their thighs touch, Fort doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe for a second. It’s nothing, barely a brush—but it’s more than they’ve had all night. And Peat doesn’t pull away.
The silence between them isn’t awkward now. It’s warm.
Fort watches Peat as he takes another sip. After the way he almost left earlier, the fact that he’s still on this couch, still close, still trying—it lands somewhere deep.
He turns to look at him.
Peat’s cheeks are flushed, yeah, and there’s a glint in his eyes Fort hasn’t seen in a while—soft, unguarded. He’s beautiful in it. Not in the camera sense. Just here. Just him.
Fort swallows. The weight of everything he hasn’t said pressing close to the surface.
“I’ve been holding back.”

Peat
“I never asked you to.”
He hears himself say it before he thinks. Low. Steady. A challenge.
Then he moves.
No hesitation. No waiting for cues. Just the pull in his chest and the look in Fort’s eyes that hits like gravity.
His mouth is on Fort’s before he can think better of it.
Hot. Messy. Not blocked. Not clean.
Fort gasps against him—caught off guard—and Peat feels the jolt of it in his own spine.
He kisses harder. Like if he slows down, he’ll think too much. Like he’ll stop himself.
So he doesn’t.

Fort
It hits him like a punch—Peat’s mouth, all fire and want.
He was supposed to lead this scene. That was the blocking. But Peat’s already there, already on him, pressing in like he’s starving.
Fort’s hands find his waist—automatic. He holds tight. Steadying. Needing.
Then Peat moans.
Soft. Breathless. Right against his mouth.
Fort’s restraint fractures.
He pushes back, deeper, answering need with need.
His hand slides up Peat’s side, fingers tracing bone, heat, skin through fabric. The sound Peat made is still in his ears.
This isn’t a scene.
It’s everything he’s wanted and wasn’t allowed to want.
And Peat is giving it to him.
He groans, low, and chases Peat’s mouth again—this time with nothing held back.

Peat
He fists Fort’s shirt. Hard.
He can’t stop pressing forward. Like more contact will anchor him. Like distance would snap something fragile between them.
Fort’s hand is on his back now, pulling him closer, deeper.
The heat. Fort kissing him back like he’s starved. It short-circuits everything else.
He doesn’t think.
He just doesn’t want it to stop.
His breath catches. His lips are burning. His body’s too far gone to make sense of it.
Script. Alcohol. Whatever.
He tells himself he’ll figure it out later.

Fort
They’ve been kissing too long.
Way past what the scene called for.
He’s wrapped around Peat now—feeling every shiver, every stuttered breath, every desperate push of his body.
Fort takes it, groans into it. He’s giving everything back, more than he should, more than he meant to.
He chases the kiss like he’s afraid it’ll end.

Peat
He breaks first. Just for air.
They’re still close—too close—foreheads nearly touching, breath uneven.
He blinks, dazed. Like waking up mid-dream.
His lips feel wrecked. His hand’s still clutching Fort’s chest.
He doesn’t look up. Just reaches blindly for the script. His fingers knock into the coffee table.
“Good work,” he mutters. Voice shot.
And then he stands.
Walks out.
Doesn’t look back.
“See you tomorrow.”

Chapter 10: He wanted it.

Fort
The door clicks shut behind Peat.
Fort doesn’t move.
His shirt’s still twisted where Peat grabbed it. His mouth tingles with leftover heat. Every part of him feels like it’s still in that kiss—caught mid-breath, mid-reach, like letting go physically didn’t untangle any of it emotionally.
The air’s gone thick. The silence rings.
He drags a hand down his face, slow.
That was not acting.
Not blocked or scripted.
That was Peat coming to him—pulling him in like he meant it, like he’d been starving for it just as long.
Fort’s heart kicks again at the memory—Peat’s mouth on his, urgent, messy, real. That little sound he made when Fort touched his waist. The way he didn’t pull back. The way he leaned in harder, like he didn’t want it to stop.
He’d chased that kiss like a man falling off a ledge.
And Peat let him.
No. Not let.
He wanted it.
And suddenly, things start lining up.
The way Peat hovered near him at dinner. The nervous glances. The way his hands hesitated, then lingered. How he always stayed just long enough, like he wanted more but didn’t know if he was allowed to ask.
But back then—during the scene—they’d tried to get it right again and again, and Peat never kissed back. His mouth stayed cold. Still. Not distant exactly, but closed off. Like something inside him had been pulled tight.
Fort remembered thinking maybe that was his answer. That maybe he’d read it all wrong. That maybe Peat didn’t feel the same. That he didn’t even like guys.
But then—this kiss.
Peat kissing him when he wasn’t supposed to. When Fort wasn’t moving. When the camera wasn’t rolling. That wasn’t confusion. That wasn’t pressure.
That was Peat.

Peat
He doesn’t remember getting to the elevator.
Just the kiss still on his mouth. The taste of Fort. The sound he made low in his throat. The way their bodies fit—like they’d done this before. Like they’d been waiting for permission.
He slaps the elevator button harder than necessary. Like it matters. Like his whole body isn’t still back there, pressed against Fort, holding on like he’d forget how if he let go.
The doors slide open. He steps in. Hits the ground floor. Breathes.
It doesn’t help.
His chest is too tight. His hands won’t stop shaking. Not fear—exactly. More like panic thickened into molasses. Slow. Drowning.
That wasn’t the scene.
That wasn’t blocking.
That wasn’t—
He jams his hands into his pockets.
The whiskey haze is gone. Burned off by adrenaline.
What’s left is worse.
Memory.
Fort’s mouth, warm and open. The way he kissed back—matched him, chased him.
Peat had kissed him first.
He moved in. Crossed the line.
Why the hell had he done that?
The script was clear—Fort’s line, then his, then a pause, then Fort closes the space. Not him.
Never him.
But Fort looked at him like gravity.
And he wanted. God, he wanted.
So he kissed him.
Didn’t think. Just felt. Just gave in.
Now he can’t stop feeling it.
His whole body’s humming—heat, want, the shape of Fort’s breath when they broke apart.
He tells himself it was the alcohol.
The script.
A moment.
He tells himself again.
And again.
And still—
His lips are swollen. His chest aches like he left something behind.

Chapter 11: that kiss wasn’t acting

Fort
He spots Peat across the lot—hood up, head down. Peat won’t look at him. Shy, like he’s been caught. It’s kind of adorable.
Fort can’t stop smiling. He knows now.
Seeing Peat like this confirms it even more that kiss wasn’t acting. Not some heat-of-the-moment misfire.
He walks over and says, casual and warm, “Morning.”
Peat mumbles it back without looking at him. Fort’s smile deepens, amused—and weirdly fond.

Peat
He kept it together last night. Somehow. Left without a word. Went home. Took a shower that felt too hot and too cold at the same time.
Now he’s here. On set. Early, prepped, in costume. Like he didn’t press his mouth to Fort’s. Like Fort didn’t kiss him back like that.
It was nothing. They had to get it right. The scene needed it. That’s what professionals do.
He doesn’t look at Fort. Doesn’t need the reminder.
“Morning,” he says, like it’s just another day.

Fort
They run blocking. It’s smooth. Peat’s sharp—on time, precise. Every movement exact. But he still won’t meet Fort’s eyes.
And Fort can’t help it. It’s kind of endearing how shaken up Peat is. Not that he’d say that out loud.
He just gives him space. Keeps it light. Friendly. If Peat needs a little distance to figure things out, Fort can wait.

Peat
He doesn’t want Fort to act weird. He doesn’t want to act weird himself.
Fort’s being nice. Chill. Normal.
But it gnaws at him anyway. Because Fort knows. He felt it. Peat knows he did.
And now he’s being kind. Gentle. Like he pities him. Like he thinks Peat got carried away. Lost control.
He did.

Fort
The scene starts. And it’s better. Way better.
Peat still avoids his gaze off-camera, but once they’re rolling—he’s there. When Fort leans in, Peat doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back.
His mouth is soft now. Familiar. The kiss lands right—warm, steady, real. They hold it longer this time.
Director yells, “Cut!”—and sounds floored.

Peat
He pulls back, steady on the outside. Doesn’t look at Fort.
He felt that. Again.
But he doesn’t let himself think about it. The scene was better today. They rehearsed. That’s all. They needed it to work.
He hears the director’s praise. Nods. Plays it cool. Doesn’t look over. Can’t risk what might be on Fort’s face.

Fort
The director’s glowing. “That’s what I was waiting for. Beautiful work. You two just needed a little break, huh?”
Fort smiles, soft. “Guess so.”
He catches something in Peat’s jaw—just a flicker, like he’s holding back a reaction.
Fort doesn’t press. He just nudges his shoulder gently as they step off set. Casual. “Good work.”
Peat stiffens but nods.

Peat
He holds his breath. Waits for Fort to bring it up.
The kiss. The scene. Something.
But Fort just hands him his afternoon coffee, same as always. Same warmth. No shift. No comment. Nothing.
And Peat lets himself exhale.
Of course he wouldn’t say anything. It was just for work. They needed it to look real.
No need to talk it to death. No need to make it weird. They’re professionals.

Fort
Peat takes the coffee. Nods. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back.
Something uncurls in Fort’s chest. A quiet hope stirs—fragile, but undeniable.
Alright.
Alright.
So he lets himself smile. “Wanna grab food later?” he asks, like always.
Peat rolls his eyes. “Do I get a choice?” He huffs a laugh, soft and under his breath.
Fort grins wider. That’s a yes.

Chapter 12: Fort hugs anyone

Peat
He tells himself this is easier.
No awkward follow-up. No weird tension.
Just back to normal.
Fort’s arm drapes over his shoulders again—just a little tighter than usual. Peat feels the warmth of Fort’s sun-warmed skin pressing against his own—his own frame smaller, tighter, a little tense beneath Fort’s easy confidence.
For a moment, Peat waits, half-expecting Fort to say something. Anything.
But Fort doesn’t.
And just like that, the tight knot inside Peat’s chest loosens.
If Fort’s being a bit clingier today—well, that’s just Fort. It’s always been like this.
Fort’s grin spreads wide, golden and open, lighting up his face as he hooks an arm possessively around Peat’s waist, claiming the space between them.
Peat lets it happen.
Because it means nothing.

Fort
His chin rests on Peat’s shoulder, breath warm and faint against the smooth skin there. His arms wrap around Peat as naturally as breathing.
Peat letting him hold on like this—more than Fort ever dared hope for.
When Fort saw how shy Peat was, he thought maybe Peat would pull away. But he didn’t.
So Fort stopped holding back.
Now, wherever Peat was, Fort was clinging.
And Peat—he’d stopped complaining, really. Even seemed to relax into the touch, more affectionate than before, even if he didn’t realize it.
And that? That was everything.
Off-camera, waiting for the next setup, the crew buzzes around them, voices rising and falling like tide. Boss and Neoul lounge on the couch, tossing snacks back and forth, their carefree laughter filling the room.
Fort wraps himself around Peat, drifting toward sleep on his shoulder.
The scent of Peat’s citrus detergent pulls him under—soft and soothing.
Then Neoul squawks Peat’s name.

Peat
“Since when do you let him hang on you like that, Peat?”
Boss’s voice is loud, cutting through the easy chatter.
Neoul leans forward with a knowing smirk. “Something shifted after that kiss. Just saying.”
Peat stiffens—not much, but enough.
He feels Fort’s arms hold firm, casual, but it’s anything but.
“Fort hugs anyone,” Peat says, voice dry. “It’s not special.”
He nudges Fort’s ribs lightly, enough to create space. Doesn’t meet Fort’s gaze, but the gap feels colder than it should.

Fort
The shove lands heavier than expected.
He laughs it off, moving back like he wasn’t just pushed out of his orbit.
Boss hoots. Neoul whistles.
But Fort’s already recalculating.
Alright. Message received.

Peat
Fort’s hugs used to be everywhere—Boss, Neoul, even the crew.
Now it’s only Peat.
He notices, the way Fort’s warm weight leans into him now.
But no.
No way he’s reading into it.
Fort’s warm like that with everyone.
Maybe he’s tired. Or busy. Or just being himself.
Peat shakes the thought away.
It’s nothing.
Just his imagination.

Fort
He doesn’t hug anyone else now.
Not Neoul. Not Boss. Not the crew.
Because Peat said it meant nothing—“Fort hugs anyone.”
But it’s not true.
Not anymore.
If Peat can’t see it, Fort will show him.
So he stops.
No more casual clinging. No more shared space with anyone else.
Only Peat.
Because that’s the truth.
He’s not doing it for attention. Not out of habit.
He’s doing it because it’s him.
Because it’s Peat.
And if Peat still wants to pretend it’s nothing—fine.
Fort can be patient.
But he’s not playing the same game anymore.

Chapter 13: still keeping tabs on me?

Fort
His manager’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the office—sharp, insistent.
“This is a huge opportunity,” she says. “Big studio. Prime time slot. And you’d be paired with Tin—they’ve already done the chemistry tests.”
Fort’s smile is polite but distant, like a shield. Tin is fine—charming, talented, someone who knows how to work the camera. A good face, a good actor. But not Peat.
The room smells faintly of cold coffee and paper stacks. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow that makes everything feel harder than it should.
“I’m gonna pass,” Fort says, calm and clear.
A beat of silence.
“You’re passing?” She blinks, like she didn’t hear right.
He nods again. “It’s not the right fit.”
Her sigh is heavy with frustration. “Fort, they’re practically offering to build the series around you.”
“I know.”
“And you still—?”
“I’m not interested.”
She folds her arms, the conversation closing like a door.
What no one knows is the truth burning beneath the surface—that chemistry tests mean nothing when he’s already found what real chemistry feels like.
Not with Tin.
With Peat.
Even if Peat pretends it doesn’t exist.

Peat
He hears about it from Boss, as expected.
“Did you know Fort turned down that drama with Tin?” Boss says, shoving chips into his mouth, the crunch echoing in the quiet room. “Big series too. All over the press.”
Peat barely glances up from his phone, the blue light casting shadows under his eyes. “Maybe he didn’t like the script.”
“Script’s fine,” Boss says. “Director’s solid. Tin’s practically a fan favorite.”
Peat shrugs, his fingers scrolling through the screen like it’s a lifeline. “Maybe the schedule didn’t work out.”
Boss narrows his eyes. “You think he’s getting picky?”
“He’s always been picky,” Peat says, too fast.
The words catch in his throat, sharper than intended—too clean, too rehearsed.
That’s a lie.
Fort has never been cautious like this. He’s always jumped into things that sounded fun, interesting. Reckless in the best way.
Not this time.
Peat stares at the feed, the quiet buzz of notifications drowning out the hum of the room.
He tells himself it’s none of his business.
Fort can say no to whatever he wants.
It means nothing.
He doesn’t ask.
Doesn’t mention it over lunch like they usually do.
Keeps his mouth shut.
But the question lingers, a faint pulse beneath his ribs.
If it really didn’t mean anything… why does it feel like it does?

