The hospital corridor smelled like disinfectant and old rain.
Noah hated that smell.
It meant waiting.
It meant helplessness.
It meant standing still while something precious fought a battle you couldn't enter.
Evan lay behind the glass wall of the observation room, pale against white sheets, chest rising too fast, then too slow, like his body had forgotten the rhythm of living and was guessing its way through it.
Noah stood there longer than he realized.
He hadn't removed his jacket.
Hadn't checked his phone.
Hadn't breathed properly since they brought Evan in.
A nurse passed. Then another.
Time moved.
Noah didn't.
Finally, he went inside.
The room was dim, quiet except for the soft machine counting Evan's heartbeat like a secret.
Noah pulled a chair close to the bed.
He didn't sit at first.
He just looked.
At the faint bruise near Evan's collarbone from where he'd collapsed.
At the IV line taped to his hand.
At the way his fingers twitched even in sleep, like his body was still trying to warn the world.
"You're terrible at listening," Noah whispered.
His voice surprised even him.
"You could've told me it was that bad."
Evan didn't respond.
Noah sat.
The chair creaked softly, too loud in the quiet.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I keep treating you like a problem to solve," he said, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Like if I just question you hard enough, you'll turn into evidence."
His jaw tightened.
"But you're not evidence."
Silence.
Then, weakly—
"No…"
Noah looked up so fast his neck hurt.
Evan's eyes were open.
Barely.
"I'm worse," Evan murmured. "Evidence is useful."
Noah huffed a breath that almost became a laugh and almost became something broken.
"Don't."
Evan swallowed. "You stayed."
"Someone had to make sure you didn't predict your own death."
A pause.
Then Evan whispered, "You were scared."
Noah didn't answer immediately.
Then, quietly:
"Yes."
Evan closed his eyes again, like the word had weighed too much.
Noah reached out before thinking.
He stopped halfway.
Hands hovering.
Permission hesitating in the air.
Then Evan's fingers moved—just slightly—brushing his own.
It was accidental.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
Noah let his hand rest there.
Didn't hold.
Didn't retreat.
Just… stayed.
Neither of them spoke.
The machines did that for them.
Later, much later, Evan whispered:
"You don't look at me like a monster."
Noah answered without thinking.
"That's because you're not."
Evan turned his face slightly, eyes shining with something fragile and dangerous and human.
"You should."
Noah shook his head once.
Soft. Certain.
"I'll decide what you are."
Outside the room, night pressed its face against the windows.
Inside, two damaged people learned how to breathe in the same space.
And somewhere deep in Noah's chest, something unfamiliar began to grow—
Not trust.
Not love.
But the terrifying beginning of both.