Steve didn't say anything at first.
He just shifted in bed, the sheets rustling softly as he patted the space beside him.
Christian hesitated.
He'd gotten better at letting Steve in. Better at breathing beside someone instead of through someone. But sometimes the weight in his chest wasn't something words could carry. Sometimes it felt too close to drowning.
Still, he crossed the room.
Still, he sat.
Steve didn't ask for an explanation. He never did. Maybe that was why Christian trusted him with the silence.
Eventually, Christian said, "He looked at the photo."
Steve didn't need clarification. "The one of me?"
Christian nodded. "He saw it. Looked away like it burned."
Steve leaned back on his elbows. "You think he's like me?"
"No," Christian said quietly. "I think he's like me. Before."
That drew Steve's gaze sharply. "The cage."
Christian nodded.
A pause. Heavy. Then Steve reached out, calloused fingers brushing the inside of Christian's wrist. The same spot that once bore bruises.
"You're not that person anymore."
"But what if he is?" Christian whispered. "What if he's still stuck in that place? And what if I can't reach him?"
"You reached me," Steve said.
"That was different."
"No, it wasn't," Steve said, voice steady. "I was drowning in rage. You didn't just pull me out—you stayed. Even when I pushed. Even when I almost—"
He didn't finish.
They both knew what he meant.
The gun. The blood. Joe.
Christian looked down at their hands. "I'm scared I'll mess this up."
Steve's fingers tightened around his. "Then mess it up. But do it anyway."
Christian met his eyes.
There was love there—hard-won, brutal, but real. The kind that survived after ash, after fire, after men like Joe. The kind they built in the aftermath, when neither of them knew what healing looked like but tried anyway.
"Tell me about him," Steve said. "The kid."
Christian exhaled. "His name is Eli. He hasn't said much. But… he clenched his fist when I told him he survived."
Steve's mouth twitched—half pride, half pain. "That's how it starts."
Christian leaned his head against Steve's shoulder, the way he used to on the worst nights.
"Promise me something," he murmured.
"Anything."
"If I ever start to fall apart again—pull me back."
Steve didn't hesitate. "Every time."
Outside, the city kept moving—sirens in the distance, the rustle of leaves, the world indifferent.
But inside, in that small room they now called home, something stayed still.
Something held.