Summary:
When Dr. Oat meets Aum—a quiet, enigmatic patient—on a rainy night shift, it feels like the universe threw them together at their lowest. One is reeling from heartbreak, the other hiding his own grief. What starts as a routine checkup turns into coffee, confessions, and a night that blurs the line between healing and desire. In the heat of a hotel room, two strangers burn through their pain to find something worth staying for.
POV: Oat
Dr. Oat was trying to focus on his patient notes, but his hand had stopped moving somewhere between "mild inflammation" and "recommend follow-up." His pen hovered uselessly over the chart while his mind spun in cruel little circles.
The voicemail still rang in his ears.
"I got engaged, Oat. I thought you should hear it from me."
Boss.
That name alone could make Oat's chest tighten like a vice.
His best friend. His only friend, in truth. And the man he'd quietly loved for years.
He had told him. Finally. After years of swallowing it, after pretending he didn't flinch every time Boss mentioned a girl, after every beer shared in silence. He'd confessed. And Boss had smiled gently, reached across the table, and said, "You'll always be important to me, Oat. But not like that."
Then the voicemail. Then the engagement.
Oat hadn't slept since.
He didn't look up when the door to the on-call room creaked open. He barely registered the sound of soaked sneakers squeaking against the tile. He was too deep in his own spiral.
But then:
"Excuse me," a voice said. Low. Smooth. With a tinge of dry amusement. "Are you Dr. Oat?"
He glanced up.
And froze.
The man standing at the door looked like he had stepped straight out of a fever dream. Rain-drenched, dripping from his lashes, water running down the open collar of his shirt. Pale skin flushed from the cold. Collarbone peeking out. Hair tousled like he'd just walked out of a storm—and he had, obviously.
But he wore that storm like it belonged to him.
"I'm Aum," the stranger continued, stepping closer, a folder tucked beneath one arm. "Boss sent me. Said you were the best."
Oat blinked. "Boss?"
"Yeah. Break-up service. Said I could trust you."
Oat's breath caught.
Of course. Of course Boss had sent someone to him. Boss always tried to "take care of him" like that, even after breaking his heart. Like he could still play guardian angel to the man he'd rejected.
Oat schooled his face. "Right. You're... injured?"
Aum lifted one shoulder with a faint wince. "Someone didn't like hearing goodbye. Shoved me on the stairs. I landed on the shoulder."
Oat stood stiffly. "Get on the exam table. I'll take a look."
Aum smirked faintly. "You say that like it's not the most cliché line ever."
Oat didn't answer. He was already snapping on gloves, suddenly needing to not look at Aum's face.
But of course, he had to. The moment he stepped closer, his gaze snagged on Aum's collarbone, the scar across his bicep, the way his shirt clung to his lean frame. Rain had a way of making everything more intimate.
"You're soaked," Oat said quietly.
"Good observation, Doctor," Aum replied. "Is that part of the exam?"
Oat almost smiled. Almost. But his hands were busy gently peeling the shirt down over Aum's shoulder. And when he saw the purpling bruise spreading across the muscle, he sobered instantly.
"This looks bad," he muttered. "You should've come in sooner."
"I didn't want a hospital. Boss said this was quieter."
"Still should've been treated."
"I don't really like being touched by strangers."
Oat paused. "And I'm not one?"
Aum tilted his head, eyes steady. "You came recommended."
Oat took a deep breath. "Hold still."
He cleaned the area in silence. Aum barely flinched, which told him two things: the man had a high pain tolerance, and he was used to this kind of injury.
Too used to it.
"You can talk, you know," Aum said after a beat. "You don't have to act like I'm radioactive."
"I'm just trying to focus," Oat replied.
"You look like someone who's been dumped."
Oat's jaw clenched. "You're very blunt."
"You're very obvious."
Another pause. Oat set the gauze down, pulled off his gloves, and turned to the sink to wash his hands.
"I wasn't dumped," he said quietly. "I was never even... chosen."
Silence.
Then Aum said, voice softer now, "That's worse."
Oat shut off the water. "It was Boss."
Aum blinked. "What?"
"He's my... never mind."
