The apartment was too small for secrets.
Tyler had known that the day he moved in, hauling his boxes up three flights of stairs to find Chris, tall, broad-shouldered, and too casually confident, already sprawled on the couch. Chris had grinned, offered him a beer, and said, "Welcome to the shoebox."
For months, they coexisted like brothers. Tyler was straight, or so he kept telling himself, while Chris was openly, unapologetically gay. It had never been a problem. Chris dated men who came and went at odd hours, and Tyler ignored the heat in his chest when he heard muffled laughter through the wall.
But curiosity is a stubborn thing.
It started small. Tyler noticed how Chris's towel slipped too low when he left the shower, how his laugh rolled deep and easy when they played video games at two in the morning. Tyler found himself staring too long, his excuses piling up faster than his guilt.
One night, the tension broke. They'd been drinking, a movie droning in the background. Chris stretched out beside him on the couch, close enough that their knees brushed. Tyler didn't move.
"You've been looking at me differently," Chris said, voice low, almost teasing.
Tyler's stomach dropped. "What?"
Chris turned his head, eyes sharp, knowing. "You think I don't notice? You're curious. You've been curious for weeks."
Heat rushed to Tyler's face. He opened his mouth to deny it, but Chris leaned closer, his breath warm against Tyler's ear.
"Curiosity isn't a crime," Chris whispered. "But the question is, what are you going to do about it?"
The air thickened, silence stretching. Tyler's chest rose and fell too quickly, his pulse hammering in his throat. He could walk away, laugh it off, bury the ache that had been gnawing at him. Or he could give in.
His hand trembled as he reached out, brushing Chris's wrist. The touch was tentative, electric.
Chris smiled slowly, like he'd been waiting for this moment all along.
"Good," he murmured. "Now let me show you what you've been missing."
Chris's words lingered in the room like smoke, curling into Tyler's thoughts, making it impossible to breathe normally. His chest felt tight, his skin prickling with a restless heat. He had expected teasing, maybe a laugh at his expense, but not this, an invitation wrapped in velvet, daring him to step across the invisible line he had drawn for himself years ago.
Tyler swallowed hard, his hand still hovering near Chris's wrist. He could feel the faint thrum of a pulse beneath the skin, steady, assured, completely unlike his own racing heartbeat. His breath came shallow, his lips parting like he wanted to say something, but the words tangled in his throat.
Chris didn't rush him. He leaned back against the couch cushions, head tilted, gaze sharp but patient. It was the kind of patience that unnerved Tyler, as if Chris knew the outcome already and was simply waiting for Tyler to catch up to himself.
"I…" Tyler began, then faltered. His voice cracked with the weight of what he couldn't quite admit. "I'm not."
"Not what?" Chris cut in gently, no mockery in his tone this time, only curiosity. "Not gay? Not ready? Not sure?"
Each word landed heavy. Tyler's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to shove the labels away like clutter on a messy desk, but his body betrayed him. His pulse skipped when Chris shifted closer, their knees pressing together fully now, no space left between them.
"I don't know," Tyler whispered finally, the confession breaking free like a dam bursting.
Chris's smile softened, losing its edge. "That's honest. I like that."
The words, simple as they were, loosened something inside Tyler. For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like he was balancing on a blade between guilt and desire. Instead, he felt seen.
Chris's fingers brushed his hand, slow and deliberate, giving Tyler every chance to pull away. Tyler didn't. His skin burned at the contact, small and fleeting, but enough to unravel the knot in his chest.
"You've thought about this," Chris murmured, almost like an observation. "Haven't you?"
Tyler closed his eyes. Flashes of late nights replayed in his mind, how his stomach clenched when Chris laughed too loudly, how his gaze lingered too long when Chris stretched after a workout, how the walls of the apartment seemed too thin, forcing him to hear what he shouldn't. He had thought about it. Too much.
"Yes," he admitted, the word trembling out of him like it cost something.
Chris didn't gloat. Instead, he shifted, closing the last gap between them. His shoulder pressed into Tyler's, his voice dropping lower, almost reverent. "Then stop fighting yourself. Just feel."
The invitation hung there, heavy and fragile.
Tyler's body moved before his brain could argue. He leaned in, not all the way, just enough to brush his temple against Chris's. His breath caught when Chris didn't pull back. The scent of soap and faint cologne wrapped around him, dizzying, intoxicating.
Their faces hovered close, so close Tyler could see the flecks of green in Chris's irises, the curve of his mouth. He hesitated, every nerve in his body straining with tension.
Chris tilted his head, closing the distance.
The kiss wasn't a collision but a slow, deliberate press, gentle, questioning, careful. Tyler's heart slammed against his ribs, his body stiff with shock. And yet, underneath the panic, there was something else. A spark. A warmth. A hunger that had been clawing its way out of him for weeks, finally given air.
Chris pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against Tyler's when he spoke. "See? Not so scary."
Tyler's exhale came shaky, his chest heaving. He wanted to argue, to insist this was wrong, but the words dissolved on his tongue. Instead, he found himself leaning in again, chasing the warmth he'd just been given.
This time, when their lips met, it wasn't tentative. It was need.
The movie on the TV droned on, forgotten, the glow flickering across their faces. The tiny apartment, once suffocating with secrets, now felt like a cocoon. Every sound outside the door, every worry about tomorrow, disappeared.
Tyler didn't know what this made him, what it meant for his future, or how he'd explain it to anyone else. But right now, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was Chris's hand sliding against his jaw, steadying him, grounding him, pulling him deeper into something he could no longer deny.