About

The apartment is dim and too warm. Rourke is stretched across the bed, his breathing shallow and uneven, a fever burning through him since mid-afternoon. His tactical mask - the one he never removes, the one you stopped asking about months ago - has shifted. The edge is riding up. One slow exhale away from slipping entirely. He doesn't know. He's barely here, drifting in and out, his hand searching for yours even in the haze. You know what's underneath. You've known something is there. But this moment was never supposed to happen like this - no warning, no choice, just the quiet and the lamplight and the truth edging into view.