-Devon.
And as insane as it sounds, we actually did it. We moved to Valmont. Two kids with a backpack full of clothes, a folder of college documents, and barely enough money to buy a train ticket. But we got there. Somehow.
The apartment we found was a beat-up little thing with water-stained walls and a heater that groaned louder than the wind. The kitchen was barely a kitchen—just a corner with a sink, a stove that blinked when it felt like it, and one cabinet that refused to close. The floor creaked like it had its own opinion about everything. But it was close to the community college, and it was ours.
We both signed up for physical education. Made sense. It was what we knew. The semesters blurred past in a strange rhythm—days folding into weeks, weeks slipping into months.
Some days we didn't have a single coin in our pockets.
Not even enough for the bus fare.
We learned how to survive off instant noodles, cheap ramen that came in packs of six, and mystery finger foods from the nearest 7-Eleven that had probably been under that heat lamp since morning. We took turns paying rent. Some months Treasure couldn't afford it. The next, I couldn't. So we swapped, month after month, like a silent agreement we never needed to write down.
Our first year was brutal. No exaggeration. Just straight-up survival.
We ended up working together at this dingy restaurant in the edge of the city. It didn't even try to look decent. Wobbly tables, flickering lights, a boss that smoked indoors. They paid below minimum wage, cash in hand, and didn't care that we didn't have the experience. They just needed bodies to carry trays. So we did.
We were those bodies.
Valmont wasn't the kind of city that welcomed nobodies. It was the kind of place you showed up to with your name already known, or you worked until your bones ached just to get a foot in the door. We were the latter. Two names no one knew, trying to carve something into concrete with our bare hands.
Still—we made it work. Barely, but we did.
There were nights I'd walk into the apartment and not even have the energy to take off my shoes. My body would just collapse, and I'd wake up the next morning in the same position I landed in. Treasure would be the same—curled up on the couch, or on the mattress on the floor, still in yesterday's clothes.
But every time I looked at him, I could tell. He was exhausted. Worn thin. But underneath that, there was something else. Gratitude.
The kind that clung to his eyes.
He was thankful. For the roof. For the mattress. For not sleeping on concrete. For not fading out of the system into something worse. The orphanage had given him a small exit fund. Not much, but enough to cover the first year's tuition. He poured it all into school, like someone placing their last bet on the final hand of the game.
Me—I had help from my mom and stepdad. Not much, but enough to cover classes. The rest, we figured out with our hands and our time.
Eventually, I picked up another job. Paid just as poorly, but it was something. I worked nights as a bouncer for this club in the Blue District. It was ridiculous, because I was underage, but no one cared out there. The rules bent differently in that part of the city.
My job was simple. Stand by the door. Check IDs. Keep my mouth shut and don't start fights. I didn't drink. Didn't get involved. Just kept people moving. Worked the restaurant after college and bounced at night. That was my routine.
Treasure, though, kept trying to find the shortcut.
He got into online betting. Started small—ten bucks here, twenty there. He lost more often than not. Then one day, somehow, he hit big. I don't even know how much he won. Enough that he disappeared into his room for two days and came out with a bag of groceries and a grin that made me nervous.
That didn't last. He tried crypto next. Bitcoin or something like it. Burned his laptop, literally. Fried the thing until it wouldn't even light up. He cursed the entire internet and gave up on making digital money.
After that, he picked up more shifts. Found another restaurant—one that was a little more respectable. Not great, but better than the grease hole we both started in.
And that's how it went. That was our life.
A tiny apartment in a too-big city. School during the day. Work at night. No plans, just movement. No certainty, just survival. But we kept showing up. And that had to count for something.
It was in our second year that things finally started to shift. Not by much, not like some movie montage where the music swells and life turns around—but enough. Enough to feel like maybe we weren't drowning anymore, just treading water with some idea of direction.
We both landed scholarships. That changed everything. Tuition, at least for the year, was covered—no more late-night stress about how we'd afford another semester, no more calculating hours against lecture schedules. It bought us time. Time to just focus on surviving the rest—rent, food, transit.