Fort
“I’m not doing fanservice.”
Promotion season for his movie rolls around—a film shot months before Peat, before anything.
They want the usual—matching outfits, playful poses, behind-the-scenes reels made for fans.
He smells the faint scent of makeup and hairspray backstage, the rush of bright lights warming his skin.
He says no, without hesitation.
The publicist stares like he’s lost his mind. “This is standard. People expect it.”
“I’ll show up. I’ll smile. I’ll answer questions,” Fort says, steady and firm.
But he’s drawing a line.
No fanservice.
Not with anyone else.
Not when the only time it ever felt real wasn’t acting at all.

Peat
The clips flood his phone—Twitter, Instagram reels, TikTok edits set to dramatic music.
“Fort’s not doing fanservice??”
“Where’s the chemistry??”
“He’s acting like he doesn’t even know the guy 😭”
“Wait, so he’s only flirty with Peat now???”
“Something shifted.”
Peat’s thumb scrolls but his eyes glaze over, caught in the dissonance.
Fort stands polite, distant, arms nowhere near his co-star.
No stolen glances.
No forced giggles.
Nothing like the way Fort moves around—
No.
Peat shuts off the screen.
Tells himself it’s just fatigue. Or a bad vibe with that guy.
Maybe the director said to keep it straight.
Maybe—
But nothing sticks.
He’s seen Fort work a crowd, turn on charm like a switch.
This? This is Fort turning it off.
On purpose.
And the fans noticing only makes it worse.
Memes circulate, clips stitched with Peat’s name lighting Fort’s face up, then cutting to the cold distance with the co-star.
Captions read:
“He’s in love and he’s not subtle.”
“This isn’t acting anymore.”
His chest tightens—an ache he can’t push away.
For the first time, really, truly, Peat feels it:
The weight.
The itch of guilt.
The part of him that’s always known Fort’s been holding back.
And that he’s been hiding.
He closes the app.
Sits with the silence, letting it settle around him like a thick fog.

Fort
It was supposed to be a good sign.
Peat had cracked a joke that morning—offhand, sarcastic but not cold—about the fanmeet, about Fort refusing to do fanservice with anyone else. Just a throwaway line tossed over coffee and call sheets, but Fort had caught it like a lifeline.
He’d laughed it off, the sound light but with something fluttering beneath his ribs—something sharp and hopeful.
Because Peat had seen. Not just seen, but noticed.
Fort imagined him now, lying in bed somewhere else, phone glowing against the dark, watching clips of Fort beside his old co-star—stiff, polite, arms never brushing, no spark in his eyes. Fans scrolling through comments: “He’s never like this when Peat’s around.”
That was the point.
It wasn’t PR. It wasn’t a ploy.
It was a message.
I only do this with you.
And now Peat was standing there again, waiting in the hallway, that quiet hum of the building settling around them like a familiar rhythm.
Fort’s heart ticked up, foolish and reckless.
“So,” he said, a little too pleased, voice low, “still keeping tabs on me?”

Peat
The second Fort turned the corner, Peat knew the moment had arrived.
He couldn’t hesitate—not now, not after everything.
Fort’s smile was soft, a shade too warm, the look reserved for when they thought no one else was watching. It clutched at Peat’s stomach like a quiet warning.
“So, still keeping tabs on my every move?” Fort teased, voice light but edged with something real.
Peat crossed his arms, pressed his back to the wall—rough paint scratching his skin. His voice stayed dry, even though his chest thudded. “Can’t miss it when your name’s all over my FYP.”
Fort chuckled, easy, but with an edge. “Ah. So you did see it.”
Of course he did. Everyone had.
Fort, rigid next to someone he’d once been practically glued to.
But Peat wasn’t ready to say thanks.
Wasn’t ready to let this slip into something it shouldn’t be.
He felt the truth rise, bitter and necessary.
“I think you should stop doing that,” Peat said.

Fort
Fort blinked, genuinely caught off guard.
“Doing what?”
“Tanking your career for a ship.”
Peat’s words landed like a slap across the face.
Fort tried to laugh but it came out hollow. “Wait—what?”
“You turned down a whole series,” Peat said, voice low but steady. “You barely promoted a movie you spent months working on. You’re burning bridges because of me.”
Fort’s chest went cold. “You think that won’t follow you? That no one’s asking questions?”
“People notice, Fort.”
Fort’s breath hitched. “I’m choosing not to fake chemistry with people I don’t care about.”
“And that’s noble,” Peat said, too steady, almost rehearsed. “But also stupid.”

Peat
The words tasted bitter, sharp and unwelcome.
Fort’s face shifted—falling, breaking—and Peat hated the crack he caused.
But he kept going.
This was the truth. The right thing to say.
“Look—I’m saying this because I care,” Peat said, voice soft but urgent. “You’re young. You’re good. You’re going to get real offers, big ones, and you’ll lose them if you keep tying everything to someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” Fort’s voice hardened.
“I mean—someone older. Less experienced. Someone who isn’t even sure they’ll stick around.”
There. The words out in the open.
He braced for argument. For denial.
He didn’t expect the look Fort gave him.

Fort
Peat tried to keep it practical, logical—building walls from reason, dressing fear as foresight.
Fort stepped closer, the air between them thickening. “So now this is about age? Experience?”
“No,” Peat snapped, frustrated. “It’s about you. Your future.”
Fort’s jaw tightened. No shout needed—the silence screamed it.
“No. I think you haven’t thought clearly. Because if you had, you’d know I’m not doing this out of obligation. Or pity. Or whatever else you’ve decided.”

Peat
He looked away, couldn’t meet Fort’s burning gaze—angry, hurt, sure.
Because maybe… maybe Fort was right.
And that terrified him.
“You think I’m ruining my chances by being around you?” Fort’s voice was quieter now. Raw.
“God, Peat. You really don’t get it.”
“I do get it,” Peat snapped, sharper than intended. “I get it too well. That’s the problem.”
Fort took a step back, something in him folding in.
“I thought this meant something to you,” Fort said quietly. “I thought you wanted me to choose you.”

Fort
For a moment—a flicker—a crack in Peat’s armor.
Fort almost reached out.
But it vanished.
Peat’s voice cut through the quiet.
“I just don’t want to be the reason you look back and regret everything.”
That hit like a knife.
Fort already knew he wouldn’t regret it.
He’d made his choice.
But Peat kept trying to shield him from something Fort was willing to fight for.
And Fort didn’t want to beg.
Didn’t want to drag this into messy confessions or desperate promises.
He shook his head, steady.
“You’re not the reason I’ll regret anything.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because if he stayed, he’d say too much.

Chapter 14: I just wanted to protect you

Fort
Fort didn’t walk far.
He made it to the other end of the hall, turned the corner, and leaned against the cool concrete wall like he could press the heat out of his chest.
He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight, lips parted as if he’d just sprinted a mile.
What the fuck was that?
He’d been so sure. Peat had looked up that clip. Had joked about it. Had waited for him in the hallway like he always did when he wanted something private, something real. Fort had let himself believe—stupidly, maybe—that it meant something.
That he meant something.
But instead of the conversation he’d been quietly hoping for, the one he’d been waiting on for weeks, Peat had come to say—what? That Fort was bad at career decisions? That he should stop associating with a man who wasn’t worth the risk?
Fort’s mouth twisted bitterly. Tying yourself to someone like me.
What did that even mean? Older? Slower? A liability?
It was like being offered a hug—and getting a warning label instead.
He’d thought Peat cared. Not the distant, professional, polite kind of care. The real kind. And maybe he still did. But this wasn’t how you treated someone you wanted to keep close. This was Peat pushing Fort away, dressed up as “for his own good.”
Fort’s fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
Because the part that hurt most—was that Peat thought he knew better. That he’d looked at all Fort’s choices, all his deliberate no’s, and assumed they were impulsive, naive, unthoughtful.
He wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t “latching on.”
He just chose him. Willingly.
Carefully.
And Peat refused to see that.
Fort let out a slow breath, eyes burning as they fell to the floor.
He wanted to scream. To turn around, shake Peat, make him understand:
You’re not ruining anything.
You’re the only thing I want.
And I know you want me too.
Screw the ship. I’m trying to stay close to you.
But Fort didn’t turn back.
Because if Peat was scared now—already searching for an exit—he knew hearing how much Fort actually wanted him might only push him further away.
Still.
Still.
He could feel the resentment rising inside his ribs, hot and tight and impossible to swallow. Not because Peat had said something cruel—but because he’d said it kindly.
That was worse than indifference.
That was someone hurting you with care in their eyes.
And Fort didn’t know what the hell to do with that.
So he stood there, breathing hard, trying not to punch the wall.
Trying not to cry.

Peat
Peat didn’t go far either.
He stood just outside the stairwell door for a long moment, hand still on the handle, heart knocking inside his chest like it didn’t know where to land.
God.
He’d messed that up.
He hadn’t meant to upset Fort—not like that. But the way Fort’s expression shifted halfway through, how his shoulders stiffened like a drawbridge slamming shut—
Peat leaned against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.
It wasn’t supposed to go like that.
He’d wanted to be… honest. Mature. Thoughtful. That’s what people do, right? When they care about someone. They say the hard thing. They take a step back so the other person can move forward.
He’d rehearsed those words for days—kept them light, even joked at the start.
For a moment, Fort had smiled. A real smile.
And then it vanished.
Peat’s chest caved in.
He didn’t blame Fort. Not really. If the roles were reversed, he’d probably be pissed too. But that didn’t mean he’d been wrong.
Fort was getting offers. Rising fast. And Peat—he’d been in this business too long to pretend chemistry didn’t matter. Connections stuck. Pairings defined you—on screen and off.
Fort had power now, whether he realized it or not. And tying himself too tightly to Peat meant narrowing the road before it had even opened.
Peat exhaled, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve.
What he hadn’t expected—hadn’t prepared for—was how much it would hurt to say it out loud.
Because of course he wanted Fort to stay close. Of course he felt something—more than he probably should. It had been building since their second week of shooting. Since Fort started knowing what he was going to say before he said it. Since the first time Fort passed him a mic with that quiet kind of attention. It felt like Fort really saw him—not just the actor, but the person.
It had started to feel a little too easy. A little too dangerous.
So Peat did what he always did when things got dangerous.
He pulled away before he could be pulled under.
“I just wanted to protect you,” he whispered to no one. But it sounded weak even in the silence.

Chapter 15: I miss you.

Peat
Peat told himself it was fine.
This was what he’d wanted—boundaries, clarity, professionalism. He’d said as much to Fort. Told him, as kindly as he could, to think about his future. About optics.
And Fort had listened.
Too well.
Now their conversations were short. Their jokes stripped of warmth. Their silences efficient. Empty.
It shouldn't bother him. Not when Fort still laughed with the others. Not when Peat caught glimpses of that easy smile across the room, like nothing had changed.
But it burned.
He clenched his jaw when Fort didn’t sit next to him on break. When their rehearsal times stopped lining up. When Neoul posted a group photo and Fort stood beside Boss, not him.
He was fine. Of course he was.
So fine he almost cracked his pen in half when Fort walked past him without even looking his way.

Fort
Fort was trying.
He really was.
He’d promised himself he’d back off. Give Peat space. Respect the boundary, no matter how much it hurt.
Peat hadn’t been cruel—just calm, careful. Like Fort was too young to understand. Like he was doing him a favor.
But it had still felt like being cut loose.
So Fort kept his distance. Smiled when he had to, laughed when it was expected. He didn’t touch. Didn’t linger. He followed the new rules like scripture.
Even when it hurt.
Because Peat was still there. Still bringing coffee. Still throwing out those dumb little jokes. Like he could act normal and erase what he’d said.
Fort wanted to believe it meant something. That Peat didn’t mean it.
But he remembered the words—“someone older, someone who isn’t even sure they’ll stick around”—spoken with careful precision. Like Fort was a kid with a crush, and Peat was letting him down gently.
So Fort stayed quiet.
When Peat offered him gum, he passed it to Neoul. When Peat joked during blocking, he didn’t answer. When their arms brushed backstage, he didn’t flinch.
Not because he was cold.
Just… careful.
Because if he let himself believe again, and Peat shut him out again—he wouldn’t survive it.

Peat
He found Fort alone by the vending machine.
It wasn’t planned, but the chance felt like fate. Fort was tugging at his hoodie sleeve, distracted. Familiar.
Peat stepped closer. Rubbed the back of his neck.
“Hey. That new place just opened up… Want to go with me?”
Fort didn’t even look up.
“Already asked Boss.”
Flat. Final.
Boss.
Peat blinked. Forced a smile.
“Cool. Good idea.”
Fort nodded once. Nothing more.
Like Peat hadn’t just offered him a sliver of vulnerability and gotten silence in return.

Fort
He watched Peat walk away.
He knew the signs—the coffee, the jokes, the invite. Peat was trying to smooth things over without saying anything real.
But Fort couldn’t be the one who reached anymore.
He was tired.
So he said no. Watched Peat fold himself into a smile.
And didn’t follow.
It sucked. But it was safer than pretending they were okay.

Peat
Later that night, Peat lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, phone resting on his chest.
He told himself he was just scrolling.
Then the clip appeared.
“Fort in 2023: hugging everyone 🤗
Fort in 2025: only hugs Neoul now 😭
Justice for Peat!”
He hit play.
On the left: Fort, a human magnet. On the right: the same smile, the same laugh—but space. Always space.
Especially with Peat.
Another video followed. Behind the scenes. Peat reaching for Fort’s shoulder mid-laugh. Fort smiling, then brushing him off. Gently. Carefully.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Or maybe he had.
Now it was slowed down. Zoomed in.
“Ouch. Peat looked… lowkey crushed.”
He did. He really did.
Peat stared at his own face on screen. A flicker of something raw. Surprise, confusion—hurt.
He saved the video. Didn’t know why.
Regret, maybe. Or proof. Or punishment.
He scrolled the comments. Fans noticing. Guessing. Joking. Some defending him. Some just calling it what it was: sad.
And it was.
He locked the phone and waited.
No message came.
Of course it didn’t.
Fort was giving him exactly what he’d asked for.
He just hadn’t known it would feel like this.

Fort
He didn’t mean to watch the clip more than once.
At first it was just a fan post.
“Fort in 2023: hugging everyone 🤗
Fort in 2025: only hugs Neoul now 😭
Justice for Peat!”
Funny. Sort of.
Then he hit play again.
Left side: him in 2023, hugging everyone like a golden retriever on set. Right side: still warm, still smiling—but always a step away.
Especially from Peat.
Then the second video.
Peat laughing, reaching for his shoulder. Fort brushing it off.
He remembered it now.
The pause in Peat’s hand. The beat of silence that followed.
“Ouch. Peat looked… lowkey crushed.”
He did.
And it made no sense.
Peat had told him to stop getting too close. Told him to be smart. To move on.
So why did it look like that had hurt him too?
Why did it feel like Fort was the one being punished?
He shut the laptop, jaw tight.
Maybe Peat didn’t even know what he was doing. Or maybe he did. Maybe this was what protecting each other looked like to him.
Fort sat in the quiet.
He was doing everything Peat had asked.
And it was killing them both.

