Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights of the editing bay buzzed overhead, a low hum beneath the louder static crackling between Jes and Bible.

“You cut the final monologue,” Jes said coldly, his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen.

Bible didn’t flinch. “It was dragging. The pacing was off, and it killed the momentum. I trimmed it for clarity.”

Jes took a step closer. “You butchered the ending. That monologue was the emotional anchor.”

Bible turned in his chair, his expression unreadable, lips pulled tight. “You mean your emotional anchor. This isn’t about ego, Jes. The story matters more than your precious structure.”

Jes’s jaw tightened. “It’s not ego, it’s narrative cohesion. Something you wouldn’t understand if you keep chasing moments that trend instead of stories that last .”

Bible stood up then, not aggressively, but with that quiet fire Jes had grown to hate—and notice. “Says the guy who edits like he's directing a funeral. News flash: emotion doesn’t make a piece weaker. It makes people stay.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and strained. The kind that carried history.

Jes looked away first. “We’re not doing this again. I don’t have time to argue with someone who cuts corners and calls it creative freedom.”

Bible let out a humorless laugh. “And I don’t have time to baby someone who thinks control equals quality. If the network didn’t force this partnership—”

“You’d what?” Jes snapped. “Quit?”

Bible’s voice dropped. “I’d save myself from pretending you’re not the reason I’m stuck here.”

Jes blinked. That one landed deeper than it should have.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft whir of the computer fan and the muted voices from the adjacent studio.

Finally, Bible grabbed his phone and headphones. “I’m re-cutting it. Watch it later and decide if it’s worth keeping your version. But I’m not apologizing for making it better.”

Jes didn’t stop him as he walked out. Didn’t say the things burning at the back of his throat. Like how he stayed late reviewing Bible’s raw footage not because he had to—but because he cared about how it felt.

The door shut.

And for the first time since this cursed collaboration began, Jes realized this rivalry wasn’t clean anymore.

It was personal. Too personal.

Before the rivalry, there was a hallway.

Jes remembered it too clearly. Years ago, the broadcasting company’s annual pitch competition. Fresh blood versus rising stars. Bible had just transferred from the radio division, new to TV production but already surrounded by buzz. Jes had been at Astra for a year, climbing fast, already known for precision and poise.

The hallway was where it began.

Jes was walking out of the pitch room, script in hand, the adrenaline still rushing through him after delivering a flawless proposal for a new documentary series on whistleblowers. The executives had nodded. One had even smiled.

He turned the corner—and nearly crashed into Bible.

“Oh. Sorry,” Bible said, catching his balance. His hair was a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, and his blazer was wrinkled at the cuffs. But his eyes were sharp. Curious.

Jes stepped back coolly. “You’re up next.”

Bible gave a small smirk. “You’re Jes, right? Heard you were the one to beat.”

Jes raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Bible.” He offered a hand that Jes didn’t take. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan to beat you. Just planning to do better .”

Jes gave a clipped smile. “Good luck with that.”

Minutes later, Jes watched from a distance as Bible strolled into the same room he’d just left, pitch deck in one hand and barely a care in the world. By the end of the week, Bible’s project—a human-interest series on underreported queer communities in rural areas—was greenlit alongside Jes’s.

The executives said they wanted “two contrasting energies.”

The staff said, “Here comes the network’s new golden boy.”

Jes just said nothing and worked harder.

Back in the present, Bible’s voice echoed in Jes’s head:

“I’d save myself from pretending you’re not the reason I’m stuck here.”

Jes leaned back in his chair, the glow of the monitor casting shadows under his eyes. Was that true? Did Bible blame him for where he ended up? Jes had always thought the resentment ran both ways, that it was mutual—the way they always collided, always compared.

But lately… Jes wasn’t sure anymore.

Bible had changed. Less reckless. More deliberate.
And Jes hated that he’d noticed. Hated even more how sometimes, in the middle of all the fighting, he wanted to tell Bible he wasn’t his enemy.

He opened the new cut Bible left on the drive, headphones sliding over his ears.

The final monologue was gone. In its place was a raw shot—an elderly man speaking quietly about the moment he decided to leave the military after years of hiding who he was. His voice trembled. No music. Just silence and space.

Jes sat there, still. Watching. Listening.

It was… better.
Different, but better.

And Jes hated that too.

Jes stood at the edge of the rooftop terrace, the city skyline a blur behind his thoughts. Down below, Bangkok buzzed on like always—alive, indifferent. It had been two hours since he watched Bible’s re-edit. And it hadn’t left him.