"No. You're telling me your best friend, boss is the reason you look like you haven't slept in three days?"
Oat didn't answer. But that was answer enough.
Aum exhaled slowly. "Well, shit."
They stood there in the silence. One emotionally bruised doctor. One physically bruised stranger. Both pretending the room didn't feel warmer than it should.
Aum slid off the table. "Do you want to go for coffee?"
Oat stared. "Excuse me?"
"I just got stitched up by a beautiful man. You look like you need to scream into a cup of hot caffeine. I think we're a perfect match."
Oat blinked. "I—what?"
Aum stepped closer, just slightly. Close enough that Oat could smell the rain still clinging to his skin. "Unless you're scared of me."
Oat straightened. "I'm not scared of you."
Aum grinned. "Then come on, Doctor Oat. Let me buy you coffee. As thanks."
Oat hesitated.
Then he said, voice low, "Fine. But just coffee."
Aum smiled wider. "You say that now."
POV: Oat
The rain hadn't let up.
They crossed the street in silence, the diner's neon lights glowing like a hazy promise in the mist. It was nearly empty inside—just a bored-looking waiter scrolling through his phone behind the counter, a flickering TV above the register muttering weather updates, and a warm booth near the window that seemed made for midnight regrets.
Aum walked ahead and slid into the booth without asking, like he'd been here before, like he belonged in all places no one stayed in for long.
Oat followed, still in his creased scrubs, damp from the mist, still asking himself what the hell he was doing.
"This feels like a date," Aum said, peeling off his damp jacket and setting it on the vinyl seat beside him. His hair was still wet, dark strands curling near his cheekbones.
"It's not," Oat replied, too fast.
Aum smirked. "I know. You're still in love with Boss."
The words landed like a slap. Oat didn't flinch, but his lips tightened just enough to be noticed.
Aum tilted his head. "Sorry. Too soon?"
Oat didn't respond. Not with words, anyway. He looked out the window as the rainwater tracked silver lines down the glass.
The waitress approached, tired-eyed and polite. Two coffees—black for Oat, milk and sugar for Aum. When she left, silence fell again. But this time, it didn't feel empty. It felt… exposed.
"I didn't expect him to send someone like you," Oat muttered finally, fingers tracing the handle of his cup.
Aum's brow rose. "Like me?"
"I don't know. I thought you'd be... more of a wreck."
Aum gave a crooked smile. "Oh, I'm a wreck. Just not the type that cries in public."
"Really."
"I burned out of sad a while ago. Anger's more efficient. Easier to carry."
Oat let out a soft, humorless laugh. "You say that like it's a choice."
Aum's eyes didn't leave his. "It is. So is this."
"This?"
"You. Me. Coffee at 2:30 a.m. after a half-assed patch-up job. I could've gone home. You could've stayed quiet. But here we are."
Oat looked away, tightening his fingers around the sugar packet. "I don't make good choices these days."
"Then let's make one together," Aum said simply. "Just one."
Oat gave a dry laugh. "You sound like someone trying to sell me a self-help book."
"Would you buy it?"
"I'm a doctor. I fix things. People. Not myself."
Aum took a slow sip of his coffee, then said, "Let's pretend."
Oat blinked. "What?"
"Let's choose to pretend. That the world didn't fuck us both over. Just for tonight."
Oat's voice was flat. "Pretending doesn't fix anything."
"I know," Aum replied. "But it makes the night warmer."
Oat stared down at his cup. The coffee had started to cool, but the steam still curled lazily into the air like it was holding on for him.
They drank in silence for a while. A comfortable sort of silence. The kind that could only exist between two people who didn't owe each other anything yet—but might.
Oat broke first. "You loved him?"
Aum didn't ask who. He just nodded. "Yeah."
"And he didn't love you back?"
"He liked the idea of me. Until I stopped making sense for the future he wanted."
Oat's eyes lifted. "Which was?"
"Predictable. Quiet. Someone he could control."
Oat flinched—because it was too close. Too real.
Aum saw it. "Let me guess. Boss didn't want messy, either."
"He wanted a wife," Oat murmured. "Kids. Normalcy. He said I was confusing."
"Heartbreaking translation: he wanted someone he could show off to his parents."