Peat
It was 2:11 a.m.
The kind of hour where the quiet got heavier. Where the screen’s glow cut too sharp against the dark.
Peat lay on his side, blankets tangled around him. The script on his nightstand unread.
He typed:
Are we okay?
Deleted it.
Tried again:
I didn’t mean for things to get so… weird.
Then, softer:
I miss you.
He stared at the message. It was the most he’d let himself say in weeks.
His heart thundered, uneven and loud.
But he didn’t send it.
He locked the screen. Let the dark swell around him.
Because maybe Fort didn’t feel the same anymore.
Maybe Peat had asked him to move on—
And Fort had finally listened.

Chapter 16: Just say you’re jealous.

Fort
He wraps his arms around Noeul’s shoulders in the greenroom, tugging him into a loose, easy hold as Noeul cackles about something dumb Boss said ten minutes ago. It’s not that funny—just a weird offhand comment about someone’s mismatched socks—but Fort laughs anyway, the sound slipping out of him like muscle memory. He’s aware, even as he leans in, how performative it feels. Like he’s playing a part.
He doesn’t look across the room. Doesn’t need to. The air shifts when Peat’s watching—some instinct in Fort’s chest tightens, almost preemptively, like it’s bracing for a blow that might not come but will still leave a mark.
And sure enough—
“See?” Peat’s voice cuts across the chatter like a knife coated in sugar. “Told you. Fort’ll cling to anyone with a pulse.”
Fort turns, smile still on his lips—but it’s tight now, drawn at the edges. Not quite forced. Just… thinner. There’s no real bite in Peat’s voice, not this time. It’s the same throwaway line he used back when Fort would hug anyone—lighting crew, wardrobe assistants, camera ops.
Before he stopped.
Before he saved all his warmth for one person.
One person who didn’t know what to do with it.
Now?
Now Fort gives him exactly what he said he wanted.
Distance.
Professionalism.
Nothing extra.
“Just say you’re jealous.”
He doesn’t dress it up with a grin. Doesn’t laugh to soften the edges.
It lands somewhere between a dare and a confession—low, steady, just sharp enough to draw blood if someone’s careless.
Peat blinks. Just once. His mouth opens like he might offer something back.
But it closes again, the silence filling with tension as he looks down at his phone, fingers unmoving, lips twisting like he swallowed a word too bitter to speak.

Peat
He is jealous.
It’s ridiculous, he knows—pathetic, even.
He’s the one who told Fort to be smart.
To think about his future.
To stop anchoring himself to something that could pull him under.
Something like… him.
And Fort listened. With devastating precision.
He’s gone back to being everyone’s favorite: slinging an arm around Boss’s shoulders during breaks, high-fiving Noeul after run-throughs, hugging a staffer whose name he probably doesn’t even know.
Everyone gets a little piece of him now.
Everyone except Peat.
No hand brushing his back in quiet reassurance.
No lean into his space when the cameras aren’t rolling.
No lingering looks that said more than they should’ve in rooms that were never quite private enough.
Peat still tries. He cracks the same jokes. Brings him coffee. Offers to run lines.
But Fort smiles with too many teeth now, says, “I’m good,” without hesitation, and walks away before Peat can offer anything else.
So he defaults.
Deflects.
Reaches for the only thing he’s good at—sarcasm and self-preservation.
“See? Told you. Fort clings to anyone.”
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
They don’t land like they used to.
They don’t even land like a joke.
“Just say you’re jealous.”
The words hit with surgical precision—soft-spoken, but undeniable.
Peat draws in a breath he hadn’t meant to take.
He doesn’t know what he’s about to say.
He’s not even sure what he can say.
But it doesn’t matter—Fort is already turning away, shoulders loose, voice easy, like none of it meant anything at all.
Peat watches him laugh at something Noeul says, and something inside him clenches with quiet ache.
He isn’t jealous of Noeul.
He’s jealous of the version of Fort that used to look at him like he was the only person in the room.
And the worst part is—it’s his fault that version is gone.

Fort
The rooftop is quiet, the hum of the city bleeding into the low, steady thrum of the air units overhead. There’s something soothing about the height, the distance. Like the world down below is someone else’s problem. Fort leans forward against the railing, water bottle in hand, thumb slowly peeling the label off one strip at a time.
His shoulders are still tense.
He hears the creak of the door behind him but doesn’t move. He knows who it is before the steps even reach him.
Boss doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t circle the point. He just moves in beside him, hands in his jacket pockets, and exhales a breath that seems to carry the weight of the whole production with it.
“Wanna tell me what that was earlier?”
Fort keeps his eyes on the skyline. “You’ll have to narrow it down.”
Boss doesn’t laugh. “Don’t be cute. You used Noeul to make Peat jealous.”
Fort’s jaw tightens. “Noeul didn’t mind.”
“That’s not the point.” Boss’s voice hardens. “He’s not a prop for your unresolved feelings.”
Fort finally turns, frustration simmering. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Boss says, without flinching. “You pulled him into your lap like it was nothing. Hugged him like it didn’t mean anything. But your eyes weren’t on him, Fort. They were on Peat the whole damn time.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than it should.
Fort swallows. Looks away again.
Boss lets the quiet linger, then softens, just a fraction. “Noeul would let you throw him off a building if you smiled while doing it. But I won’t.”
Fort lets out a bitter laugh, one that barely makes it past his teeth. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Just a reaction.”
“Well, it worked,” Boss says. “Peat looked like a kicked puppy.”
Fort’s hands grip the railing a little harder. The skyline blurs at the edges.
Boss studies him for a moment, then asks, “So what’s going on?”
Fort hesitates, then says, almost too casually, “I thought he felt the same. But he told me to let go. Said he was older. Not worth it. Told me to go chase bigger things.”
Boss raises an eyebrow. “And you just listened?”
Fort exhales. “Didn’t really feel like I had a choice.”
“Bullshit,” Boss says, no hesitation. “You always have a choice.”
Fort looks at him, weary now. “What was I supposed to do? Tell him no? Tell him I already am? That he’s the reason I say no to roles, ignore DMs, brush off every fan-ship people try to build for me? That I already picked him and I’m just waiting for him to stop pushing me away?”
Boss shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Fort stares at him.
Boss shrugs again, more gently this time. “He thinks he’s protecting you. You think you’re respecting him. And somewhere in between, you’re both being idiots.”
The wind picks up, stirring loose strands of Fort’s hair. The city stretches wide and unreachable below them.
Boss pushes off the railing, already walking away. “Just don’t drag Noeul into it again. That’s all I’m saying.”
Fort nods, voice quiet. “Yeah.”
He stays behind, watching the sky, surrounded by everything he hasn’t said—and still doesn’t know how to.

Peat
The room is empty now, or close to it—just the faint smell of setting spray hanging in the air and the dull thump of gear being packed up outside. Peat sits on the edge of a bench, elbows on his knees, phone in hand, staring at the screen like it might offer a distraction he knows won’t come.
Noeul hasn’t left.
He’s sitting backward on a folding chair, arms draped over the backrest, chin resting on his wrist. Watching Peat like he’s a puzzle half-solved.
Peat doesn’t look at him.
“Can I ask you something?” Noeul says, voice light.
Peat sighs. “You’re going to anyway.”
Noeul smiles. “True.”
He lets a beat pass, then says, “What’s going on with you and Fort?”
Peat doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink. He knew this was coming.
“Nothing,” he says, flat and fast.
Noeul cocks his head. “See, I’d believe that—if you didn’t flinch every time he touches Boss.”
Peat snorts. “He touches everyone. That’s just how Fort is.”
Noeul shrugs, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe before.”
That catches Peat’s attention. He looks up.
“He doesn’t do that anymore,” Noeul says. “Not unless you’re in the room.”
Peat swallows hard, throat suddenly tight.
“I mean,” Noeul adds, a little too casual, “he hugs me again now. So thanks for the permission, I guess.”
“I never—”
“You did,” Noeul says, not unkindly. “You teased him. Loudly. In front of staff. ‘Clings to anyone with a pulse,’ remember?”
Peat winces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But he did,” Noeul says, voice softening. “He took it seriously. He always took you seriously.”
Peat looks down. His phone feels too heavy, too sharp in his hand.
“He’s only ever like that with you,” Noeul adds quietly.
Peat doesn’t respond.
“And now…” Noeul gestures to the space beside him, the emptiness Fort used to fill. “It’s like you’re both pretending the fire isn’t already halfway down the building.”
Peat lets out a bitter breath, barely audible. “You make it sound dramatic.”
“You make it look painful.”
Peat’s voice is quieter now. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
A pause. Then, more hesitant: “He deserves better.”
Noeul frowns. “Than what?”
Peat doesn’t answer. Just locks his phone and slides it into his pocket like it’s the only thing he can still control.
Noeul watches him for a long beat. Then says, gently but unflinching:
“You can want someone and still want what’s best for them. Those things don’t cancel each other out.”
Peat’s breath stutters. “What if I’m not what’s best?”
Noeul tilts his head. Calm. Certain. “What if you are—and you’re the only one who doesn’t see it?”
Peat closes his eyes.
By the time he opens them, Noeul is already up, brushing off his shirt, heading for the door.
“Might wanna fix it,” he says over his shoulder, lighter now. “Before he stops waiting for you to.”
The door shuts quietly behind him.
Peat stays still, surrounded by silence and the weight of something that might still be fixable—if he’s brave enough to try.

Chapter 17: You left.

Peat
The rooftop buzzed with soft music and louder conversations, all of it wrapped in the kind of curated glow that made everyone look good and no one feel real.
Peat stood near the edge of the crowd, glass in hand, not drinking. Just holding. Just watching.
He told himself he wasn’t keeping tabs on Fort.
At first it was just casual glances. Then longer ones. Then… the actor. Tall, charming, the kind of smooth confidence that only came from already being told yes too many times. The guy had been orbiting Fort for the past ten minutes, maybe more. Leaning in. Laughing too much. Touching his arm like it was natural, like Fort was his to touch.
Peat couldn’t remember the last time he blinked.
Fort didn’t look uncomfortable. If anything, he looked relaxed—slightly tipsy, loose-limbed. Smiling that soft, open-mouthed kind of smile he rarely gave away for free.
Peat took a drink, bitter and hot going down. Wrong choice. He winced.
“Strong,” Noeul’s voice said from behind him.
Peat didn’t look away from Fort. “Hm?”
“You’re drinking like someone trying not to punch a wall.”
He finally turned his head. Noeul looked mildly amused, Boss close behind him, arms crossed.
Peat exhaled. “Just enjoying the night.”
“Sure,” Boss said flatly.
Noeul sipped his wine. “That’s Fort, right?”
Peat didn’t answer.
“You’re scowling,” Boss said. “Everyone’s gonna think it’s about work drama.”
Peat looked down into his glass. “Maybe it is.”
Neither of them said anything.
Peat hated how obvious it was—how transparent he felt under their eyes. It wasn’t like he had a claim. He’d pushed Fort away. Told him to think about his career, about not tying himself down. Told him to stop clinging. To stop choosing Peat.
And Fort had listened.
So now he was here, smiling at someone else. Letting someone else make him laugh.
Maybe that’s what Peat had wanted.
Maybe it was what he deserved.
He looked back up. The actor leaned in close, whispering something. Fort tilted his head, still smiling.
Still not pulling away.
Peat swallowed hard. Drank again.
“He’s not doing anything wrong,” he muttered.
Boss gave him a look. “You’re not mad because it’s wrong.”
Noeul studied him for a long moment. “You’re mad because it’s working.”
Peat didn’t answer. He just laughed once, too quiet, and finished the rest of his drink.

Fort
Fort liked the lights.
They weren’t anything special — just strings of warm bulbs across the rooftop — but something about them made the whole party feel softer, more forgiving.
Like if he just leaned into the mood hard enough, he could forget everything knotted under his ribs.
He was here to network. Smile. Shake hands. Say yes to new projects. That’s what people told him he should be doing anyway — branching out.
So he was doing it.
He’d said no to three shots, accepted the fourth. Laughed when someone made a joke about him being tied to Peat forever. Didn’t let it show that the joke stuck in his throat.
Now some actor he’d seen around — tall, charming, maybe a little too confident — was talking his ear off about a series Fort hadn’t seen. Fort nodded, laughed when it felt right. Let his hand rest casually on the railing. Tried to enjoy it. This was normal. This was what he was supposed to do.
“Hey,” the guy said, nudging his arm, “I thought you’d be more intense. You’re easy to talk to.”
Fort smiled. “I get that a lot.”
It wasn’t even flirting, really. Fort didn’t feel anything sharp in it. He was just being kind, being good. Not overthinking. Just… being.
“Are you looking for a new project?” the actor asked, leaning in a bit.
Fort’s hand gripped his glass. “I’m… considering a few things.”
“Anything with your usual co-star?”
There it was again. That tightness around the word.
Fort looked away for a second — just long enough to catch a flash of movement on the other side of the rooftop. A familiar silhouette. Still. Watchful.
Peat.
Fort’s stomach did something small and bitter. He looked away before it could rise into his throat.
“I guess we’ll see,” he said lightly, forcing his smile again.
The actor laughed. “Mysterious. I like it.”
Fort didn’t answer. Just took another sip of his drink. Told himself it didn’t matter that Peat was watching. That nothing hurt. That he was allowed to be here, to talk to people, to want things for himself.
That he hadn’t been waiting this whole time for Peat to say something different.