The old man’s voice—shaky, honest—was still echoing in his chest.

Jes hated silence unless it was controlled. Measured. Part of the design. But Bible’s cut had left space in all the right places. Vulnerability where Jes would’ve layered music. Breath where Jes would've tightened transitions.

It had worked.

And that… pissed him off.

He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe because it proved that Bible saw something Jes didn’t. Maybe because Jes had been so desperate to win, he forgot what the story really needed. Or maybe it was because, deep down, Jes had been waiting for Bible to mess up—so he wouldn’t have to admit that he was good. Really good.

The door creaked open behind him. Jes didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He could feel it—like static in the air.

Bible stepped beside him, arms folded, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, skin still warm from the editing bay. “I figured you’d be up here.”

Jes didn’t look at him. “I watched your cut.”

A pause. “Okay. And?”

Jes exhaled slowly, his pride dragging against every syllable. “It was… better than I expected.”

Bible turned his head. “That’s it?”

Jes finally glanced at him, jaw clenched. “I’m saying it was good.”

“You’re saying it like I accidentally got it right.”

Jes didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the streetlights instead, blinking against the truth stuck in his throat.

“It moved me,” he said finally, his voice low. “The silence. The way you framed his story. It... lingered.”

Bible was quiet, startled not by the words, but the sincerity behind them. He hadn’t expected that from Jes—not so soon, not without a fight.

But Jes wasn’t finished. “I wouldn’t have done it that way. I would’ve ruined it.”

Bible turned fully now, facing him. “You wouldn’t have ruined it. You’d have made it precise. Polished. It just... would’ve been a different truth.”

Jes met his gaze, sharp but unguarded. “Why does that scare me more than failing?”

Bible’s expression softened. For once, no sarcasm. No defense. Just honesty. “Because you’re not used to being wrong.”

Jes let out a dry laugh, then looked at him again—and something shifted.

There was a beat between them, heavy with something that hadn’t yet been said. Something that had been building in all the arguments, the sleepless nights, the creative tension that wasn’t just professional anymore.

Jes looked away first, again.

“I’ll tell the team we’re keeping your version,” he muttered.

Bible nodded. “Thanks.”

Jes started walking toward the door, but then paused. “Bible.”

“Yeah?”

Jes didn’t turn around. “I don’t hate working with you. I just hate... how much you get under my skin.”

Bible smiled quietly to himself. “Same.”

The hotel room was too cold, the type of chill Jes could never adjust to, no matter how many layers he wore or how high he turned up the thermostat. He stared at the ceiling, blanket tucked around him, the day's footage still rolling around in his head.

They’d been shooting in Chiang Rai for three days—following the story of a teacher who risked her job to support LGBTQ+ students in a deeply conservative district. It was powerful. Raw. Everything the series had been missing.

And Bible had caught it all.

Jes hated how easily Bible connected with people. How fast walls crumbled around him. Jes had to pry truth out like it was buried beneath stone, but Bible—people just gave it to him. Like they wanted him to have it. Like they trusted him with their pain.

Jes heard the knock before he saw the door open.

Bible walked in, uninvited as always, holding two cans of iced coffee and a paper bag. His hair was still wet from the shower, a towel hanging around his neck, and his T-shirt clung to his skin like it had forgotten to dry.

“I brought food. You haven’t eaten since lunch.”

Jes sat up. “I’m fine.”

Bible tossed one of the cans at him. Jes caught it without thinking.

“I know,” Bible said, “but I’m still feeding you.”

Jes opened the can, avoiding Bible’s eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” Bible shot back, sliding onto the other bed with all the casual ease of someone who didn’t know—or pretended not to know—how much space he took up in Jes’s head.

They ate in silence for a while, the sound of the hotel’s old air conditioning filling the gaps between them.

Then Bible said it.

“You didn’t cry today.”

Jes blinked. “Excuse me?”

“During that woman’s interview. I saw your jaw tighten. That’s your ‘holding it in’ face.”

Jes scoffed. “That’s my ‘I’m focusing’ face.”

Bible leaned back, watching him. “No, your ‘focusing’ face is when you press your tongue to your molars and squint like someone’s math is wrong. Today, you just looked… soft.”

Jes hated how Bible could read him. Even more, he hated that part of him wanted to be read.

“It got to me,” he said finally, voice low. “She reminded me of my mom. Always quiet in public, but loud when it mattered. Fierce, even when no one noticed.”

Bible’s expression shifted—less teasing, more open. “You never talk about your mom.”