Oat's chest tightened. "He said I was family. That he loved me... as family."
Aum made a sound between a sigh and a scoff. "Love wrapped in the wrong package."
Oat swallowed. "Why are you saying all this? You don't even know me."
"Because I think I do," Aum said, leaning forward slightly. "I know that look. You've been hurting so long you stopped noticing it. You joke when you should cry. You patch people up and go home to nothing. You pretend it doesn't matter."
Oat's throat bobbed. "What makes you think I go home to nothing?"
Aum smiled sadly. "Because if you had someone waiting, you wouldn't be here. You'd be asleep. Or trying to forget."
Oat stared at him. For the first time in weeks, he felt seen. Not pitied. Not judged. Just seen.
Aum sat back. "Do you think I'm your type?"
Oat hesitated. "No."
Aum lifted an eyebrow.
Oat added, voice quieter now, "…Maybe."
Aum chuckled. "You're worse at pretending than I am."
Oat tried to keep his gaze neutral, but it kept drifting—to Aum's hands, his mouth, the faint red mark on his collar where a shirt tag must've irritated him. Everything about him screamed wrong timing.
And still.
"Want to get out of here?" Aum asked.
Oat blinked. "Where?"
"My place. A hotel. Yours. Doesn't matter."
"I'm not sleeping with you."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You kind of did."
"No," Aum said softly. "I asked if you wanted to not be alone."
Oat looked down at his hands, then out at the rain-slicked streets. The world was cold. The hospital was colder. His bed would be coldest of all.
"…Okay," he said.
Aum didn't grin this time. He just nodded and stood up slowly, offering his hand across the table.
Oat stared at it. It felt like a dare. Or a door.
He took it.
Aum's fingers curled warm around his own. And the diner's quiet faded into the background.
They didn't speak as they walked out into the rain.
But something had shifted.
And it wasn't pretending anymore.
POV: Aum
The hotel wasn't far—just two blocks from the diner, tucked behind a row of late-night pharmacies and shuttered cafes. The kind of place that didn't ask questions, didn't judge. Dim lobby. Soft jazz playing from nowhere. Cheap warmth leaking from the walls.
Aum handed his card to the receptionist with a faint smile, ignoring the raised brow when she glanced at his rain-slicked shirt and the man behind him in scrubs.
He didn't explain. He never did.
He liked places like this. Temporary. Quiet. Honest in their impermanence.
Oat followed him without a word. Not out of trust—no, not yet. Out of inertia. Out of exhaustion. Out of something raw and unfinished that neither of them knew how to name.
The elevator was too quiet.
Aum leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Oat out of the corner of his eye.
"You always this tense around strangers?" he asked.
"I'm not tense."
"Right. You just clench your jaw like you're holding back a scream."
Oat didn't answer. But his fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
Room 503 was small. Clean. Neutral beige walls and stiff white sheets. The hum of the air conditioner filled the space like a secret trying not to be told.
Aum kicked off his shoes first. Peeled off his damp hoodie. Walked over to the window and looked out at the still-raining city.
"Make yourself at home," he said, not turning around. "Or don't. I'm not going to make you."
He waited.
One beat.
Two.
The sound of the door closing gently. Then the shuffle of Oat's shoes. A soft sigh.
Aum finally turned.
Oat stood awkwardly by the wall, like he didn't know what to do with his hands, his body, or the ache inside him.
He looked smaller here. Not physically—but smaller. Softer. A man who had given so much of himself away that he wasn't sure how much was left.
Aum didn't move toward him.
Not yet.
"You can sit, you know," he said gently. "I don't bite unless asked."
That got a faint twitch from Oat's lips. Not a smile. Not quite. But something like it.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Still in his scrubs. Still clinging to some version of composure.
Aum watched him.
And something in his chest cracked open a little.
Because underneath all the quiet tension, Oat looked exactly how he had looked weeks ago—when the break-up service sent a man in a suit to his door with a neat folder and a voice that said, "I'm sorry, he didn't want to do this in person."
Because nothing hurts quite like being left behind by someone you would've burned the world for.
Aum knew that ache too well.