Peat
His glass was empty.
Again.
He didn’t remember how many drinks he’d had — just that none of them had worked. None of them dulled the way Fort laughed with that guy, or how he leaned in to hear him over the music.
Or how relaxed he looked, like nothing was wrong.
Peat had told him to keep his options open.
Had practically shoved him toward this.
Said it with a smile, with some self-important sense of maturity.
Told himself it was the right thing to do.
It felt like shit now.
He hated that Fort wasn’t making a scene.
That he wasn’t lingering in the corners like he always had — orbiting Peat like some magnetic idiot.
Hated how Fort smiled too easily tonight.
How someone else got to be on the receiving end of it.
That guy — the tall flirty one — had said something in Fort’s ear, and Fort had laughed.
Not politely.
Genuinely.
Like he wasn’t hurting anymore.
Like Peat never touched him at all.
“Where’s Fort?” he asked Boss, trying too hard to sound bored.
Boss didn’t even look up. “Left. With that guy.”
Left.
It shouldn’t have knocked the breath out of him. But it did.
He moved.
Fast.
Down the stairs, out the door, into the city air like maybe Fort would still be there.
He wasn’t.
The sidewalk was empty.
Just the neon glow of the awning and the buzz of the street.
Peat stood there, swaying slightly.
Waiting for—what?
A second chance?
A miracle?
He sank onto the curb like his knees had stopped working. Set the empty glass beside him like it could stand in for all the things he didn’t know how to hold.
And then it started — this slow, hot sting behind his eyes that became something worse.
His throat caught.
His jaw clenched like he could chew the grief into something smaller.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
He pressed his palms into his face, like he could scrub the shame off.
“You idiot,” he whispered to himself.
He would’ve given it all up for you. Everything. His career, his reputation.
You.
He picked you.
A bitter laugh scraped out of him.
He sniffed, wiped his face on his sleeve.
His shirt smelled like alcohol and regret.
You wanted to look noble.
That’s what it was, wasn’t it?
Thought if you let him go it would make you the good guy.
Thought he’d always stay close anyway.
That he’d still orbit you.
Still hug you like that.
But he stopped.
He actually fucking listened.
He did what you said.
And now what?
He dragged in a breath that stuttered in his chest.
You’re sitting on a goddamn curb like a heartbroken idiot, hoping for what exactly?
You don’t even have the right to miss him.
You told him to go.
Another shaky breath.
He’s gone.
He’s—really gone.
And now someone else gets his smile, his arms around them.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling.
He looked like he was about to be sick.
Maybe he deserved to be.
You ruined it.
You pushed him away and now you’re crying because he finally stopped chasing you.
That’s pathetic.
He let out a choked sound. Somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
What were you even gonna do if he was still here? Huh?
Run up to him?
Cry and say you changed your mind?
Say you were lying?
That you didn’t mean it?
That you can’t stand the thought of him with someone else?
That you’re scared, lonely and maybe even a little in love with him?
He shook his head slowly, the words dragging through him like broken glass.
You don’t get to say that now.
He bit down on his sleeve to muffle another sound. His shoulders shook.
Keeping his head down, he wrapped his arms around himself, pressing his face hard into his sleeve.
Footsteps approached, fast.
Peat buried his face deeper.
He didn’t want anyone to see him.
Not like this.
“Peat?”
Fort’s voice, sharp with worry.
Peat heard it but couldn’t look up.

Fort
Fort let out a sigh as he washed his hands.
He was tired.
The line at the bar’s bathroom had been ridiculous, so when his friend mentioned the quieter place next door, he’d taken the excuse.
Truthfully, he needed the air more than anything.
He was trying — really trying — to be normal. To laugh. To move on.
But it wasn’t happening.
He glanced up at his reflection. His smile felt too tight.
Maybe I’ll just grab my stuff and head home.
He stepped outside, heading back toward the rooftop, when he saw someone curled on the sidewalk near the curb.
Some drunk, he thought at first, stumbling a little closer.
Someone who couldn’t hold their—
His breath caught.
His chest stopped.
“Peat?”
The name left his mouth before he even realized he was moving.
Peat didn’t look up.
He just shrank in on himself, shaking.
His whole body was curled in like he was trying to disappear.
“Peat, hey—” Fort dropped beside him, his hand hovering just above his back, not quite touching.
Scared to make it worse.
Peat reeked of alcohol.
Fort’s stomach turned.
His jaw clenched. “Where are they? Boss? Noeul?”
His voice was rising. “They just—left you like this?”
The rage came fast, too fast. He was getting ready to stand, ready to storm back inside and—
A soft tug on his sleeve.
He froze.
Peat’s fingers barely held him. His lips parted, cracked and dry. He didn’t look up when he said it:
“You left.”
Fort blinked.
“What?”
“You left,” Peat said again, voice barely more than a breath.
He finally looked at Fort — red-rimmed, glassy eyes, cheeks streaked with tears.
“With him.”
Silence.
Fort’s breath stuttered. His anger drained out of him in a rush, replaced by something heavier, rawer.
Regret bloomed in his chest like a bruise.
“Peat…”
Peat gave a shaky, broken laugh. “S’fine. I shouldn’t care.”
He let go of Fort’s sleeve rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, hard — like he was trying to wipe the feeling out of his face.
“Just—dumb, huh?”
That broke something in Fort.
Without thinking, he reached forward and gently caught Peat’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. Not rough. Just enough to stop him.
He held both wrists in his palms, steady. Firm.
“Hey,” Fort said, voice low and serious.
“Look at me.”
Peat wouldn’t.
His face was already crumpling again, turning away.
But Fort didn’t let go.
He held his wrists and looked him in the eyes, like he could will Peat into believing something true and good and real.
“It’s not dumb.”
Peat blinked.
He looked like he didn’t believe Fort.
Like he couldn’t.
Fort’s grip softened. He let go of his wrists slowly — just enough to slip his arms around him instead.
To hold him.
He just needed to get Peat closer.
To keep him from vanishing.
Peat came undone in his arms. His whole body shuddered against Fort’s chest like a building falling inward.
“I’ve got you,” Fort whispered. His voice shook.
“I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
He shifted.
One arm under Peat’s legs, the other behind his back.
Peat didn’t resist. Didn’t argue. Just curled in, quiet and small, like maybe — for once — he didn’t want to fight it.
Fort stood, breath steady, jaw tight.
He didn’t go back to the party.
Didn’t even look behind him.
He just started walking.
Away.
And if it took everything he had to hold Peat together again —
he would.

Chapter 18: Don’t go

Fort
The apartment was dim and still. Fort nudged the door open with his foot, guiding them inside.
Fort carried him past the couch.
He pushed open the bedroom door with his shoulder, stepped inside, and gently lowered Peat onto the bed. The room was cold and quiet, lit only by the city glow sneaking in through the curtains. Fort pulled the comforter up over him, careful and slow.
Peat stirred.
A furrow between his brows, the faintest groan. Then—
“…Don’t go,” he slurred, barely audible.
Fort froze. His hand hovered over the blanket.
Peat’s fingers found his sleeve, clumsy and desperate, and tugged weakly.
“…Please don’t go.”
The words weren’t clean. They tangled with breath, alcohol, regret. But they were unmistakably real.
Fort leaned in, brushing Peat’s damp hair back from his forehead. “I’ll stay with you,” he whispered. “I promise. Just let me change, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Peat didn’t answer. His eyes fluttered open—barely. Glassy. Red. He blinked once. Then his lips parted again.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
The sound cracked something in Fort’s chest.
Not because he needed the apology.
Because it was Peat saying it. Because it sounded like it had been sitting in his throat for a long time.
Fort swallowed hard. “You don’t have to be,” he said, soft as breath. “Just rest.”
Peat hesitated—then slowly, fingers trembling, let go of Fort’s sleeve.
Fort stepped out just long enough to strip off his party clothes and pull on a hoodie and sweatpants. He moved quickly, afraid Peat might drift off or—worse—wake up and think Fort had left.
When he returned, Peat was still awake.
Still waiting.
Fort slid into bed beside him, lying on top of the comforter at first. But Peat rolled toward him like gravity had chosen for him, arm hooking weakly around Fort’s waist, face pressing into his chest like it was the only place that didn’t ache.
Fort didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
He just wrapped one arm around Peat’s shoulders and let the silence settle over them, heavy and slow.
Peat’s breath hitched. Another whisper, too soft to catch.
Fort didn’t ask him to repeat it.
He just said, low and steady, “I’ve got you,” and held him close—feeling Peat’s apology in the way his fingers gripped his hoodie, in the way he breathed like he was trying not to cry.
Fort’s heart pounded.
He hadn’t expected this.
He hadn’t dared to.
But now… now he couldn’t un-hear the way Peat had said please.
He stayed awake long after Peat finally slipped into sleep.
Peat was breathing more evenly now.
Slow. Heavy.
One hand still fisted in Fort’s hoodie like a child holding onto the edge of a dream.
Fort didn’t dare move.
His body ached—not from the weight, but from the restraint. He could barely feel his right arm, pinned beneath Peat’s shoulders, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the warm weight of Peat’s body against his chest, the slow rise and fall, the occasional twitch of fingers or brow that told Fort he wasn’t as far gone as he seemed.
The city light filtered in through the curtains, painting soft streaks across the ceiling. The hum of the fridge from the other room was the only real sound, aside from the occasional creak of the building settling.
And Peat’s breath.
In. Out.
Fort stared at the ceiling, eyes wide and tired and burning. He didn’t blink.
He couldn’t.
The night kept replaying in his head like a scratched record.
The party.
That actor with the cheap compliments and flashy watch, slinging an arm around his shoulders like they were old friends. Fort had smiled—because it was a party, because he was supposed to network, because he was trying to be the guy who didn’t let heartbreak sit in his chest like stone.
But Peat—
God, Peat had looked like he was being eaten alive by it.
And Fort hadn’t seen it. Not really. Not until that moment in the street, when he found him slumped against the pavement, fists curled into his own thighs like he was trying to hold himself together.
The way he’d looked up at him, drunk and vulnerable and so tired—as if Fort had left with someone else on purpose, just to twist the knife.
“With him?”
That’s what Peat had said. Just those two words. But Fort had heard everything else buried beneath them. Every crack in his voice. Every ounce of pain he hadn’t meant to show.
It had nearly knocked Fort to his knees.
He looked down at him now—Peat, face soft in sleep, lips parted slightly. Still clinging to Fort like he didn’t even realize it.
And all Fort could think was:
Why did we do this to each other?
They’d been circling this feeling for so long. Masking it with fanservice. With sarcasm. With carefully timed exits and professional boundaries. And now, here they were.
Peat, clinging to him like he never wanted to let go.
Fort, unable to move for fear he might wake up and pretend it hadn’t happened.
He let his fingers brush against Peat’s back—barely there. Just the hem of his shirt, the warmth beneath it. He memorized it like a prayer.
Peat shifted slightly, breath hitching as if he might wake. But he didn’t.
Still, Fort whispered, barely audible, “I never wanted anyone but you,” he whispered, like a secret too long held.
He didn’t expect an answer. Didn’t need one. Not tonight.
He closed his eyes.
And finally—finally—let himself rest.

Peat
Peat woke to the smell of something… toasted.
His head pounded. His mouth was dry. But it wasn’t the hangover that made his stomach turn—it was the memory, blurry and too vivid all at once.
Fort’s arms around him. His face, too close. The ache in Peat’s voice when he said, “with him.”
And now he was… in Fort’s bed.
He groaned and sat up slowly, face buried in his hands. “Shit,” he muttered into his palms. “Shitshitshit.”
Before the panic could spiral too far, the door opened with a soft creak.
“Hey,” came Fort’s voice, light and warm. “You’re alive.”
Peat peeked through his fingers. Fort stood there with a tray—smoothie, water, toast, some pill packet.
He looked annoyingly perfect for morning. Hair a little messy, hoodie sleeves rolled halfway up, expression gentle and bright.
“I made you breakfast,” Fort said, setting the tray on the nightstand. “And by made, I mean I pressed buttons and didn’t burn anything.”
Peat just blinked at him.
“You passed out pretty hard,” Fort continued. “Would’ve taken your shoes off too but you kicked me when I tried.”
Peat made a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. “I’m… sorry,” he said, voice rough.
Fort tilted his head. “For what?”
Peat didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his lap, fingers twisting in the edge of the comforter.
“For… being a mess. Last night.”
Fort sat on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under him, and without missing a beat said, “You kidding? I’d probably do the same if you left a party with some flirty actor.”
Peat’s eyes flicked to him. Fort grinned.
“I mean, I wouldn’t cry that hard,” he teased, eyes glinting. “But I’d make a scene. Probably something dramatic and loud.”
Peat let out a small, embarrassed laugh.
Fort nudged the smoothie toward him. “Drink this. Magic potion. Might turn you into a frog. Might fix your hangover. Fifty-fifty.”
Peat took it without protest, sipping slowly.
It tasted like banana and… something green. Gross, but drinkable.
“I meant it though,” he said after a beat, still not meeting Fort’s eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I don’t usually—”
“Peat.”
His name stopped him.
Fort’s voice was soft. Not pitying—just there. Warm. Grounding.
“You don’t have to explain,” Fort said. “I got it. I get it.”
Peat finally looked at him. And Fort was just… smiling. Not the camera smile. Not the teasing one. Something gentler. Worn in. Honest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Fort added. “Just so you know.”
Peat’s throat tightened. His fingers clenched tighter around the glass.
There were so many things he wanted to say. None of them formed fully.
Instead, he muttered, “I’m still kind of a mess.”
Fort reached over and ruffled his hair, thumb brushing his temple.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re my mess.”
Peat blinked at him, startled.
Fort raised a brow. “Too much?”
Peat coughed into the smoothie, blushing furiously. “You’re annoying.”
“I made you breakfast and a hangover potion,” Fort said smugly. “Respect me.”
Peat let out another laugh.
And for the first time in weeks, the space between them didn’t feel like a minefield. It felt like safety.
It felt like home.
After that they’d spent the afternoon curled up in Fort’s living room, half-watching a show, half-dozing, and mostly just sitting close enough that the quiet felt like its own kind of conversation.
Fort kept handing Peat sips of water, teasing him about his “hangover brain,” and stealing bites of the snacks Peat insisted on sharing.
The air was soft, safe — like the world had settled just enough to let them breathe.
But now Peat was standing by the door, shoes in hand, heart a little heavy.
Fort’s watching him, waiting.
Peat swallowed and forced out a shaky laugh.
“Look,” he said, voice low and careful.
Fort’s expression softened but stayed patient.
“I know I told you not to tie your career to mine,” Peat said, voice almost cracking, “like… I still think that’s probably smart. Objectively.”
He glanced up, meeting Fort’s eyes. “But…I can’t think objectively anymore.”
Fort’s lips twitched into a small smile, but he didn’t say anything right away.
Peat took a shaky breath.
“I’m scared it’s gonna go back to how it was,” he admitted. “Like you’re gonna put distance up again, and I’ll be left…”
His hands clenched at his sides.
Fort stepped forward, closing the space between them with calm certainty.
“Hey,” he said gently, “I’m right here.”
Peat swallowed again, the tightness in his chest easing just a bit.
“You don’t have to be scared,” Fort added, voice steady. “We’re figuring this out. Together.”
Peat’s breath hitched, and he let himself lean into Fort’s warmth.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Peat’s words still hung between them, raw and a little shaky.
Before he could take another step, Fort reached out, hand gentle on his wrist.
“Come here,” he said softly, voice low, steady.
Peat’s breath caught, heart thudding loud in his chest as Fort stepped closer.
Fort’s hand slipped around the back of Peat’s neck, fingers warm and sure.
And then their lips met—slow, deliberate, no rush.
Peat melted into it, the weight of fear and uncertainty folding away under the softness of Fort’s touch.
When they finally pulled back, Fort rested his forehead against Peat’s, eyes shining.
“We’ll take it slow,” Fort whispered, “but I’m not going anywhere.”
Peat smiled, a little uncertain but full of hope.
“Me neither,” he said.
And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel so scary.