Jes shrugged. “There’s never a reason to.”

“There is now.” Bible’s tone was gentle. “That’s what we’re doing, right? Telling the stories no one listens to.”

Jes met his gaze, and for a second, something almost cracked open.

“You make it look easy,” Jes murmured. “Connecting like that.”

Bible smiled, not triumphant—just sad. “That’s because I don’t know how to do anything else. I have to connect. If I don’t, I disappear.”

Jes stared at him then, the confession hanging in the air, real and fragile.

It struck him how much Bible carried behind that smile. The charm, the energy—it was all armor. Different from Jes’s, but armor still.

“You’re not invisible,” Jes said, and his voice almost caught. “Not to me.”

Bible’s eyes flicked up at that. Something changed in his face. Something Jes couldn’t name yet, but it left his chest aching.

“Then stop pretending I’m just a rival,” Bible said softly.

Jes looked down at the can in his hands. His knuckles were white.

“I'm trying,” he whispered.

Bible didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Because for the first time since they’d started working together, they weren’t fighting the silence between them. They were finally sitting in it.

The fourth day on set was supposed to be routine—just b-roll, a few interviews, and scenic overlays to pad the final segment. Jes had assigned tasks like usual, clipboard in hand, tone sharp, already trying to piece the episode together in his head before the last shot was even taken.

Bible had wandered off with the secondary cam team to grab some interaction footage by the riverbank. Jes let him go, trusting his eye more than he wanted to admit.

But then came Jeff .

Charming, and overqualified for a field assistant, Jeff had been temporarily assigned to the docu-series to shadow the production team. Jes didn’t think much of him—until he noticed the way Jeff lingered around Bible. Too close. Too often.

They stood near the equipment table now, laughing over something Bible had said. Jes wasn’t close enough to hear, but the grin on Bible’s face was easy to read. Wide. Unfiltered. And Jeff leaned in just a little too much when he said something else that made Bible tilt his head and blush.

Jes’s stomach twisted.

He looked away. Then looked back again, even angrier at himself for caring. He had no right to care.

But that didn’t stop him from walking over.

“Bible,” Jes said, his voice clipped, professional—but colder than it needed to be. “I need the SD cards from the second unit. Now.”

Bible blinked at him, smile faltering slightly. “Yeah, sure. We were just wrapping up—”

“Then wrap faster.” Jes turned to Jeff briefly, eyes sharp. “Thanks for your help today. I’ll take it from here.”

Jeff raised his brows but didn’t argue. He gave Bible a last glance before heading toward the gear van.

Bible watched Jes for a beat, then crossed his arms. “Something bothering you?”

Jes didn’t meet his gaze. “No. Just making sure we stay on schedule.”

Bible narrowed his eyes. “Right. Because you always micromanage SD cards.” He moved closer. “Say it, Jes.”

Jes turned to him sharply. “Say what?”

Bible leaned in, voice low. “That you didn’t like seeing someone else making me laugh.”

Jes’s mouth opened—then closed again. His hands clenched at his sides.

“That’s not it.”

“It is,” Bible said, voice soft but deadly accurate. “It is it, and you don’t know what to do with it.”

Jes stepped back. His next words came out sharper than he intended. “You’re not the center of this production.”

Bible blinked like he’d been slapped. Then he nodded slowly, smile gone. “Right. Just the guy who’s been holding it together while you keep pretending we don’t mean anything to each other.”

Jes’s throat tightened.

“I didn’t say that,” he murmured.

“You didn’t have to.”

Bible walked past him, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Jes didn’t stop him this time.

Because it wasn’t just jealousy that had shaken him. It was the realization that for all the years he’d hated Bible’s chaos—maybe it was the only thing that made him feel alive.

And now, someone else had seen that too.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Bible was already gone from the hotel room.

Jes noticed the empty bed first—sheets neatly tucked, coffee cup missing from the nightstand. Usually, Bible left a mess: charger half-plugged, sock on the lamp, phone pinging with voice notes he hadn’t listened to yet. But today? Nothing.

Jes hated how it unsettled him.

On set, Bible was all professionalism. He nodded during calls, took notes without being asked, smiled politely at everyone—except Jes. That chaotic warmth Jes had come to expect, that frustrating, impulsive spark that used to light every room Bible walked into… it wasn’t gone, exactly. It was just turned off. Dimmed.

Worse, it wasn’t directed at him anymore.

