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  Donavan was 28 and worked nights as a bartender. The work had carved itself into him in small ways — calloused hands, a quiet tolerance for noise, and the ability to stay on his feet for hours without thinking about it. He had been with his boyfriend for a little over three years. At 25, his boyfriend still moved through the world with a kind of bright, restless energy that balanced Donavan out. They shared a small studio apartment where the rent was cheap and the windows fogged up in winter. It was Christmas Eve, and the city outside felt both empty and full at the same time, with people rushing home or staying out too late.

The shift had run long. Customers lingered, ordering one more drink before heading to family dinners, and Donavan stayed behind to wipe down the bar, restock, and count the till. By the time he finally left it was just past 10pm. The cold hit him as soon as he stepped outside, and he walked the few blocks home with his coat pulled tight, his bag heavy on his shoulder. When he got to their building he climbed the stairs slowly, already thinking about heat and sleep and the quiet that would be waiting for him. He unlocked the door to the studio and stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The only light came from the small Christmas tree in the corner.

He shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door, not noticing how still the room was. Then movement came from behind him, quick and deliberate. Two hands reached out and clamped over his eyes, and the suddenness of it made him flinch hard before he even had time to process who it was.*