On my nineteenth birthday, my mother surprised me. She, my brother, and even my stepfather pooled money together and handed me a thick envelope. "You've been working hard," she said, "we're proud of you." I didn't say much, but I held onto that envelope like it was a lifeline. Some of it I saved. The rest kept us afloat that month.
Treasure, in his own way, was finally catching a breath too. Miss Monica—his old anchor from the orphanage—still sent him money from time to time. Probably her way of easing the guilt from that day she told him he had to leave. But she helped. She really did. And Treasure, for all his recklessness with money, saved most of it. Just like I did.
With a bit of room to breathe, we finally quit that miserable excuse of a diner we'd been working at—the one with the sticky floors, the burnt coffee, the boss who coughed more than he spoke. We upgraded to a quiet little café tucked in the corner of the Blue District. Indie vibe. Exposed brick. Jazz in the background. People tipped like they were millionaires. Half their bill, sometimes more.
We were stunned at first. But we didn't complain.
We made friends with the regulars, got to know their orders, their lives. The place smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. It made going to work bearable. Sometimes even nice.
But still—there was something that stayed with me. Something small, annoying, buried deep. It started when this one customer kept flirting with Treasure. She'd come in wearing bright lipstick and short curls bouncing around her face. She always found a way to sit in his section. Always laughed a little too loud at his jokes. Always lingered just a second longer than necessary when handing him her card.
It sat in my chest like something rotten.
I hated how it reminded me of the way I felt in middle school—when he got that first girlfriend and forgot about me like it was nothing. The same unease, the same bitter little twist in my stomach. I tried to let it go, but it followed me.
That night, we were sitting at our shitty excuse for a table. It was barely stable—something we'd found near a dumpster and fixed up with duct tape and prayer. We had leftovers from the café: lukewarm rice bowls with overcooked egg and some stray greens. Treasure had a show playing on his phone, balanced against an old salt container. The screen cast a soft light on his face.
And I couldn't keep it in anymore.
"Hey," I said, not looking at him, just pushing the rice around with my spoon. "Do you notice that lady? The one with the short curly hair… blondish. She comes in a lot, talks to you all the time. Did she give you her number?"
Mouth full, Treasure nodded. "Yeah, she did." He wiped his eyes lazily with the back of his wrist, still staring at the screen.
"Oh," I said, trying not to sound too anything. "You thinking of calling her?"
"Nah," he mumbled. "I really don't have time for that bullshit. And even if I did, what's she expecting? I don't have money for dates or whatever. I can't even afford new clothes." He scoffed at himself. "I mean, I want to buy stuff, but I don't wanna touch the money Monica gave me. That's for saving. Unless she's planning to pay for the date." He laughed and shook his head. "No, that's dumb. I can't let a woman pay."
I watched him carefully. That laugh stuck in my ears like a siren. So I said, "So… if you had the money, you'd go out with her?"
He finally looked at me. His face was open, honest. "I mean, yeah. Isn't that part of life? You grow up. You start dating. That's what people do, right?"
I nodded slowly. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
"But when you were with your girlfriend in middle school," I said, keeping my tone light, "how'd you manage it then?"
He shrugged. "We didn't really go out anywhere. It was just school stuff. We bought our own sandwiches, that kind of thing. I had my orphanage allowance, but nothing more. We didn't need much. But I'm older now. I can't really go by those rules anymore. I feel like girls now expect different things. Like… if I asked a girl to split a sandwich, she'd probably leave."
I nodded again. Then the question rose up before I could stop it.
"Have you ever questioned your sexuality?"
He paused. His fingers curled around his spoon. Then he ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead like he needed air.
"No," he said. "No, I haven't. Have you?"
"I don't know," I said. "Not really."
Treasure squinted at me. "What do you mean, not really?"
"I mean… I don't know. I've thought about it. But not in a real way. Just… sometimes I wonder."
There was silence. He watched me for a beat, then said, "Is there something you want to talk to me about?"
He sounded gentle. Not prying. Just curious.
"I don't think it's a good idea," I muttered.
He frowned, took another bite of the rice bowl, chewed, swallowed, then asked, "Why isn't it a good idea? We've always talked about stuff. Everything. Since forever. What makes this different?"
And I didn't have an answer. Not one I could say aloud.