He crossed the room slowly, but not toward the bed. He sat on the floor instead—back against the dresser, legs stretched out in front of him, close but not too close.
"You don't have to tell me anything," Aum said. "I'm not here for answers."
Oat didn't look at him. "Then what are you here for?"
Aum shrugged. "Warmth. A distraction. Company. You pick."
"You think I'm someone who can make anything warmer?"
"You patched me up," Aum said, voice low. "That's more warmth than I've had in weeks."
They sat like that for a long while.
Rain tapping at the window.
City lights bleeding through the curtains.
The world far too big outside.
"I wasn't supposed to fall for him," Oat said suddenly.
Aum looked up.
"He was just... there. All the time. He knew when I hated myself. He showed up with food when I forgot to eat. He never judged me for being quiet, or messy, or tired. And I thought maybe... maybe that was love."
Aum didn't interrupt.
"But then he said no. And it wasn't cruel. It was worse. It was gentle. Like I was a kid with a crush. Like I hadn't spent years building this invisible home around him in my head."
His voice cracked at the end.
Aum stood.
Crossed the room.
Knelt in front of him.
Oat didn't meet his eyes. But Aum reached for his hands—slow, careful. His fingers curled around Oat's gently, grounding him.
"I know," Aum said. "I know how that kind of rejection feels. When they let you fall in love just enough to make it hurt."
"I thought I was strong enough to handle it," Oat whispered.
"No one is. That kind of loss doesn't bruise—it breaks."
Oat finally looked at him.
His eyes weren't blank anymore.
They were full.
Of grief. Of confusion. Of a hope he didn't trust himself to name.
And Aum—he didn't kiss him.
Not yet.
He just whispered, "Lie down."
Oat's breath caught.
"Not for sex," Aum said quickly. "Not unless you want to. Just... lie down. Let yourself be."
Oat hesitated.
Then obeyed.
The bed dipped slightly as he settled back onto the pillows, arms by his sides like he didn't know what to do with them.
Aum sat beside him, one leg folded beneath him, the other stretched toward the floor. His hand brushed lightly against Oat's.
No pressure.
Just presence.
They lay there in silence.
And it wasn't pretend anymore.
It was something real.
Something warm.
POV: Aum
The bed felt cold when he first sat on it—stiff sheets, overly starched, the kind of impersonal texture that reminded him this was a temporary place.
But Oat was warm. Hesitant. Alive in a way Aum hadn't expected.
He looked like he didn't belong here—like someone who only knew how to hold things together, not fall apart in a stranger's hotel room.
That made Aum want to crack him open.
Not cruelly. Just enough to let some light in.
Oat sat beside him, hands on his lap like he was afraid they might betray him. Aum smiled and leaned in, eyes low.
"You know," Aum said, voice barely above a whisper, "you're allowed to want something just because it feels good."
Oat glanced at him. Said nothing. But he didn't move away.
"Have you ever done this before?" Aum murmured, his lips brushing Oat's ear.
"I'm not—" Oat swallowed. "I'm not usually this kind of person."
"You mean the kind who gets seduced by someone sitting too close on a hotel bed?" Aum grinned.
Oat gave him a warning look, but it lacked heat. His cheeks were already flushing.
Aum leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. "I'm not asking for forever. Just tonight. Just something that feels better than hurting."
Oat was quiet for a long moment. Then finally—quietly—he said, "Okay."
And that's when Aum reached for his hand.
He brought it to his own chest, pressing Oat's palm over his heart, letting him feel the thud beneath. "See? Not broken yet."
Then he reached for Oat's other hand and brought it to his waist, slowly guiding it under the hem of his shirt.
Oat's breath hitched.
Aum tugged his own shirt off first—quick and smooth—and then looked down at Oat still fully clothed.
"I want you," Aum said, simple and bold.
Oat blinked. "You're not afraid to say that?"
Aum smirked. "I've already been thrown out of someone's life like garbage. What's the worst you could do—leave me satisfied?"
That finally made Oat snort.
A beat passed.
Then Oat leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't rough. It wasn't eager. It was hesitant—sweet, searching. Aum sighed into it, lips parting, fingers curling into Oat's shoulders. And then—
The switch flipped.