Chapter 19: Sleep well, Peat.

Peat
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Peat stood on the landing for a second, keys in hand, heart still thudding too hard for the silence around him. The kiss lingered like heat in his skin—like the moment had settled into his breath, refusing to leave.
He exhaled and started down the stairs.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to stay. He’d wanted to. Badly.
But wanting and being ready weren’t the same thing. And right now, his chest was still too tight with everything he hadn’t figured out how to say.
The drive back to his place was quiet. City lights blurred against the windows, soft and distant. The radio played something gentle he didn’t recognize. He didn’t turn it off.
He played back the look on Fort’s face—how soft it had gone when he said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
How he’d kissed Peat like he meant it. Like there was no act to hide behind. No script to borrow.
Peat gripped the steering wheel tighter.
It scared him.
But not in the way it used to.
Before, he’d been afraid of what it would mean to fall. Now he was afraid it was already happening—and he’d taken too long to admit it.

Fort
The door shut behind Peat with a soft click.
Fort stood still, blinking, hand hovering like he hadn’t quite registered the weight of the moment. Then slowly—finally—a grin tugged at his lips.
It was impossible not to smile. Not after that.
He kissed me.
Not like last time. Not a panic-laced mistake or a drunk blur. This time it had weight. Intent. His eyes had said don’t pull away from me again right before he leaned in.
And then he left—sure. Of course he did. People had to go home.
But Fort didn’t feel abandoned. Not even close.
He felt chosen.
He sank onto the couch, barely able to breathe through the emotion pressing up in his chest. Not the panicked kind. Not anxiety or fear.
Just… awe.
He didn’t think this day would ever come.
Weeks ago, Peat had begged for distance. Told him not to get too close, not to ruin his own career by sticking with an inexperienced co-star. Fort had almost listened. Had tried to respect it.
But he couldn’t un-feel what he felt. He’d been in love with Peat’s steadiness, his subtle kindness, the way he pretended to be unaffected when every little thing hit him harder than he’d admit.
And now Peat knew. Now Peat wasn’t hiding it anymore.
God. He’d cried over Fort. Drunk and scared and raw, convinced Fort had left that party with someone else. That level of emotion? Fort hadn’t expected it. He’d wanted Peat to care, sure, but he didn’t know he already did.
And then this morning—Peat had let him stay close. Had curled into him without hesitation. Let Fort fuss over him, tease him, hand him water, laugh softly at his grumbles.
No embarrassment. No flinching.
He’d stayed.
And when he left… he kissed him.
Fort dropped his head into his hands and just breathed. He felt like his whole body had been rewired. Like something had finally clicked into place and would never unclick.
All that distance—the cold shoulder, the polite professionalism, the aching confusion—it finally made sense. It wasn’t that Peat didn’t care.
It was that he cared too much.
And Fort would never let him feel alone in that again.
He’d seen the fear in Peat’s eyes. The way he said, I’m scared you’ll pull away again.
I won’t, Fort thought fiercely, almost out loud. Not ever again.
He wanted to be the person Peat didn’t have to guard himself against. The one Peat could trust to stay. Not just on set, not just as a fanservice partner—but in the quiet in-betweens, the sleepy afternoons, the unspoken moments.
His phone buzzed, jolting him back into the room.
It was Peat.
Fort’s heart did a somersault.

Peat: Made it home. Thank you. For today.

Fort stared at the screen, chest too full.
Simple. Direct. Real.
Peat had hit send before overthinking it. That alone told Fort everything.
His fingers moved on instinct.

Fort: Always. Sleep well, Peat.

He set the phone down gently, like it held something sacred.
Then leaned back into the couch, heart still thudding—but for once, in a rhythm that didn’t hurt.
This wasn’t just a turning point.
It was the beginning.
And Fort was ready

Chapter 20: Just me?

Peat
Peat stepped onto set with a careful sort of composure, like balancing a glass too full.
He wasn’t hungover—at least not physically—but his chest still felt full and sore in the way it did after crying too much, too honestly.
He hadn’t slept much. Not after everything that happened.
It felt like a fever dream. Not quite real.
He’d half expected to wake up to distance again, to find Fort retreating—guarded, professional, casual.
But the second he walked into the green room Fort spotted him and smiled like it was the easiest thing in the world.
No tension. No coldness. Just him—bright and warm and already stepping toward Peat like he couldn’t help it.
And then—without ceremony—Fort leaned in draped himself over Peat’s shoulder like a sleepy cat claiming its favorite spot.
Peat blinked, barely breathing.
Oh.
He’s still mine.
Peat didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
His ribs felt looser. He hadn’t even realized how tight they’d been.

Fort
Fort had told himself he’d keep it low-key.
But the second he saw Peat—messy hair, careful expression, that little line between his brows—something in him softened and surged all at once.
He didn’t want to keep any distance.
Not after last night.
Not after the way Peat had looked at him, scared and open and trying so hard not to fall, even as he was already tumbling.
So Fort did what he wanted.
He crossed the room, slow and easy, and tucked himself against Peat like it was routine. Like they’d done this a hundred times. Like the world didn’t need an explanation.
Peat didn’t pull away.
Didn’t stiffen or joke or roll his eyes.
He just… let him stay.
Fort closed his eyes for a second, breathing him in.
He’d missed this. He’d missed him.

Peat
They sat like that through most of blocking—quiet, close, Fort using him as a human charger like always.
Fort didn’t touch anyone else. Not Noeul, not Boss. Even when they joked or called him over, he stayed exactly where he was—grounded in Peat.
It made something deep in Peat’s chest ache and settle all at once.
The fact that Fort hadn’t explained it, hadn’t made a big show of it, made it feel all the more real.

Fort
Around lunch, when people started scattering, Fort nudged Peat with his knee.
He’d been waiting for the right moment—not to say something big, but just to offer.
“Found this noodle spot,” Fort said, like he wasn’t already planning the whole thing in his head. “Kind of a hole-in-the-wall. Think you’d like it.”
Peat glanced at him, lips twitching—half-suspicious, half-smile. “Just me?”
Fort gave him a look. The look. The you know the answer look.
“Obviously.”
Peat didn’t say anything for a second. Then:
“Okay.”
Fort’s smile stretched, wide and soft and real. His hand brushed briefly against Peat’s. Not accidental.
Peat didn’t move away.

Chapter 21: You sure you want this?

Peat
The noodle shop really was nothing special.
Fluorescent lighting. Wobbly plastic chairs. Faded pictures of dishes taped to the wall like they’d been there since 2006.
But Fort had beamed the second they stepped inside, and now Peat couldn’t imagine eating anywhere else.
They sat pressed shoulder to shoulder on a bench made for two, bowls of steaming noodles between them. Fort talked like he always did — fast and warm, telling some story about his college friends and a stray cat that had somehow ended up in their dorm. Peat didn’t catch all the details.
He was too busy watching the way Fort laughed at his own joke. The way he tugged off his hoodie partway through the meal and left his hair sticking up in every direction. The way his knee kept brushing Peat’s, and how he didn’t move it away.
This wasn’t fanservice.
This wasn’t a scene.
This was Fort, being happy. With him.
And Peat… felt happy too. Genuinely. The kind that didn’t come with guilt or second-guessing or a countdown until it got ruined.
It was stupid how long it had taken him to let himself have this.
When they finished eating, Fort insisted on paying, flicked his wrist in that casual way that meant don’t even try, and the two of them wandered out into the night.
It wasn’t cold, but Fort still stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned a little closer as they walked. Their arms brushed once, twice—then again, longer.
Peat didn’t pull away.
He wanted this. Still. Maybe more than before.
The quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was nice. Familiar. Fort kept glancing at him, like he wanted to say something but didn’t need to.
When they reached Peat’s condo building, they paused outside the gate.
No one said goodnight.
They just stood there.
Peat didn’t know what made him lean in first.
Maybe it was the way Fort was looking at him. Or the way Fort wasn’t pushing — not touching, not teasing, just waiting.
Or maybe it was the heat that had been building in Peat’s chest all night, like something wound too tight.
So he leaned in.
Not dramatic. Just close. Fort caught the cue, tilted his head slightly—and met him there.
A kiss. Light. Simple. Barely a breath.
But it landed different.
This wasn’t like the one in the doorway.
That one had trembled with emotion.
This one… lingered.
Warm mouth. Soft exhale. A slight press before parting.
Peat stepped back first.
And regretted it immediately.
His pulse was still climbing. Mouth warm. Skin too awake.
Fort smiled at him — that sweet, unreadable thing he did when he was holding back a dozen thoughts — and reached up to touch Peat’s wrist briefly. Just two fingers, light and casual, before turning to go.
“Night,” he said, quiet.
Peat nodded, lips parted, but didn’t say anything.
He watched Fort walk away.
Then turned and let himself inside.
Only when the door clicked behind him did he exhale.
It wasn’t that he wanted more—
Except he did.
Not just emotionally.
Physically.
The realization landed hard. Not shameful, not panicked. Just… intense.
He wanted to kiss Fort again. To feel his hands, his weight, his breath a little closer. He wanted—
He shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair.
It was like something had shifted. Something opened up. And now it wouldn’t shut again.
Not easily.

Fort
Fort didn’t stop walking until he reached his car.
He got in, shut the door, and just sat there.
His hands rested on the wheel, but he didn’t start the engine. He didn’t move at all. The silence in the wrapped around him, thick and humming with everything he wasn’t letting himself feel too loudly.
That kiss.
God.
It had been so small. So light.
But it had lit something in his chest that wouldn’t stop burning.
He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, eyes closed.
It wasn’t about sex. Not really.
It was about being wanted—finally—by the person he’d been holding space for all this time. And not just in the quiet, not just in the safety of sleepovers or soft mornings, but out here, in the middle of the world. With the lights on.
He could still feel the ghost of Peat’s lips against his. Warm.
Fort had wanted to kiss him again. Wanted to reach for him, thread his fingers through his hair and pull him back in—not hard, not desperate, but with the kind of certainty Peat still didn’t seem to believe he deserved.
He hadn’t, though.
He’d let him go.
Because he could feel the tension in Peat’s body when they broke apart. Not the kind that meant regret—but the kind that meant pause.
Peat had wanted it.
But he was also… overwhelmed. Still new to this. To wanting like this. Still learning how not to flinch from it.
And Fort would not be the one to push past that.
So he’d touched his wrist, just lightly, a thank you and a don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere in one simple press of his fingers, and he’d walked away while he still could.
Because staying?
Staying would’ve broken his restraint clean in half.
Fort exhaled, finally leaning back in the seat. He stared up through the windshield at the blur of city light.
He’d dreamed about moments like this—kissing Peat outside his place, walking shoulder to shoulder down some quiet street.
He used to wonder if he was crazy. If he’d made it all up.
But he hadn’t. Tonight proved it.
Peat wanted him.
And Fort wanted him back.
Not just emotionally. Not just tenderly.
He wanted Peat under him. Against him. Making those soft, surprised sounds Fort had only imagined in his head.
He wanted to taste more than the edge of a kiss. He wanted hands in his hair, breath against his throat, the kind of closeness that stripped away all the tension Peat had been holding since the day they met.
He wanted.
Badly.
But he also knew better.
Peat wasn’t there yet. Not fully. He was still unwinding the knots of his own fear.
And Fort could wait.
He would.
Because the thing he wanted most wasn’t Peat in his bed.
It was Peat, unafraid. Peat, open. Peat, letting himself fall without flinching away from the landing.
So Fort sat there in the dark for a while longer, letting the wanting simmer quietly beneath his skin.
And when it became too much, he smiled to himself, soft and helpless.
Because damn—if it didn’t feel like the beginning of something worth everything.

Peat
The dressing room wasn’t even that small.
But with Fort in it, it might as well have been a closet.
Peat sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone, not seeing a thing. The stylist had already finished with him—hair set, costume fitted just right. Sleek black button-down, tucked, tailored, sleeves rolled just enough. He looked good. He knew it. But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was Fort.
Leaning against the makeup counter, collar loose, shirt rumpled just so, skin warm where it peeked out. Like he’d been styled to look undone. On purpose. And it was working.
Fort flipped through the script, pretending to read, but his eyes kept drifting. Peat caught him looking in the mirror, then at him.
“You know,” Fort said, not looking up, “you really shouldn’t be allowed to wear that.”
Peat blinked. “What?”
“That shirt,” Fort said, finally turning. “You’re killing people. Including me.”
Peat opened his mouth, then closed it again. His brain went sideways for a second. “It’s just a shirt.”
“Sure,” Fort said, pushing off the counter.
He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps and dropped onto the couch beside Peat, thigh brushing his with no intention of moving. His eyes dragged over Peat’s face, then down—openly appreciative.
Peat swallowed hard. Fort was too close. And he looked good—too good. Tousled hair, flushed from rehearsal, sleeves rolled up, collar open. It wasn’t fair.
Fort leaned in, close enough that Peat could feel his breath. “You smell like hairspray,” he said, voice low.
Peat forced his voice steady. “It’s just hairspray.”
“Yeah, but on you,.” Fort’s eyes flicked to his mouth. “You always smell good.”
Peat didn’t move. Couldn’t. His pulse had started up somewhere behind his ribs.
Fort reached out, his hand finding Peat’s knee.
“You don’t even realize, do you?”
Peat’s breath hitched. “Realize what?”
Fort didn’t answer. He just smiled, slow and warm—and then he leaned in and kissed him.
No warning. No hesitation.
It wasn’t sweet. It was confident. Intentional. His hand slid up Peat’s thigh as their mouths met, the kiss deepening without effort. Fort kissed like he’d been waiting for an excuse.
Peat’s body responded before his mind caught up—his lips parting, fingers twitching against the couch. He wanted—
But then Fort pulled back.
Quick. Clean. Like he hadn’t just knocked the air out of him.
“Call time’s in ten,” he said, standing like nothing had happened. He stretched, glanced back once. “I’ll wait for you by the monitor.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Peat didn’t move. His mouth felt too warm. His hands too still. He looked down at his lap—tense fingers gripping fabric like he’d been holding on for dear life.