We kept eating in silence after that. If you could even call it eating. The food was lukewarm and bland, and we sat hunched over that stupid excuse for a table while Treasure's show kept playing on his phone. Some sitcom I didn't recognize. The laugh track rang out every few minutes, too loud for the scene it followed. It didn't even cover the noise in my head.
Because inside, it was chaos.
Every bite I took felt like chewing through regret. The thoughts just spiraled—louder, meaner, sharper. I couldn't stop thinking, Why the hell did I come here with you? What was I expecting?
What did I think would happen? That he'd sit across from me one day and suddenly remember the kiss, remember what it meant, feel the same?
Pathetic.
I didn't want to be that guy—the one stuck in the past, clinging to a middle school kiss like it was some prophecy. But no matter how hard I tried, it stayed with me. Like a scar no one could see but I couldn't stop scratching at.
We didn't have work that night. A rare thing. So when we were done pretending we'd had dinner, we moved through the motions of getting ready for bed. Brushed our teeth in that tiny, rust-framed bathroom. Shoulders bumping into each other because there wasn't enough space to turn. The mirror was cracked in the corner and fogged from the shower someone else must've taken hours ago.
Treasure finished first and stepped out. I stayed behind, scrubbing at my teeth like I could scrape off the feelings.
When I came out, he was already sitting on the mattress on the floor, phone face-down beside him. I started to walk past but paused, glancing down.
"It's my turn to sleep on the mattress tonight," I said.
He looked up at me with that lazy smile of his and said, "You can have the bed. I'm getting used to this spot."
"Suit yourself," I muttered, already crawling into the creaky frame of our secondhand bed. I turned onto my side, my back to him. From here, I couldn't see him. But I could feel him.
There was a pause.
Then his voice came, quieter this time. "Hey, I have a question."
"Yeah?" I replied, not moving.
"What would help you figure out what you want? You know… sexuality-wise."
I stared into the dim wall in front of me. "I don't know," I said after a beat. "I guess I'll just have to figure it out on my own."
He was quiet again. Then I heard him shift. He sat up.
"You know," he said, "I didn't hate it when we kissed. Do you remember that time?"
I almost laughed. Remember? It had haunted me for years. But I just nodded and said, "Yeah."
He continued, voice slow like he was building the thought as he spoke. "I didn't think that one kiss would define me. Not into anything, not into anyone. If that's what's confusing you… I guess I just want you to know that."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice stiff.
"I mean… if you didn't hate the kiss either, it doesn't have to mean anything. Maybe you're not into guys. Maybe we were just curious. Maybe it was just us."
Something broke inside me right then. My throat burned.
"Treasure," I said, sitting up slightly. "Shut the fuck up."
He blinked at me, caught off guard.
"You don't know what the hell you're saying. You're ruining everything. And now I regret even talking to you about it."
He looked stricken, then softened. He got up, sat on the edge of the bed beside me. His weight shifted the mattress beneath me, and I could feel the warmth of him so close.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice fragile. "I didn't mean it in a bad way. I was just thinking out loud. I just… I hate the idea that maybe I confused you. That maybe I messed something up."
He meant it. I could tell.
But my head was still buzzing with frustration. My chest was a knot. I couldn't even tell what I was angry at anymore—him, myself, the years I spent overthinking, the ache in my ribs that never really went away.
So I said the one thing I probably shouldn't have.
"Okay then. Let's kiss again. See if it changes anything."
His eyes widened slightly.
"If it doesn't feel like anything," I continued, "then I'll know your theory's right. Maybe it was just a phase. A thing. Maybe it meant nothing."
He looked at me, quiet, still.
Then he nodded.
"Okay," Treasure said. "That's fine with me."
He didn't hesitate.
Treasure leaned in, closing the space between us like it had been waiting to be erased all along. His hand found my cheek, fingers warm and steady as they cradled my jaw. It wasn't tentative. It wasn't careful. It was sure. Like he'd made up his mind before I even said the words.
His body shifted, knees sinking into the mattress as he climbed on top of me, each one landing firm at my sides. I didn't move. Couldn't. My heart was beating so loud I couldn't hear anything else, not the hum of the fridge, not the laughter from the neighbors upstairs, not even my own breath.
And then he kissed me.