Oat gripped Aum's waist tighter, pulled him closer into his lap, and kissed deeper. This time with need. With control.
Aum gasped against his mouth. "Oh—fuck."
Oat didn't speak. Just slid his hands down, gripped Aum's thighs, and pulled them open to straddle him.
"Sit," he said softly.
Aum obeyed, heart pounding.
And Oat just looked at him like he was memorizing him.
"You're so confident," Oat murmured. "But you look better like this."
"Like what?"
"Needing me."
Aum's breath caught.
His head tipped back as Oat began kissing down his throat, open-mouthed, hungry, a slow path of fire down to his chest. Aum ran his fingers through Oat's hair, holding him there.
Oat pulled back enough to say, "Take these off."
Aum smirked. "Bossy."
"You said you wanted me."
"I do," Aum whispered, standing on his knees and letting Oat peel down his jeans. No boxers underneath. His cock already half-hard, flushed, aching for attention.
Oat stared.
"See something you like?" Aum teased.
Oat didn't answer with words. Just leaned in and kissed down his stomach, then lower, then gently pushed Aum back onto the bed, spreading his legs.
And Aum… Aum melted.
This man—this quiet, heartbroken doctor—was strong. His hands knew how to hold pain gently and how to command pleasure when it was offered.
Oat reached for the lube Aum had tossed onto the nightstand. "Condom?"
"In the drawer," Aum panted. "Fuck—Oat, please—"
Oat slicked his fingers and ran one slowly over Aum's entrance.
"You're shaking," he said softly.
"Because I want you so bad it hurts."
"Then let me make it hurt better."
The first finger slid in. Aum moaned, hips lifting off the mattress. Oat took his time—massaging, coaxing, curling his finger until Aum was gripping the sheets and whispering curses.
"More," Aum gasped. "Please."
Oat added another, scissoring gently, watching every expression. Aum writhed beneath him, needy, undone, so bold minutes ago and now wrecked by Oat's slow patience.
"You're ready," Oat whispered, voice low and thick.
"Then fuck me."
And Oat did.
He rolled the condom on and positioned himself, pressing the tip to Aum's entrance.
Aum looked up, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. "Do it."
Oat pushed in slowly, inch by inch. Aum's back arched, legs wrapping tight around his waist.
"F-fuck—Oat—" he cried out.
"You're tight," Oat groaned. "So fucking tight—feels too good."
He sank in to the hilt, paused to let Aum breathe, then began to move.
The rhythm built—slow, deep thrusts that made Aum cry out with each push.
"Harder," Aum begged. "Don't hold back—I can take it."
Oat gripped his hips and gave him what he asked for.
Each thrust drove Aum deeper into the mattress, his legs trembling, his cock leaking between them. Oat kissed him through it—deep, possessive, rough.
"You're mine tonight," Oat murmured.
"Yes—yours—fuck, Oat!"
Aum came hard without being touched, body jerking, eyes rolling back, a long moan spilling from his lips.
Oat groaned at the sight and followed—coming deep inside the condom, gasping against Aum's throat, holding him like a lifeline.
They collapsed together.
Sweaty. Breathless. Spent.
Aum curled into Oat's side, legs tangled.
"You really weren't the type," Aum whispered with a grin.
Oat pressed a kiss to his hair.
"Maybe I am," he said. "With the right person."
Light fades…
It was the softest sound that woke him.
Breathing.
Not his own.
Oat blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gray sliver of dawn slipping through the hotel curtains. His chest ached—not from pain, but from the unfamiliar weight of someone curled into it.
Aum.
Asleep. Naked. Completely unguarded.
His head was tucked into the crook of Oat's shoulder, one arm sprawled across his chest like it had always belonged there. His hair was a mess, his lips slightly parted, and his lashes cast shadows under his eyes.
Oat didn't move.
Didn't dare.
It had been so long since someone touched him without asking for anything. So long since a body next to his didn't feel like pressure, but comfort.
He let out a breath.
And that's when Aum stirred.
Not all at once—just the shift of his fingers against Oat's ribs, the way his toes curled against the sheets. Then finally, those brown eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep.
