When Jesse awoke to shouting, his first thought was that he didn’t remember arming the alarm system last night. Which was weird, because he’d been diligent about security since Russell’s surprise visit last winter.

But then he remembered why he’d forgotten.

Hunter.

Hunter, who was currently crying out as if in pain in the guest room.

Jesse flew out of bed like it was on fire and tore down the hall.

Hunter was having a nightmare, thrashing around in the bed. He wasn’t shouting anymore, just mumbling. Nothing Jesse could make out, but it was definitely distressed mumbling.

“Hunter,” he said, trying to pitch his voice loud enough to cut through slumber but not loud enough to frighten. “Hunter.” He sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Hunter’s shoulder.

Hunter woke with a start. Shot up to a sitting position, his eyes wild, darting around the dark room. Violently shoved Jesse’s hand away.

“It’s okay.” Jesse put his hands up in the air even though that was the opposite of what he wanted to do. “It’s me. It’s Jesse. You’re at my house. You’re having a nightmare.”

Hunter’s body relaxed a little, but he started shaking, like he was freezing.

Fuck this not-touching thing. If Hunter really didn’t want him to, he wouldn’t, but he had to try again. Moving slowly so Hunter could clearly see what he was doing and had the opportunity to object, he let his hand float back down and land on Hunter’s upper arm.

This time, Hunter clasped his own hand over Jesse’s, as if he wanted to make sure it stayed there.

Jesse opened his mouth to comfort, to reassure, but no words came. Instead, he pulled Hunter into his arms. Hugged him tightly, as if physical pressure could somehow ease the shaking.

And eff him if it didn’t eventually work. As they sat there, Hunter’s breathing slowed. His body quieted.

It might have been ten minutes later, it might have been an hour, when Hunter started to extricate himself. Jesse’s instinctual reaction was to tighten his grip, but he forced himself to go limp. He wanted to howl at the wrongness of letting go, but for now at least, he had to mind the boundaries. After tomorrow night, things might be different.

But then, a miracle: Hunter hadn’t let go, not entirely. He’d just pulled away enough to shift his body. He wanted to lie down. He wanted . . . Jesse to lie down with him?

“Stay?” Hunter whispered, the syllable tentative on his lips, almost embarrassed, like he didn’t think he should be asking but couldn’t help himself.

A surge of . . . something moved through Jesse’s chest. Something he couldn’t name. He lay back, taking Hunter with him, keeping Hunter in his arms. Then, once they were situated, he used his foot to draw the comforter, which was scrunched down at the bottom of the bed, up enough that he could use one hand to grab it and cover them.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into Hunter’s hair. “I’ve got you.” He was supposed to be comforting Hunter, not vice versa, but a profound settling happened inside him, a surrender of effort and a laying down of worries.

They didn’t speak after that. Just lay there holding each other in a bed that was too small for two grown men. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It had that potential—when Hunter was around, that potential was always there, simmering under the surface of whatever else was happening—but there was another, bigger sensation cresting inside him.

It was whatever that surging feeling in his chest had been before.

He knew what it was.

Tomorrow, he would name it.

When Hunter awoke, he felt . . . peaceful?

He hadn’t felt this way for a long time.

Peace was quickly replaced by embarrassment, though, as he remembered waking from the nightmare he’d been having off and on since the evacuation. But then, Jesse, with his warmth and silent surety, an unexpected anchor in the storm.

As sheepish as he felt at having exposed himself so utterly, he couldn’t quite make himself regret it, because after Jesse had gotten into bed with him, Hunter had slept. He hadn’t done that for months. The psychologist had said the nightmares would fade with time.

Apparently they also faded with Jesse.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand to check the time. It was noon.

“Ha!” He was giddy, awake, and, he realized with astonishment, content.

Also hungry. Ravenously, distractingly hungry.

He threw on his clothes from yesterday—he’d have to either buy some new stuff or take a cab to his storage locker. He peeked around Jesse’s bedroom door, which was ajar. It was empty.

Downstairs, the place was still a mess, post-party, but the kitchen had been tidied.

There was a note on the counter.

Sleeping Beauty,

We have a show tonight, if you can believe it. We’re doing one of those pop-up surprise shows. It’s at Massey Hall at eight. Will you please come? If you can’t manage it, I understand, but . . .

There was a bunch of stuff crossed out then. Hunter held the note up to the light, intensely curious to read what Jesse had written, then deemed not right, but he couldn’t make anything out.

It would mean a lot to me if you came. Amber is arranging a ticket for you. I don’t have your number (I think you changed it?), but if you text it to me, I’ll pass it on to her, and she’ll be in touch with details.

Regardless, make yourself at home, crash here for as long as you need. I got a few staples, and there’s breakfast in the fridge. Don’t run off. Talk tonight.

J.

Hunter blinked, trying to process all this information. If he’d been asked yesterday if he wanted to go to a rock concert, the answer would most decidedly have been no. He felt much better today, but even so, the idea of a crowd of people shouting, of loud music blasting from speakers, was not appealing.

But then he imagined Jesse at the front of that crowd.

“It would mean a lot to me if you came.”

Also: “Talk tonight.” Yes, they did need to talk. To clear the air once and for all between them, so they could move on. Yesterday had settled one question for him. He was incapable of not having Jesse in his life, so if Jesse would still have him as a friend, which seemed likely, Hunter would have to get on with the business of sublimating his feelings. It wasn’t ideal, but it was . . . life.

So, all right. He was going to a rock concert tonight.

He picked up his phone. It’s Hunter. Of course I’ll come tonight. And . . . sorry about last night.

The reply came immediately.

Good morning! Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Well, I am sorry I abandoned you. We have tons to do to get ready for this show tonight.

Then another one.

Did you eat breakfast? You should eat. I got stuff for you to eat.

Hunter smiled. Cool your jets. I’m about to.

Jesse must have gone out this morning because the fridge contained fancy deli breakfast sandwiches, and there was a box of assorted pastries on the counter. He took a bit of everything, along with a giant cup of coffee, to Jesse’s breakfast nook. It was cool but sunny outside, and the light streaming in from the skylight above energized him.

Once full, he contemplated the rest of the day. He should probably get in touch with Beth and figure out the living situation. Contact the HR office at the hospital and make a plan to return to work.

Instead, he started cleaning up the remnants of last night’s party. He wasn’t even sure why. Jesse would object if he knew. But there was something about cleaning up the concrete mess in front of him that was immensely satisfying. To do something specific and finite and to see a pleasing result. Everything else could wait.

It took him a couple of hours. He probably left the house cleaner than it had been to start with, and that made him smile.

Then he went out to lunch, to the ramen place, in fact. He bought a newspaper to read while he ate.

Bought some clothes to wear to the concert.

Went back to Jesse’s and took a nap.

It was all very surreal. But it all felt good, felt normal.

When he was about to head underground to get on the subway, he fired off a text to Jesse for no reason other than that he wanted to.

Hunter: Break a leg tonight.

Jesse: You’re coming, right?

Hunter: Yep. See you soon.

Then he composed one more message. As lovely as the day had been, inhabiting Jesse’s empty house, going to the ramen shop, getting his land legs back, he knew this break from real life couldn’t go on forever. They had to have the talk. Kick the seesaw again—but he was feeling less aggressively metaphorical about things now.

Hunter: I’m hoping we can talk after the show?

Jesse: Yes. Absolutely.

All right, then. Amazingly, less than twenty-four hours after his plane had touched down, he was off to a Jesse and the Joyride show.