Fort
The dressing room wasn’t even that small.
But with Peat sitting there, shirt clinging in all the right places, collar open just enough to show skin Fort had way too many thoughts about—it might as well have been a pressure cooker.
He pretended to read the script in his hands. Pretended to care about the blocking notes circled in red ink. But none of it was landing.
His eyes kept drifting.
To the mirror.
To Peat.
Back again.
That shirt. That slouch. That unreadable expression like he didn’t know what he was doing to Fort—or worse, like maybe he did.
Peat looked… composed. On the surface. But Fort had learned to read the cracks beneath that by now—the way his fingers twitched slightly against his phone, the way his knee bounced and then stopped like he’d caught himself showing nerves.
It wasn’t just attraction anymore. It was gravity.
He couldn’t help it.
“You really shouldn’t be allowed to wear that,” Fort said, voice light, teasing—too light, maybe.
Peat blinked at him, caught off guard. “What?”
“That shirt,” Fort said, finally letting himself look. “You’re killing people. Including me.”
It was bold. He knew it.
But the thing was… Peat didn’t look away. Didn’t roll his eyes or retreat behind the usual sarcasm.
He just stared. Breath caught. Waiting.
Okay.
Fort pushed off the counter and crossed the room, slow on purpose. He let his thigh brush Peat’s when he sat, didn’t bother to make it subtle. If Peat needed distance, he could ask for it. But he didn’t. He just sat there—watching, blinking like Fort had short-circuited something in his head.
Good.
Fort wanted to short-circuit him.
He let his eyes roam—cheekbones, collarbone, the cut of Peat’s jaw. His mouth.
God, his mouth.
"You smell like hairspray," Fort murmured, mostly to keep his voice from saying something worse.
Peat’s voice came back low. “We just came from styling.”
“Yeah, but on you, it works.”
“You always smell good.”
He saw the way Peat swallowed. The way he stayed completely still. Like a held breath.
Fort reached out and rested his hand on Peat’s knee. Not tentative. Not overly gentle.
“You don’t even realize, do you?”
Peat’s breath hitched. “Realize what?”
Everything, Fort wanted to say.
How much I want you.
How long I’ve been holding this in.
How close I am to ruining my own self-control.
But he didn’t say any of it.
Instead, he just smiled.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even a decision, really. It was instinct. It was Peat—close and warm and looking at him like that.
Their mouths met, and Fort felt the world tilt.
No hesitation. Just the rush of yes, and finally, and this.
His hand slid up Peat’s thigh, not hurried, just there. Anchoring. Claiming. Their mouths moved like they’d done this before in a dream, smooth and hungry and real.
Peat kissed back. He kissed back.
And Fort knew—he wasn’t imagining it anymore. The want, the yes, the need—it was all there, trembling under Peat’s skin.
He could have deepened it. He wanted to.
He wanted to push Peat back against the couch, let his hand slide further, bite at his neck and kiss him until he couldn’t think. He wanted the weight of him, the heat, the soft noises he’d imagined a thousand times.
But—
He pulled back.
Quick. Controlled.
Because Peat had just started to trust this. Trust him. And Fort would not bulldoze that for a moment of pleasure. No matter how badly he wanted to.
So he stood.
Casual. Calm.
Like he hadn’t just had the wind knocked out of him by the way Peat’s mouth had opened under his. By the way Peat’s fingers had twitched, like he’d nearly grabbed him and held on.
“Call time’s in ten,” he said, voice level.
A lie. There was no calm in him.
He stretched, gave one last glance over his shoulder, and walked out.
Not because he wanted to leave.
But because if he stayed—if he let himself have any more of that—
He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

Peat
They were back to their old rhythm — dinners, rehearsals, easy conversation. Fort was still the one who reached out first, the one who kissed first, the one who touched like it was no big deal.
But something had shifted
The kisses started electric — hands threading through hair, mouths warm, close.
And then Fort pulled away.
Just when Peat thought the moment would deepen, Fort’s hands would freeze, his lips would part but not close again.
Peat’s pulse thrummed with want, but the space Fort left grew like a quiet ache.
One night, Fort leaned in on Peat’s couch, fingers trailing up his thigh, and Peat’s breath hitched.
But then Fort just stopped.
Peat wanted to ask what was wrong, wanted to say don’t stop.
But Fort was usually the one setting the pace. So Peat stayed quiet, swallowing the frustration and wanting instead.

Fort
They were back to normal—on the surface.
Late-night takeout, rehearsals that bled into inside jokes, shared glances across a room full of people. Peat still called when he didn’t have to. Still looked at Fort with those unreadable eyes that made Fort want to say too much.
And Fort… Fort still touched first.
Still kissed first.
But lately, something in him kept stalling out.
He’d lean in, mouth brushing Peat’s with the ease of practice—but then it would hit him. The way Peat would lean in too. The way his hands would tighten slightly in Fort’s shirt like he didn’t want it to stop. And Fort’s breath would catch, his heart would trip, and all he could think was: If I don’t stop now, I won’t be able to.
So he did.
Every time.
It was like reaching for something just out of grasp—wanting it, almost having it, then pulling his hand back at the last second.
He saw the way Peat’s expression would falter for just a moment, the way he’d go quiet. Not angry. Not cold. Just… withheld. And Fort hated that he was the one putting that look there.
One night, on Peat’s couch, Fort’s hand trailed up his thigh, slow and light. Peat’s breath hitched. His eyes flicked down, then up again, steady.
Fort’s heart pounded. Every nerve in him said now. Now.
And still—he pulled away.
Something inside him reeled back like he’d gone too close to the edge. His hand dropped. His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything.
Peat didn’t either.
Just sat there, silent, and Fort felt the air thicken with everything they weren’t saying.
He left soon after. Told himself he was doing the right thing. That he was being careful. That he didn’t want to push Peat before he was ready.
But it wasn’t about Peat, not really.
It was him.
He was scared.
Not of the moment—but of what would come after. Of waking up to find Peat gone. Of giving in completely and realizing he’d imagined all of it.

Peat
Peat hadn’t planned on staying late.
But then again, that had stopped being true weeks ago. Every time they hung out, he told himself he’d leave early, keep things light, keep his head clear.
And every time, he stayed.
Like now. Curled into the corner of Fort’s couch, his body angled toward the other boy without even thinking about it. The movie played on, but neither of them were watching.
Fort’s hand had found his thigh halfway through. Easy. Familiar. And that was the problem.
It was always like this.
Fort would touch him, kiss him like it meant something—and then stop. Every time. Just when Peat felt his body giving in, felt himself leaning into the space between them, Fort would freeze like he’d crossed some invisible line and pull away.
Like he was scared.
Like Peat might break.
And maybe at first, Peat had needed that space. After their first kiss, he’d panicked. Bolted. He remembered Fort’s face then—surprised, a little hurt. Patient, but distant afterward.
Peat hadn’t meant to shut him out. He just hadn’t known what to do with it.
But now?
Now it was different.
The tension between them was like static, all crackle and heat under the skin. Peat felt it every time their hands brushed, every time Fort leaned close to whisper something just for him. He wanted it now. Wanted him.
And he was tired of pretending he didn’t.
When Fort kissed him that night—slow and practiced, the way he always did—Peat kissed back with purpose. His fingers slid up Fort’s thigh, a silent don’t pull away this time.
He felt the hesitation instantly.
Felt Fort tense.
Peat didn’t move. Didn’t drop his hand. He waited, heart pounding.
Fort pulled back, voice barely above a whisper. “If we go any further… I won’t be able to hold back.”
Peat met his eyes. Frustration churned in his chest, but so did something steadier. Certain.
“Then don’t,” he said.
There was a pause. Fort’s eyes searched his face, like he was still looking for doubt.
“You sure you want this?”
That was the part that caught in Peat’s throat. Because he’d never been more sure of anything. It scared him, how badly he wanted to say yes. How real it felt.
But he didn’t run.
He nodded.
And when Fort kissed him again, Peat let go.
All of it—the second-guessing, the fear, the weird tangle of fanservice and friendship and something deeper that had always sat between them—it all slipped away.
There was just Fort. His mouth, his hands, the warmth of his body and the certainty of this is what I want.
And when it was over, Peat didn’t move.
He felt Fort’s arm tighten around him, felt the pause in his breath like he was waiting—for distance, for deflection, for Peat to pull the way he always had.
But Peat didn’t.
He stayed.
Laid against Fort’s chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. He didn’t make a joke. Didn’t brush it off. Didn’t get up and say he had work early, or pretend it was nothing.
His hand stayed where it was, right over Fort’s heart.
And when Fort let out a quiet breath—half-laugh, half-relief—Peat closed his eyes.
He’d made his choice.
And this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Fort
That night at his apartment started like the others. A movie playing, mostly ignored. The dim light from the screen casting soft shadows over the couch where they sat, thigh to thigh.
Fort leaned in—it was muscle memory by now. A brush of lips, warm and casual. Familiar.
Peat met him halfway. Kissed him back, slow at first. Then deeper. There was something new in it tonight—something more certain, more wanting.
And then Peat’s hand slid up his thigh.
Fort’s body stilled. His breath hitched. The kiss broke just for a second.
Peat didn’t move his hand.
Not an accident.
Fort’s mind flooded with want, with the weight of every time he’d stopped them before. Every time he’d pulled away because he didn’t want to push, didn’t want to be wrong about what Peat wanted.
“If we go any further…” he said, voice rough, “I won’t be able to hold back.”
Peat looked at him, gaze steady and quiet and impossibly sure.
“Then don’t,” he said.
The words sank deep. Lit something in Fort that he hadn’t let himself feel fully—hope.
But he needed to be certain. Not just of the moment. Of after.
“You sure you want this?” he asked, searching Peat’s face for hesitation, for that distance that sometimes showed up after things got too real.
Peat didn’t flinch.
Just nodded. Stayed close. His hand still resting on Fort’s thigh, anchoring them both.
Fort kissed him again, and this time there was no stopping. No pulling back. Just heat and closeness and the sharp, sweet relief of finally being on the same page, finally allowed to feel all of it.
When it was over, the room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Fort lay still, breathing slowly, holding Peat against his chest. But inside, he was bracing. For the shift. For Peat to move away. For him to sit up, say something neutral, pretend it hadn’t happened. Make an excuse to go.
Like he had after their first real kiss.
Fort kept his arm around him, waiting for the moment Peat would pull away.
But it didn’t come.
Peat didn’t leave. Didn’t shut down. Didn’t vanish behind polite distance or a closed-off smile.
He just stayed.
His body warm. His hand resting quietly over Fort’s chest, fingers loose and steady like they belonged there.
And Fort—heart still racing, relief blooming in his chest like something too fragile to name—just held on tighter.
He didn’t say it out loud, but he didn’t have to.
Peat had stayed.
And that changed everything.

Chapter 22: You were amazing

Peat
Peat woke slowly.
The room was warm, dim—the kind of morning where time felt like it hadn’t quite started yet. He blinked once, then again, adjusting to the soft light slipping through Fort’s curtains.
And then he remembered.
Not just what happened—but how it felt.
Fort’s hands. His voice. The way he looked at Peat like he was something precious, not just someone to want, but someone to keep. The way Fort had kissed him like he’d been waiting forever—and Peat had finally stopped running.
He shifted, and Fort’s arm tightened instinctively around him.
He should’ve been gone by now.
Should’ve slipped out with some half-baked excuse, laughed it off with a “don’t make it weird,” maybe claimed early work or a dead phone battery or whatever it took to dodge the weight of this.
But he hadn’t moved.
He was still here. Tangled in Fort’s warmth. Skin to skin. Breath slow and steady, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that he was supposed to run.
That alone was new.
Peat had rehearsed a hundred ways to duck out of mornings like this. Escape routes built into muscle memory. But last night, when Fort had pulled back—“I won’t be able to hold back”—something had cracked open.
And Peat had told him don’t.
No hesitation. No armor.
And now here he was. Face tucked into Fort’s shoulder, fingers still curled lightly against his ribs. Like staying hadn’t even been a question.
Fort shifted slightly, his fingers combing gently through Peat’s hair. Not asking anything. Not pushing. Just... there.
And Peat didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to ruin it by overthinking, by dragging himself back into old habits.
It wasn’t just the sex.
It was him.
It was Fort.
All soft breath and steady hands. That ridiculous dimple when he smiled. The way he looked at Peat—like he saw everything, even the parts Peat tried to hide, and still chose to stay.
Peat didn’t know how to say any of that.
But he stayed.
And maybe that was enough.

Fort
Fort watched Peat stir beside him—still close, still here—and felt something shift in his chest.
Gratitude. Wonder. That giddy, quiet disbelief that this—whatever this was—had really happened.
He nudged Peat’s shoulder lightly. “Last night was... amazing.”
Peat’s eyes opened fast. His blush was immediate—and adorable. Fort smiled, helpless.
“You were amazing,” he added.
Peat’s eyes snapped open, heat flooding his cheeks. Without a word, he yanked the blanket up over his face.
“Stop,” he mumbled, voice muffled. “You’re way too annoying in the morning.”
Fort chuckled, brushing a loose strand of hair off Peat’s forehead. His fingers lingered, gentle.
“You really were amazing.”
From under the covers came a groan, half embarrassed, half playful.
“I’m sore.”
Fort grinned. “You’re the one who started it.”
Peat peeked out. “Started what?”
“That hand on my thigh? Pretty sure that was you.”
“I was adjusting the blanket.”
“With a five-second linger?”
Peat groaned louder, pulling the blanket off just so he could bury his face in his hands. “I regret everything.”
“Liar.” Fort’s voice softened. “You’re not exactly fighting me off right now.”
Peat didn’t move.
Didn’t argue.
So Fort kissed him.
Just a slow, grounding press of lips. A quiet echo of the night before.
And Peat let it happen.
His fingers brushed the hem of Fort’s shirt like an anchor.
When they pulled apart, Fort rested his forehead against Peat’s, smiling.
“I’ve been practicing breakfast all week,” he murmured. “Figured I’d make it up to you.”
Peat shot him a skeptical look. “I didn’t say you owed me anything.”
“No,” Fort said, sitting up and stretching. “But I want to.”
He slid out of bed, and Peat didn’t stop him. Just let his head fall back against the pillow, breathing out something soft.
Fort paused at the door, glanced back.
Still here.
Still his. He let out a soft breath, then stepped away.

Peat
Peat stared up at the ceiling.
He heard cabinets open, a pan clatter, and sighed into the blanket.
Last night.
He hadn’t let himself really think about it yet. Not past the rush of breath and Fort’s hands steady at his hips. The way Fort had looked at him like he was both breakable and worth holding onto.
His body ached. The good kind. The undeniable kind.
Fort had said it out loud. Amazing. And again, you were amazing.
Peat groaned into the pillow.
Compliments always made him flinch. But that one? From Fort? It lodged somewhere deep.
He hadn’t known what to say. He’d just... hidden. As if the blanket could protect him from how real it all felt.
And that kiss.
He could’ve pulled back. Should’ve, maybe.
But he didn’t.
He let Fort kiss him. Like it wasn’t new. Like it belonged.
That scared him.
Because it didn’t feel like a fluke. Or a one-time thing.
It felt like arriving.
Peat pressed a hand to his face. Not just from the heat of it all—but from embarrassment.
You’re not exactly fighting me off right now.
Yeah. No. He wasn’t.
And Fort had seen it. Of course he had. Fort always saw what Peat wasn’t ready to say.
But he didn’t push.
Didn’t make it heavier than it was.
A crash in the kitchen. Peat winced. Then smiled.
That idiot.
He stretched, every muscle sore in the best possible way.
Still here.
Still his.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the scariest, most beautiful part of all.