"…Morning," he whispered.
Oat swallowed. "Hey."
For a moment, they just looked at each other. No rush. No shame. No jokes to cover the silence.
Aum was the one who spoke first.
"Didn't peg you for a cuddler."
Oat's ears went red. "I'm not."
"Then why haven't you let go of me?"
He hadn't even realized his arm was still around Aum's waist.
"…Didn't want to wake you."
"Mm." Aum stretched slowly, like a cat, limbs tangling in the sheets as he pushed up just enough to look down at Oat properly. "You okay?"
Oat hesitated. "Are you?"
Aum's smile was tired, but real. "For once? I think I am."
There was a long pause.
Then Aum reached out and brushed a thumb over Oat's cheekbone. "You're different after."
Oat blinked. "After what?"
Aum's grin widened. "After fucking someone into the mattress."
"Jesus—" Oat groaned, covering his face.
Aum laughed and kissed his shoulder. "Relax. I liked it."
"I noticed," Oat muttered, peeking through his fingers.
Aum's voice softened. "No, I mean… I liked you."
And there it was again. That thing he kept doing. Taking all the air out of the room with one line.
Oat sat up slightly, cradling his knees.
"I don't usually do this," he said quietly.
"Hookups?"
"No. Feelings."
Aum sat up beside him, pulling the sheet with him. "But you're not regretting this."
Oat didn't answer right away. He glanced at the window, then back at Aum.
"I don't know what this is."
"It doesn't have to be anything," Aum said gently. "But if it is something… it doesn't have to be like before."
That landed somewhere deep in Oat's chest.
Because "before" meant Boss.
It meant rejection, silence, pretending to smile while your chest was caving in.
Aum shifted closer. "I'm not asking you to be mine. Not today."
Oat turned. "Then what are you asking for?"
Aum looked at him—serious now, no teasing, no smile.
"Ask me to stay for breakfast," he said.
Oat blinked.
"That's it?" he asked.
"That's it," Aum replied. "Ask me to stay. Let me make you laugh. Let me cook terrible instant noodles and pretend they're gourmet. Let me take up a little space in your quiet life. Just for a few more hours."
And for the first time in what felt like years…
Oat said yes.
With a small, quiet nod.
"…Stay."
Aum smiled.
And then leaned in to kiss him—soft, slow, no heat this time. Just a brush of lips over lips. A promise that warmth didn't always have to burn.
They stayed in bed a little longer. Tangled. Breathing the same breath.
Outside, the city woke up.
But for now, in this little corner of morning, Oat wasn't heartbroken.
He was just… healing.
Aum just smiled into his mug.
The moment softened, like fog lifting off wet glass. But Oat could tell—there was still weight in Aum's shoulders. Something unsaid still lingering beneath the flirt.
So he stepped closer, nudged Aum's coffee aside, and said, "You don't have to pretend with me."
Aum was quiet for a beat. Then another.
He set the mug down and leaned back against the counter, the oversized shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder.
"I dated someone for two years," he said finally. "Not perfect, but it felt like I could breathe with him. Or at least... I wanted to believe I could."
Oat listened in silence.
"But somewhere in the middle of it, he changed. He stopped showing up, stopped calling. I tried to fix it. I thought maybe if I just held on harder…"
Aum laughed quietly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I begged. I cried. I said I could forgive him if he just talked to me. Instead, he broke up with me through a single fucking text." His fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. "And a week later, he posted photos with someone new. Happy. Smiling. Like I never happened."
Oat's jaw clenched. "I'm sorry."
"I wasn't," Aum said, eyes flicking up. "I got pissed. Angry in a way I hadn't been in years. So I did something stupid."
"What did you do?"
"I went to the breakup service," Aum said. "Filled out a form to hire someone to break them up. Him and his new boyfriend."
Oat blinked. "…Seriously?"
Aum gave a bitter smile. "Petty, right? I didn't actually want them back. I just wanted him to feel what I felt. That kind of hollow pain in your chest that makes sleep impossible."
Oat didn't speak. He knew that kind of pain too well.
"I didn't go through with it, though," Aum continued. "Because your friend—Boss—was the one who handled my application."
