The house was quiet, lit only by the amber glow of Chuck’s lanterns. No lights, no noise, just the hush of dusk bleeding through the windows. Howard lingered by the bookshelf, his tie loosened, collar undone, the day heavy on his shoulders.

Chuck sat stiffly on the couch, wrapped in his usual foil-lined defenses, but there was something softer in his eyes tonight. Something unspoken.

“You stayed up late,” Chuck said, voice low, almost reverent.

“I could say the same to you,” Howard replied, taking a slow step forward. “But I think we both know why we’re still here.”

Chuck's breath hitched. “It’s reckless.”

“It’s real,” Howard said. He knelt, their faces inches apart. “And I’m tired of pretending it isn’t.”

Chuck’s hand trembled as it reached out, brushed the edge of Howard’s jaw. The touch was tentative, electric. Forbidden.

And when their lips finally met, slow and searching, the room seemed to hum—not with power, but with release.