Chapter 23: I like this shirt

Peat
They pulled up to the studio together, and Peat’s fingers tightened around the edge of his seat for a moment. Walking inside, Peat tried to keep his expression neutral, but the warmth in his chest was hard to hide. Fort’s hand brushed his briefly as they made their way to the set, and Peat’s pulse jumped.
Then Boss and Noeul spotted them. Boss’s eyes narrowed playfully, the kind of look that said he was putting two and two together. Noeul’s grin widened, already cooking up some unspoken mischief.
Peat caught Boss’s glance and felt his cheeks prick with heat, but he didn’t look away. He wasn’t about to deny it anymore.
Inside, as they settled down to eat, Boss nudged Noeul with a knowing smirk. “Hey, you notice Peat’s still rocking the same shirt?”
Noeul laughed softly, eyes flicking to Fort, who was leaning a little too comfortably close to Peat. “Yeah. And they came in the same car. That’s gotta mean something.”
Peat bit the inside of his cheek, pretending not to care, but inside, a little part of him smiled. This was new territory — being okay with being seen like this, with someone like Fort.
Boss shook his head, mock-serious. “Wonder who made the first move.”
Peat glanced at Fort, who just smirked and shrugged like it was no big deal.
Peat’s mind raced but he kept his voice steady when he finally said, “Does it really matter?”
Because, honestly, it didn’t.
They were here now. Together. And somehow, that was enough.

Fort
Fort wasn’t sure what he expected when they walked onto set that morning—deflection, probably. An awkward brush-off if anyone noticed. A tense smile. Peat pretending nothing had happened. That was usually how it went, wasn’t it?
But this time was different.
They arrived together, side by side, Peat still wearing the same shirt from yesterday. Boss clocked it immediately, of course.
“Isn’t that what you wore yesterday?” Boss asked, voice far too casual to be innocent.
Peat didn’t even blink.
“I like this shirt,” he said, taking a sip of coffee without looking up.
Fort barely held in a laugh. Noeul raised both eyebrows, like he was witnessing a miracle.
“That’s funny,” Noeul added, grinning. “You didn’t like it so much yesterday.”
Fort leaned back in his chair, watching Peat’s reaction closely. Normally, Peat would’ve turned it into a joke, thrown the attention somewhere else—probably at Fort. Or shoved Fort’s arm, muttered “shut up,” played it cool.
But now?
Now he just sat there, calm and vaguely smug, like he’d already decided he wasn’t playing defense today.
Fort felt warmth bloom in his chest. He didn’t need a dramatic declaration. This—Peat not running, not denying, just staying—was louder than any words.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Fort teased, nudging Peat’s knee under the table. “Usually you’ve shoved me into a wall by now.”
Peat gave him a slow look, dry and a little amused. “Maybe I’m saving it.”
Fort grinned, dizzy with affection. It was nothing. A joke. A look. But it felt like everything.
He didn’t say anything else. Just sat with the hum of it—how Peat wasn’t hiding, how he hadn’t tried to put space between them again. How he looked at Fort now with something that almost looked like peace.
For the first time, Fort didn’t feel like he had to chase the moment.
It had already caught them both.

Chapter 24: No title. No conversation.

Peat
Peat hadn’t meant for it to become a routine.
But it happened anyway.
One day bled into the next, and Fort was just—there. In his space. In his day. Without making a big deal out of it.
That was the part Peat didn’t expect to like.
Because Fort could be clingy. Affectionate. All big eyes and warm hands and shameless touches. But never too much. Never suffocating. He didn’t label things or ask for answers Peat wasn’t ready to give. He never cornered him with questions like What are we? or Where is this going?
He just… showed up. Every time.
Sometimes with dinner. Sometimes with a new drama queued up. Once, weirdly, with a plant Peat had no idea how to take care of.
It never felt like Fort was moving faster than him. It felt like they were pacing themselves. Quietly choosing each other without needing to say it out loud.
Peat liked that. More than he wanted to admit.
Mornings blurred together—waking up tangled in sheets that smelled like Fort’s detergent, brushing his teeth in the same cramped bathroom, arguing over who used the last of the milk.
Fort would hum under his breath while making toast, always too loud, always off-key. He’d say something dumb, Peat would call him an idiot, and Fort would grin like he’d just been kissed.
And sometimes Peat would catch himself watching Fort—moving through the space like he belonged there—and that familiar instinct to pull away would flicker up.
But it was quieter now. Easier to ignore.
Because Fort never asked him to stay.
He just left the door open.
And Peat—despite himself—kept walking through it.

Fort
Fort wasn’t sure when it shifted.
Maybe it was the morning Peat left his charger plugged in next to the bed. Or the third time he folded Peat’s hoodie and set it on the back of his chair. Or the night Peat fell asleep mid-episode, curled up on his couch like he did it all the time.
No big moment. Just the quiet build of presence.
Peat was here. Regularly. Comfortably.
And Fort didn’t say anything, because he didn’t want to risk naming it too soon, like saying it out loud would scare it off.
He wasn’t stupid—he knew Peat wasn’t great with labels or big feelings. He pulled away when things got too defined, too sharp-edged. But this—this unspoken closeness—they both seemed to know how to live in it.
So Fort didn’t push.
He just made more space. Bought the cereal Peat liked. Got a second toothbrush. Started calling it “the drawer” instead of “his drawer” when Peat started leaving things behind.
Some nights, when they lay in bed—Peat reading something on his phone, Fort absentmindedly drawing circles on his arm—he’d think, This has to mean something. But he never said it. Didn’t need to.
Peat stayed.
He didn’t bolt. Didn’t flinch every time Fort got close. Laughed more. Touched more. Sometimes he even leaned in first.
And Fort, quietly, was over the moon about all of it.
He’d never been someone who needed declarations. He just needed this. The weight of Peat’s head on his shoulder. The smell of his shampoo in Fort’s pillow. The slight, almost imperceptible way Peat started fitting into the rhythm of his life like he’d always been there.
No title. No conversation. Just the warmth of someone choosing him, day after day, without being asked to.
And Fort—well. He’d never had anything feel this real without having to hold it too tight.
So he didn’t.

Chapter 25: I love you.

Fort
Fort watched Peat at the stove, how carefully he moved, as if every flip of the eggs mattered more than usual. It was the kind of earnestness Fort adored—Peat trying, really trying, to surprise him. The warmth in Fort’s chest grew just watching him.
When the eggs started sticking, breaking apart in the pan, Fort chuckled softly. Peat glanced over, cheeks already pink, caught between frustration and shy pride.
Then, before Fort could stop himself, the words slipped out—I love you.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Peat froze, spatula hovering mid-air, eyes wide and completely unready for that.
Fort swallowed the lump in his throat. He hadn’t expected Peat to say it back, but the silence stretched longer than he wanted. The quiet stung more than he let on.
Still, the certainty inside him only grew stronger. So he said it again, softer this time, but steady. “I love you.”
He looked at Peat, really looked, hoping somehow the meaning got through even without a word in return.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Fort said quietly, letting his hand rest gently on Peat’s shoulder, careful not to press too hard. “Not now. Just… know it’s true.”
There was something flickering in Peat’s eyes—maybe surprise, maybe something softer—and for a moment Fort caught the faintest glimmer of hope.
Fort forced a small, bittersweet smile, nodding toward the messy eggs.
Peat managed a hesitant smile back, but Fort’s heart tightened just a little.
Because even if he didn’t expect it yet, a part of him wished Peat could say it, too.
For now, though, this quiet moment felt like enough.

Peat
Peat stared at the stove, the eggs stubbornly sticking to the pan, refusing to cooperate no matter how gently he coaxed them. He wasn’t great at cooking—never had been—but this morning he’d wanted to try. For Fort. To surprise him, even if it ended up a mess.
Then Fort’s voice broke through the kitchen quiet, soft but so full it caught him completely off guard. I love you.
The words hung there, impossible and sudden. Peat’s heart lurched, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hands froze around the spatula, and he felt like a deer caught in headlights—caught between wanting to run and wanting to stay exactly where he was.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But his mouth felt dry, his thoughts tangled and scattered. Saying it back—he wasn’t ready. But pretending it didn’t shake him? That was impossible.
Fort’s eyes searched his, gentle but with a weight Peat wasn’t sure he could carry yet.
When Fort said it again, a little softer this time, Peat felt the truth behind it press heavier inside his chest. I love you.
He wanted to reach out, to say more, to make the words real between them. But instead he just nodded, voice caught somewhere deep. “Yeah… breakfast’s a disaster,” he managed, trying to keep the moment light, trying to hold on to the safe edges of the day.
Inside, though, everything was shifting—everything was different now. And even if he couldn’t say it yet, that quiet, steady feeling in his chest was growing.
For now, he let Fort’s words settle around him like a secret promise.
And maybe that was enough.

Fort
Fort had never been the type to demand or rush. He knew better than most that feelings couldn’t be pinned down on a timeline. But with Peat, every word, every silence felt like walking a tightrope.
Sometimes, when the moment felt right—or just when the words spilled out before he could stop them—he’d say it. “I love you.” Soft, casual, like a whisper meant only for Peat’s ears.
He didn’t expect an answer. Not really. Not yet. Because Peat wasn’t the type to lay his feelings bare easily. Those words felt huge, too heavy maybe. And Fort could see it—the flicker of hesitation, the way Peat’s body tensed, the quick blink that looked like trying to disappear.
It stung. He wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t. It wasn’t bitterness or anger—just a quiet ache, like a note held a little too long and fading without resolve. Fort knew love wasn’t a contract signed in words alone, but part of him wished Peat could say it back. Even once.
So Fort waited. Not with impatience, but with hope folded into every glance and every small touch. He noticed the way Peat stayed nearby when the world got loud, how he shared little moments of comfort without fanfare. The way Peat let down his walls just enough to let Fort in, piece by piece.
Those things weren’t nothing. They were everything, really.
He trusted Peat’s love was there—in the quiet mornings, in the shared silences, in the way Peat reached for him without needing to say why.
Still, sometimes, when the words escaped Fort’s lips and Peat didn’t catch them, didn’t return them, a tiny weight settled in his chest. Not heavy enough to break him, but enough to remind him that love wasn’t always simple.

Chapter 26: Loved.

Peat
Fort was asleep again, one arm flung across Peat’s waist, breathing soft and steady. The kind of sleep you fall into when you feel safe.
Loved.
Peat lay still beside him, staring at the ceiling.
He glanced at Fort’s face in the dim light—so open, so relaxed. Like he didn’t know that every night, Peat waited for him to drift off so he could whisper words he couldn’t say when Fort was looking at him.
“I love you,” he said, barely audible. The syllables tasted strange in his mouth—familiar now, but still foreign in the light.
“I love you,” he tried again, a little firmer this time. The words were warm in his throat, soft like the blanket twisted around his ankles, like the way Fort always leaned into him in his sleep.
But they were stuck. Lodged somewhere between his chest and his mouth when Fort was awake.
Peat closed his eyes, heart thudding in the quiet.
He’d never wanted to say something so badly and hated himself so much for not being able to.
It was pathetic.
Childish, even.
He could be half-naked in Fort’s bed, could tease and kiss and fall asleep with Fort’s hand in his hair—but the second Fort said those words aloud, Peat’s whole body would lock up. Like love needed a warning label, like it was going to slip through his fingers if he acknowledged it out loud.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel it. He felt it all the time—in the pit of his stomach when Fort smiled at him for no reason, in the back of his throat when Fort cooked him breakfast even though he was terrible at it, in the stupid way Fort never rushed anything, never demanded anything, just was.
And he knew Fort could feel it too, somehow.
He had to. Because if he didn’t—if Peat had been holding Fort in this strange in-between for weeks and Fort still couldn’t feel how much Peat loved him—that thought might break him in two.
Peat turned slightly, adjusting the pillow so he could see Fort’s face again. “I love you,” he whispered, just for him. Just for himself. “I really do.”
Fort didn’t stir.
Peat stared at him for a while longer, the shame curling under his skin like static. He wanted to shake it off. Wanted to be better. Braver. Like Fort deserved.
Instead, he stayed quiet. Still. His chest a tight knot of want and guilt and fear.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
But he’d said that yesterday, and the day before that, too.

Fort
Fort had never thought of himself as someone who needed to hear things to believe them.
He could read people well enough—what they meant in what they didn’t say, the truths buried in body language, in choices. And with Peat, he’d long since trained himself to look for the subtler signs: the way Peat leaned into his touch now, or didn’t flinch when Fort laced their fingers together in public; the way he always checked the fridge at Fort’s place before deciding what to order in, like he belonged there. Like Fort’s place was just another extension of home.
But it had been over a month since Fort had first let it slip—I love you—and while Peat hadn’t pushed him away, hadn’t panicked or run, he also hadn’t said it back.
Not once.
Fort never asked him to. Never so much as hinted that he was waiting.
He’d just said it like breathing, sometimes in a whisper before bed, sometimes in a laugh when Peat burned another attempt at toast, sometimes in a soft sigh when Peat leaned into him at the end of a long day.
And Peat always reacted the same: he’d freeze a little, blink, then carry on like the words hadn’t happened. Like maybe if he didn’t acknowledge them, they wouldn’t echo quite so loudly between them.
Fort didn’t blame him. He knew how Peat was—with feelings, with pressure, with things that threatened to tip the balance. He never made it about needing something back. He loved Peat freely, and that meant not demanding love in return.
Still, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting, some days.
And then one night, Fort woke up to the sound of Peat’s voice.
“I love you,” Peat whispered.
The words were so quiet Fort almost thought he’d imagined it.
But then Peat said it again.
“I love you, Fort.”
Fort’s heart kicked up sharply. He felt it in his throat, in his chest, in the sting behind his eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe wrong—afraid even the slightest shift would scare Peat back into silence.
Peat stayed curled against him like always, one arm draped over Fort’s waist, fingers lightly brushing the hem of his shirt like he didn’t even know he was doing it. His breathing was a little shaky, but steadying. Like saying it had calmed something in him.
Fort smiled into the pillow.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t turn around. Just stayed quiet, let Peat believe it was safe to speak without consequence.
But inside, he was glowing.

Chapter 27: God, I’m pathetic.