At that, Oat looked up sharply.
"Wait, Boss met you through that?"
Aum nodded. "He called me in for a consultation. Said I seemed too nice to be making breakup hits. Talked me down, bought me a soda, let me rant for twenty minutes in his office. Then he noticed the bruise on my arm."
Oat frowned. "The shoulder?"
"Yeah. I told him it wasn't from the ex. It was just from slipping on stairs. He didn't buy it. Said it looked deep. Said he had a friend who could take a look. A doctor. But then he paused, like he didn't mean to say it out loud."
Aum's voice gentled.
> "He said, 'I have a friend. He's good with invisible wounds, too.'"
Oat looked away. His throat felt tight.
"So I came," Aum said. "Not because I wanted to meet anyone. But because I was tired of being hurt and alone. And if your friend thought you could understand even a piece of what I was feeling… then maybe it was worth showing up."
Oat still didn't speak.
But Aum didn't need him to.
He stepped forward and took Oat's hand gently. "I wasn't looking for a rebound, Oat. I was looking for someone who didn't ask me to explain my pain."
Their fingers laced together—slow, warm, tentative.
Oat exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours.
"You found him," he whispered.
Aum's smile, this time, was real.
"And you," he said, "found me."
And then, casually—like he hadn't just exposed the rawest part of himself—he added, "Now are we gonna stand here holding hands all morning, or should I crawl back into bed and give your mouth something better to do?"
Oat groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You ruin every soft moment, I swear."
Aum just smirked. "And yet you still haven't kicked me out."
Aum crawled back into bed like he owned it.
He flopped onto his back, stretching like a cat, then looked over at Oat—who still stood near the edge of the room, torn between amusement and disbelief.
"You coming, or are you gonna stand there pretending you're not curious about what this body can do?" Aum teased, voice low and shameless.
Oat rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
"And yet." Aum patted the mattress beside him. "Here I am."
Oat didn't rush. He crossed the room slowly, still in scrubs, still not fully sure what the hell he was walking into—but somehow knowing that if he didn't step forward, he'd regret it.
He sat down on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dipped, warm from Aum's body heat.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
Aum's smirk faded into something softer. "I'm okay right now."
Oat nodded. That was enough. More than enough.
When he finally leaned down, their lips met again—not with hunger, not like before—but with something slower. Gentler. A touch like trust, shaped into a kiss.
Aum's fingers curled into the front of Oat's shirt, not pulling, not rushing—just holding.
They kissed like people who had nothing left to lose.
Eventually, Oat broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Aum's. "You smell like my shampoo," he murmured.
"You handed me your towel and said, 'use whatever's there,'" Aum replied. "So I did."
Oat smiled. "I didn't expect you to still be here."
Aum shrugged, eyes half-lidded. "I didn't expect you to let me stay."
A beat passed.
Then Aum said, "What now?"
Oat let out a soft breath and lay down beside him. They faced each other on the bed, the morning light just beginning to filter through the curtains.
"I don't know," Oat admitted. "I'm still trying to figure out how to want things again."
Aum reached out and brushed a thumb along Oat's cheek. "You don't have to want everything. Just… want something. For yourself."
There was no judgment in his voice. No expectation. Just truth, shared between people who knew what it meant to be hollowed out and slowly stitched back together.
Oat stared at him for a long moment.
Then he said, "I want this. For now."
Aum smiled. "For now's a good start."
They didn't talk after that.
They didn't need to.
Aum curled into Oat's chest like he belonged there, like he'd been waiting to be held by someone who wasn't afraid of quiet. And Oat—finally—let himself hold someone without needing to explain the weight in his ribs.
Outside, the rain had stopped. Birds started chirping. The city, ever indifferent, began to stir.
But inside that room, wrapped in sheets and quiet breath, two strangers were no longer quite so alone.
There were no promises.
No grand declarations.
Just warmth.
And the kind of closeness that said, you're not broken because you feel too much.
Maybe they'd talk again tomorrow. Maybe not. Maybe it would become something more. Or maybe it would just be one night that made the next morning easier to face.
But for now, they had this.
And that was enough.
[END]