Not like before. This wasn't a test.
He kissed me like it wasn't the first time. Like he had been carrying the memory of it too, rolling it over in his mouth for years. His lips were soft, parted just slightly, and his mouth moved with this slow, devastating confidence that made my whole body tense. I felt the heat of his skin, the curve of his back under the shirt that clung to him after the long day. The mattress creaked beneath us, giving way to every small shift of weight.
His hands weren't shaking. Mine were.
I reached up—almost instinctively—and gripped the side of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like I needed to hold onto something or I'd fall right through. He deepened the kiss, tilting his head, his nose brushing mine. His breath came through his nose in short, staggered exhales. Mine was lost somewhere inside my chest.
I opened my mouth to say something, anything— But he kissed me again. Harder.
My hands slid up to his sides, then back down again, not knowing where to land. His legs bracketed me, firm on either side, grounding me in place. He pressed his chest to mine, and for a second, everything else vanished. The peeling paint on the walls. The draft slipping in from the broken window. The past two years of hustling and half-eaten dinners. It all fell away.
I didn't know what this meant. I didn't care.
All I knew was that I wasn't thinking anymore.
I was feeling. Every breath. Every kiss. Every inch of him pressed against me like he was afraid I'd disappear. And if he kept going, I wasn't sure I'd remember how to stop.
My hands moved on their own, slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt, brushing against the warm skin of his waist. He gasped into my mouth, just a little. I felt the tremble of it on my lips. He shifted forward, his hips aligning with mine, and I could feel it now—his weight, the heat between us, how he fit over me like he was meant to be there.
His kisses turned messier, open-mouthed and aching, like he was chasing something inside me. Our teeth clinked once. He laughed into my mouth, and I felt the sound bloom between our bodies.
He leaned back just slightly, forehead resting against mine, eyes half-lidded and flushed. His hands went to the hem of my shirt. He didn't ask. He just tugged.
I lifted my arms without thinking, and he pulled it over my head, tossed it somewhere off the side of the bed. His eyes dropped down to my chest, then returned to mine. Something flickered there. Not surprise. Not hesitation. Something heavier.
"You've changed," he murmured, voice low, breathless.
"You haven't," I said, running a hand down the center of his back. "You're still the same asshole."
That made him grin.
And then he bent down and kissed my throat.
It was slow. Deliberate. His lips brushed along the curve where my jaw met my neck, and I felt every point of contact in sharp detail. His mouth was hot, damp, steady. He kissed lower, across my collarbone, the center of my chest, dragging the flat of his tongue along the way like he wanted to brand something there.
I swallowed hard and arched into him. My hands dug into the waistband of his sweats, thumbs skimming the warm skin beneath. He looked up at me, pupils blown wide and lips already pink and swollen.
"This okay?" he asked, voice like gravel and silk.
I nodded. Too fast.
"Yeah," I said, breath shallow. "Yeah. Just… don't stop."
Treasure pulled off his shirt in one motion, and in the dim light of our room, his skin looked golden, shadows caught in the angles of his shoulders and ribs. He leaned down again and kissed me, deeper this time, slower now, like he had all the time in the world.
Treasure's hand slid down my chest, fingers splayed, trailing along my stomach. He paused, just for a second. His forehead rested against mine.
"You sure?" he whispered.
I nodded once, and that was all he needed.
He kissed me again, then kissed lower. Down my chest, the center of my abdomen, his breath fanning across every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing me through touch alone. There was nothing rushed about it. No fumbling. Just him, taking his time, like he wanted to.
I reached for him as he moved down, my hand grazing the back of his head, through the soft strands of his hair. My heart was beating hard, fast, but I didn't want him to stop. I couldn't remember the last time I had wanted something this much and not felt guilty for it.
When he took me in his mouth, I gasped. My hand tightened in his hair, and I had to shut my eyes just to feel it fully. His mouth was warm, steady, and he was careful—so careful at first, like he didn't want to overwhelm me. But then he eased into it. Grew more confident. Like he wanted to learn what I liked and hold it there. It wasn't just physical. There was something tender in it, too. Something that made my throat tighten.
I looked down at him. His eyes were closed. His hands pressed against my thighs to hold me steady. He looked calm. Focused. Beautiful.
