Chapter 19: The Windows Opened
It had been three weeks since Mia forgave them.
The house was quieter now. Not from tension, but peace.
Aaron still worked. Built things with his hands. Fixed the world in pieces.
Eli stayed home — cooked, cleaned, read.
Wore soft things.
Sang in the kitchen sometimes.
Started drawing again.
But something was shifting in both of them.
Not distance. Not discontent.
Just the slow realization that the world no longer needed to be kept out.
One morning, Eli sat on the porch swing with a coffee, legs curled beneath him. A breeze lifted the hem of his shirt, brushing his thighs. The sky was pale, like a promise waiting to be spoken.
Aaron came out, wiping his hands on a rag. He had been fixing the pipes again.
"You look like you're planning something," he said, leaning against the post.
"I am," Eli said, smiling into his mug.
Aaron raised an eyebrow.
"I want to go back to school," Eli said.
Aaron blinked.
Eli continued, soft but clear. "Art school. I'm not good at much else, but I used to sketch all the time. Before everything. Before you. Before her."
Aaron crossed his arms.
"You think you need to leave?"
"No," Eli said. "I want to stay here. I want to come home to you. Always."
Aaron walked to him.
Knelt down in front of him.
Took the mug from his hands, set it aside.
"You're free," he said. "I never wanted to trap you."
"I know," Eli whispered. "But you made me feel safe enough to want something again."
Aaron looked at him for a long time.
Then: "I'll help pay for it."
Eli laughed — a small, stunned sound. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," Aaron said. "You gave me something I didn't know I needed. Let me give something back."
Eli leaned forward.
Pressed their foreheads together.
"Are we really doing this?" he asked.
Aaron smiled.
"We've already done it. This is just the part where we keep going."
They didn't get married.
There was no ring.
No Instagram post.
Just Monday mornings with shared toothbrushes.
Quiet nights watching shitty horror movies.
Groceries split.
Shoes mixed up in the hallway.
And art supplies scattered across the kitchen table.
Sometimes Aaron would walk past Eli sketching and just stop.
Place a hand on his shoulder.
Look down at what Eli was making — softly drawn lines, delicate shadows — and ask, "Is that me?"
Eli would smirk. "Who else would I be drawing?"
They stayed.
They grew.
They fought, sometimes — about dishes, moods, nothing worth writing about.
But they made up faster each time.
Because they both remembered the silence. The fear. The hiding.
And they didn't want to go back.
One night, while lying in bed, Eli said softly:
"You never thought you'd end up with someone like me, did you?"
Aaron, half-asleep, muttered, "No."
Eli chuckled. "Charming."
Aaron turned his head, eyes clear now.
"I never thought I'd love someone like you," he said. "But I do."
Eli's smile wavered — not from doubt, but from how badly he'd wanted to hear it.
"And you're sure that doesn't make you…"
"Gay?" Aaron interrupted. "No. Still straight."
He leaned closer, voice warm and low.
"I don't want men, Eli. I want you."
In the dark, they held each other.
Outside, the world moved on.
But in their little house, behind old walls and soft blankets, something whole had formed.
A man who had never needed softness…
And a boy who never thought he'd be loved for his own.
(THE END.)