Fort
He’d lost count of how many times he’d heard it now.
Always in the middle of the night, always when Peat thought he was asleep—those three soft words, fragile and careful like they might break if said too loud.
“I love you.”
At first, it had stunned Fort completely still in the dark. Now, it was a kind of ritual. Something he anticipated with quiet hope, the way other people waited for the sunrise.
He never moved. Never reacted. Not because it didn’t mean everything—it did—but because Peat wasn’t ready. And Fort didn’t want to make him retreat again.
So he lay still.
But this time, something was different.
Peat shifted beside him, thought Fort was out cold as usual, and breathed out a sigh that sounded almost… sad.
“I love you,” he whispered again. “God, I’m pathetic.”
Fort’s heart squeezed. He wanted to tell him, You’re not. He wanted to turn over and hold him until he understood just how far from pathetic he was.
But he didn’t.
Then came the kicker.
“I wish I could say it when you’re awake.”
That broke something loose in Fort. A smile twitched, unbidden, at the corner of his lips.
And that’s when it happened.
Peat went completely still.
A pause. Then a sharp inhale. “Wait—are you—” His voice shot up half a note, horrified. “Fort. Are you awake?”
Fort panicked slightly. He wanted to keep the moment safe, to not scare Peat out of it. So he did the only thing he could think of.
He kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep—but his arm moved.
Gently, deliberately, it slid over Peat’s side, pinning him in place.
Peat squirmed slightly, testing it, but Fort tightened his hold just enough. Not hard. Just… clear.
And then, low and warm, voice steady despite the flutter in his chest, Fort said it—still not opening his eyes.
“I love you too.”
Peat froze. No breath. No sound. Fort could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
For a moment, he worried he’d ruined it.
But then he felt Peat’s hand—tentative, hesitant—press lightly against his chest. Not trying to escape. Just there.
Staying.
So Fort pulled him in the rest of the way, tucking his face into Peat’s neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Peat
It had become a stupid habit, one he’d grown a little too attached to—waiting until Fort was fast asleep, breathing slow and deep beside him, before whispering the words he couldn’t seem to say with the lights on.
“I love you.”
Like practice. Like rehearsal. Like if he said it enough times in the dark, maybe one day it wouldn’t choke him when it mattered.
But tonight it slipped out again, and he was tired, and his guard was thin, and for some reason his mouth kept going.
“I wish I could say it when you’re awake,” he murmured, barely louder than a breath. And then, too bitter to stop himself—“God, I’m pathetic.”
And that’s when he saw it.
The tiniest twitch at the corner of Fort’s mouth.
A smile.
His stomach dropped. His skin went cold. Every nerve lit up like a warning alarm.
No. No no no no.
“Wait—are you—Fort. Are you awake?”
He was already shifting, heart in his throat, trying to pull back, to disappear into the mattress, to rewind time—but then Fort’s arm moved. Heavy and sure, sliding across him with the same warmth he always used, but this time it trapped him.
Peat froze.
He wanted to wriggle out of it. Run to the bathroom. Hide. Bury his face under the covers and never come back out.
But he couldn’t move.
Then came Fort’s voice, low and even, too steady for someone actually asleep.
“I love you too.”
Peat stopped breathing.
His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and his face went hot, burning. His entire body tensed with embarrassment—mortification, really. It was like every wall he’d ever built cracked open at once.
Fort knew.
Fort heard.
Peat’s throat clenched. He wanted to say something. Anything. He didn’t even know what—a joke, a lie, an apology—but the words wouldn’t come.
And Fort didn’t move. Didn’t tease. Didn’t even open his eyes.
Just held him like it was easy. Like it had always been this easy.
Peat closed his eyes, feeling the weight of shame slowly soften under the heat of Fort’s skin. His breath finally came back, shaky and shallow, and he buried his face into the crook of Fort’s neck.
Maybe he’d never say it right.
Maybe he’d never be as good at this as Fort was.
But Fort hadn’t let go.

Peat
The smell hit him before he even opened his eyes — garlic, butter, something vaguely herby. His stomach grumbled, but his body stayed curled up beneath the blanket, only his eyes cracking open to catch the morning light filtering in through Fort’s curtains.
The apartment was too quiet for how awake it felt. Not awkward-quiet. Just… held-breath quiet.
He sat up slowly, sheet tugged up over his chest like it could protect him from the memory of the night before. Of Fort’s mouth twitching. Of the arm that kept him close. Of the words.
He didn’t know if he’d actually slept after that.
Didn’t know how he was supposed to look Fort in the eye now.
But the smell of something sizzling coaxed him toward the kitchen anyway.

Fort
He heard Peat’s soft footsteps before he saw him — that sleepy shuffle he’d come to recognize. He didn’t turn around, just stirred the pan with slow, practiced movements. It wasn’t just eggs today. He’d gone all out: garlic butter toast, soft scrambled eggs, sautéed mushrooms with thyme, even a little fruit on the side like they were in a drama or something.
He didn’t know what he was trying to prove.
No, that wasn’t true.
He was trying to say, without saying it: I heard you.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Peat was leaning against the doorway, hair a mess, eyes sleepy, hoodie zipped all the way up like he was bracing for weather.
“You’re doing the most,” Peat said, but his voice was soft. Not teasing. Almost fond.
Fort smiled without looking up. “You’re worth the most.”
He heard Peat sigh. The barstool scraped against the floor as he sat down, quiet.

Peat
He should say something. Anything.
He watched Fort plate everything like a goddamn cooking show contestant, pouring orange juice into glasses like he didn’t hear Peat whisper I love you last night. Like he hadn’t pulled Peat in and said it back.
He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or frustrated.
He reached for a piece of toast to keep his hands busy. “You missed your calling. You should’ve been a chef.”
Fort slid the plate in front of him. “I like feeding you too much. Wouldn’t survive the open market.”
Peat gave a small, awkward smile. His fingers curled around the glass of juice. “You’re annoying.”
Fort grinned like he’d just been complimented.

Fort
He didn’t push. Didn’t say Hey, remember last night? Didn’t ask Did you mean it?
He just sat across from Peat, slicing into his eggs, watching the way Peat poked at his toast without meeting his eyes.
“You’re gonna be late,” Fort said lightly.
Peat looked up. “Then whose fault is that, making a five-star breakfast?”
“I plead guilty.”
Peat shook his head and took a bite. “Of course you do.”

Chapter 28: That’s all I wanted.

Peat
It’s the fourth take.
Peat’s heart is hammering in his chest, but not because he’s nervous about the scene. Not exactly. They’ve rehearsed this. He knows the beats, the blocking, the emotional arc. But this—this one always sits too close to the surface.
He storms into the room like the script tells him to, chest tight with the weight of what his character is supposed to be carrying. But he doesn’t have to reach far. He is carrying it. All of it.
“I know I’m late. I know I should’ve been here sooner, but I’m here now, okay? I’m here.”
He looks at Fort. And for a second, the set disappears. The lights, the camera, the sound boom above his head. Gone.
It’s just Fort standing there. Still. Quiet.
Peat waits for the line: It’s too late.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, Fort’s eyes soften. His shoulders drop. He takes a step forward, like he can’t help it. And Peat feels something twist in his gut.
Cut.
The director’s voice cuts clean through the air, sharp. Peat blinks, pulled out of whatever just happened. His hands are shaking.

Fort
Fort watched Peat storm into the scene again, his voice cracking on the edges with frantic urgency. His character was unraveling, raw and vulnerable. “I know I’m late. I know I should’ve been here sooner, but I’m here now, okay? I’m here.”
Peat’s eyes locked onto Fort’s, and Fort felt something flicker between them — real and unguarded.
He was supposed to respond with a cold, dismissive line: “It’s too late.” But once again, he didn’t. Instead, he hesitated. His lips parted, and his eyes softened despite himself. Without even realizing it, his body leaned forward, betraying the character’s coldness.
“Cut,” the director’s sharp voice broke the tension.
The crew exhaled collectively.
“Fort,” the director said, trying to keep her tone gentle but firm, “I need him to feel the consequences. He’s waited too long. You’re not supposed to comfort him—you’re supposed to be mad.”
Fort nodded, jaw clenched. “Got it.”
But when they rolled again, it happened the same way.
Peat’s voice shook with a catch in it when he begged, “Please, just tell me it’s not too late.”
Fort’s eyes grew warm again, as if he wanted nothing more than to pull Peat close. He didn’t say the line.
The director rubbed her forehead, frustration seeping through. “Fort, you’re making it too easy on him.”
Fort blinked and looked away.
“You’re supposed to make him work for it. He broke your heart, remember? You’re not ready to forgive him just like that.”
There was a quiet moment before Fort spoke softly but with quiet resolve. “Can I… try it a different way?”
All eyes turned to him. The director tilted her head in cautious curiosity.
“I know what the scene says. But I don’t think he’d be cold. Not now. Not if he really loved him.”
The room went still.
“If he showed up and said all that… after everything? I don’t think he’d push him away. I think he’d break. I think he’d want to believe it.”
A long pause stretched between them.
Finally, the director sighed, relenting. “…Alright. Let’s try it your way.”

Peat
Peat—he doesn’t know what to do with that.
He’s the one who’s supposed to be falling apart in this scene, but Fort’s the one who keeps breaking the frame. Keeps refusing to give him the rejection he’s bracing for. Over and over, Fort reaches back instead of turning away.
And every time he does, it hits Peat somewhere he doesn’t want to name.
Because the truth is—he expects to be punished.
Even here, he thinks maybe he deserves it.
He made Fort wait.
He’s still making him wait.
And Fort won’t even pretend to be mad at him.
When Fort finally speaks up—Can I try it a different way?—Peat’s throat tightens. He feels like someone just knocked the wind out of him. Because Fort isn’t just talking about a character anymore.
And Peat knows it.
Peat’s breath catches when Fort says, “I don’t think he’d push him away. I think he’d want to believe it.”
There’s a stillness across the set.
And Peat doesn’t know where the character ends and he begins.
All he knows is that Fort is standing there, quiet, unwavering—and saying exactly the thing Peat’s been too scared to believe.
That if he showed up late—messy, broken, still figuring it out—maybe it would still be okay.
Maybe Fort wouldn’t walk away.

Fort
The camera rolls.
Peat steps in on cue, but there’s something different this time—his footsteps aren’t just acting urgency, they are urgency. His breath is uneven, chest rising and falling like he’s been running or barely holding himself together.
“I know I’m late. I should’ve been here, I should’ve said something—I thought I could live with out you, but I can’t.”
His eyes find Fort’s, like everything is balancing on the edge of those words.
“I love you. I never stopped.”
The silence that follows is heavy, thick.
Fort lets it stretch out, just a beat longer.
And then he steps forward—one, two, three paces—pulled in by something he can’t deny.
His character is supposed to be angry, distant, hurt.
But Fort’s eyes are wet. His voice drops, quiet, gentle—wrecked, really.
“Why did you make me wait so long?”
It’s not an accusation. It’s a question filled with ache.
His fingers reach out, brushing against Peat’s wrist.
“You’re here now,” he says, a faint, breaking smile touching his lips.
“That’s all I wanted.”
Peat’s mouth parts, caught off guard by the softness, by the honesty.
Fort moves again, pulling Peat into his arms, holding him like maybe he’s allowed to, finally.
The cameras keep rolling. No one calls cut.
Not until Fort exhales softly into Peat’s shoulder, the moment settling between them like dust.
“Cut.”
The director’s voice is thick with something—feeling, maybe awe.
“That… that was beautiful.”
She looks at Fort with quiet admiration.
Fort nods, a small, respectful motion, still caught in the afterglow.
Peat hasn’t moved away.
The director turns to the crew.
“Let’s lock that in as the take. That’s the one.”
Around them, murmurs ripple. Someone wipes at their eyes. Another exhales like they’d been holding their breath the whole time.
Peat stays close, hands awkwardly near Fort’s waist, like he hasn’t quite remembered they’re not alone anymore.
Fort just smiles—soft, private—like he’d do it all again without hesitation.

Chapter 29: I love you too

Fort
Fort drives as if he is afraid to startle the moment. His hands grip the wheel a little too tightly, warm and damp. The memory of the take presses in his chest, twisting with each flicker of the passing streetlights. He notices everything about Peat without looking for it—the slight tremble in his fingers as he buckles the seatbelt, the way his shoulders hunch almost imperceptibly, the way his jaw tenses, like he is bracing against something he cannot name.
The quiet between them hums, full but gentle, like a held breath. Fort could ask what Peat is thinking. He could demand clarity. But he does not. He lets the silence stretch, letting the car carry them in its own rhythm, letting the small space between them feel alive and fragile.
Then Peat speaks, soft, cautious, almost rehearsed.
“Why did you do it like that?”
Fort keeps his eyes on the road, voice steady. “Do what?”
“In the scene. You were supposed to be mad.”
Fort swallows. His throat tightens, but he keeps his voice calm. “You thought I would be?”
“That’s what the character’s supposed to feel. After all that time,” Peat says too fast, too precise. His hands flex in his lap.
Fort could lay everything bare—tell Peat he had been confused, scared, holding back because he believed in something real. But he does not. He just says, carefully:
“But he didn’t push him away.”
Peat flinches beside him. Fort notices the way his fingers curl and uncurl, the slight hunch of his shoulders. He eases his foot off the gas, letting the car drift slower, as if giving more time on the road could buy more time in this moment.
“You don’t think he was scared?”
No answer.
“You don’t think it took everything just to come back?”
Fort feels the ache in his chest grow heavier, full and weighted, carrying all the words Peat cannot or will not speak. He leans slightly closer, careful not to invade, and drops his voice so low it is almost a whisper.
“He said ‘I love you,’ even if it was late. Doesn’t that count for something?”
His heartbeat feels loud in his ears. He senses the tiny shift of Peat’s body beside him, the faint hitch in his breath, the way the corner of his eyes glints with something he is trying not to show.

Peat
Peat stares at the window, the city lights smeared across the glass, and tries to hide in their motion. He cannot look at Fort yet. He does not want to betray how tightly his chest is clenched, how fast his heart is hammering. The words press at his throat, desperate to escape, fragile and unformed.
He whispers them anyway, almost swallowed by the hum of the car.
“He didn’t think he deserved it.”
Fort does not argue. He does not flinch. Just gently, quietly, he says:
“He was wrong.”
Peat swallows hard. The words settle over him, pressing like water in his chest. His hands flex again in his lap. He lets the tension thrum through him, that raw ache of admitting what he has been too scared to say. Finally, he releases it all, fragile but determined.
“I meant it.”
He waits, breath hitching. Then he adds, almost afraid the quiet will break before it matters.
“I love you.”
The words hang between them, tangible. Peat feels the air shift, the subtle heat from Fort just an inch away, the way the car feels smaller, charged.
Then Fort speaks, slow, steady, his voice threaded with warmth and certainty.
“I love you too.”
Peat feels his shoulders relax, his breath deepen, his chest unclench for the first time in what feels like forever. He lets himself believe it.