I couldn't stop myself. I reached down, touched his jaw, brushed my thumb along his cheekbone. He opened his eyes for a brief second, and the look he gave me wasn't playful, wasn't teasing. It was real.
When I came, it wasn't loud. I just arched slightly, my breath catching in my throat, hand still resting in his hair. My body trembled beneath his. He didn't pull away until I gently pushed at his shoulder, chest still heaving.
He came back up beside me, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing, like it hadn't just changed something in the air between us.
"I can return the favor," I said, still breathless.
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
He paused for a second, then laid back, looking at me with something soft behind his eyes. "Okay."
I kissed him once before I moved down, slow and deliberate. My hands slid along his waist, tugging at the band of his sweats, and when I took him into my mouth, he gasped—one of those sudden sounds he tried to swallow. His hand grabbed a fistful of the sheet beside him. I kept going, gradually learning how he liked it, watching how his body shifted, listening to every reaction like it was a language only I was supposed to understand.
It didn't take long. He was already too wound up, too lost in it. When he came, he let out this broken sound and covered his face with the back of his arm.
I pulled up beside him, and for a while, we just laid there. Neither of us said anything. Our breaths mingled in the dark.
I wasn't sure what this meant yet. But in that silence, in the heaviness between us, I didn't feel confused. I just felt… closer.
And then he said the worst thing he could've possibly said. The kind of thing that doesn't even sound real when it leaves someone's mouth—especially not after something like that.
Treasure turned to me, still catching his breath, and said, "You know what? I didn't realize how much I needed that release. Maybe, if it's not too much, we could keep doing this? I mean… with our busy schedules and all, we're already roommates. I think it could work out, right?"
I didn't respond. I couldn't. My brain was still replaying the shape of his words, trying to make them mean something else. Something less hollow. Less clinical.
Who says that?Why would he say that?Why would he think that this—what just happened—was something we could schedule around work shifts?
My chest felt like it had been carved out. I laid there, flat on my back, eyes fixed to the ceiling above us—the one with the water stain that looked like a dog's head if you stared too long. My heart was heavy, sinking fast, dragging everything down with it.
That thing we just shared—it meant something to me.
And apparently, to him, it was just a release. Like stretching after a long shift. Like cracking your neck. Didn't we start this so I could be sure of something? Or did it just play in your favor?
I stared at the ceiling and felt sick.
Sick with myself. With how stupid I'd been. With the sheets that suddenly felt too warm, too used. With the idea that I'd read everything wrong again.
I turned to him, eyes still dry but my throat burning. I nudged him with my elbow.
"Go sleep on your mattress."
He turned to me, confused, like I was speaking in code. "What? You didn't like it?"
"No," I said, jaw tight. "I didn't like it. Just go. Please."
He stared for a second longer, probably waiting for me to laugh it off, to say I was joking, that it was fine, that we could just forget about it. But I didn't say anything else.
He got up slowly. I heard the soft scuffle of the mattress shifting, the rustle of fabric as he pulled on a shirt or maybe just wrapped the blanket around himself. I didn't look.
I stood up and walked straight into the bathroom. The light was too bright when I flicked the switch, but I didn't care. I closed the toilet lid and sat down, hands clenched into fists.
And then I buried my face in them.
And I cried.
Quiet at first. Then harder.
The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep, where you don't even know what you're crying for anymore. Just that something inside you finally cracked and now everything's leaking out.
And I tried—God, I tried—to keep it quiet. I pressed my palms into my face so hard it hurt, bit down on my lip, clenched my jaw until it trembled, just to keep the sound in. I didn't want him to hear. I didn't want to give him that. I didn't want to sound like I was breaking, even though I was.
My breath kept catching in my chest, stuttering against my ribs like it was trying to claw its way out. But I didn't let it. I just sat there, shaking in the too-bright bathroom light, letting the tears spill, trying not to make a sound.
And somehow, I stayed quiet.
Even with my chest tightening, even with the sob crawling up my throat, even when it felt like I might split apart from the inside, I stayed quiet.
It was the fourth time in my life that I cried like that. I could remember them all vividly.
This one might've been the worst. Because this time, I did it to myself.