Jes caught glimpses of it—how Bible laughed with the camera crew, how he ruffled the local kids’ hair after interviews, how he held the boom mic steady even when no one asked him to. Bible hadn’t stopped being himself. He’d just stopped sharing that self with Jes.

Jes had never wanted someone’s attention so badly in his life.

That evening, during post-review, Bible didn’t sit next to him like usual. He settled on the far end of the conference table, laptop open, earbuds in. Jes tried to speak up once, to ask about a cut they’d discussed earlier, but Bible only nodded and passed him a hard drive—no eye contact, no banter, no bite.

It was silence. But not peace. It was punishment.

When the meeting ended, Jes lingered behind while the others left. He needed a second—to think, to breathe, to understand why it hurt this much.

Bible passed by him, shoulder brushing his lightly. Jes reached out instinctively.

“Bible,” he said, just above a whisper.

Bible paused, but didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”

Jes’s fingers curled into a fist.

“You’re avoiding me.”

A beat.

Bible turned his head slightly. “I’m giving you space.”

Jes swallowed. “That’s not what I asked for.”

“No,” Bible said quietly, “but it’s what you wanted.”

Jes felt the words like a bruise forming. He wanted to argue, but what would he say? That it wasn’t true? That he didn’t need space, he needed him?

He didn’t have the words for it—not yet.

Bible nodded once, polite and distant. “Let me know if you want the b-roll restructured for the final montage. Otherwise, I’ll keep my version.”

Jes stayed quiet, watching as Bible walked away, a stranger in the same skin he’d memorized over a hundred editing sessions, over a thousand arguments, over every shared silence that once felt charged—never cold.

And in that moment, Jes realized something terrifying:

He missed the fights.

He missed being the reason Bible looked at him like he mattered.

Now, Jes was just someone Bible was learning to live without.

It was nearly midnight when Jes finally wrapped up the shot list adjustments. The edit bay in the Chiang Rai community center was quiet, except for the faint hum of the aircon and the scratch of Jes’s pen.

He hadn’t noticed someone walk in until a can of cold soda thudded beside him.

“Your brain’s overheating.”

Jes glanced up. Job, their lead producer, stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. He was sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued—everyone respected him, some feared him a little, and most never got past his dry tone.

Jes gave a tight nod. “Still catching up on transitions. We’re behind on Day 2’s B-roll, and Bible hasn’t sent me his final markers for—”

“Jes.”

Job’s voice cut cleanly through the rambling.

Jes looked up.

“You’re not behind because of transitions,” he said calmly. “You’re behind because you’re distracted.”

Jes’s jaw tensed. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Job said, steady as ever. “And I know why.”

Jes leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “If this is about Bible—”

“It is about Bible,” Job said, not bothering to soften it. “Everyone’s noticed. He used to orbit you like he didn’t know how to stop. Now he doesn’t even look in your direction unless he has to.”

Jes stayed silent.

Job walked around the table and leaned against the desk beside him. “I’ve worked with a lot of teams. You want to know what ruins the best collaborations?”

Jes didn’t answer.

“Unspoken feelings. Especially the kind people pretend aren’t there.”

Jes scoffed. “You think we’re—what, in love?”

“I think,” Job said, not unkindly, “that you miss him. And I think he’s finally starting to let you go. And it’s tearing you apart.”

Jes blinked hard. He didn’t like how fast his chest tightened at that.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Job said, quieter now, “I’ve seen this story before. Two people building something great while destroying each other quietly behind the scenes. You don’t talk. You don’t admit what matters. And by the time you’re ready… it’s too late.”

Jes looked down at his notes. The writing had started to blur.

“He was just supposed to be a rival,” he said, voice hoarse.

Job gave a low chuckle—dry, knowing. “Funny thing about rivals. You watch them too closely. You notice everything. You end up falling without meaning to.”

Jes covered his eyes with one hand. “What if he’s already moved on?”

“Then you tell him anyway. Not because it’ll fix everything. But because silence is crueler than rejection.”

Jes didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Job reached over and tapped the edge of Jes’s laptop. “You can still catch up, Jes. But you better move before the credits roll.”

Bible had told himself he was fine.

He kept the days clean: wake, shoot, log, edit, submit. He smiled when necessary, laughed on cue, and dodged conversations that felt too heavy, too close to the bone. He figured if he kept everything efficient and polite, he wouldn’t break.

But Jes was breaking.

Bible saw it in the little things—Jes snapping at a camera op for a crooked horizon line, redoing color grading until 2 a.m., rubbing his eyes so often they looked bruised by morning.

Tonight, after most of the crew had gone to bed, Bible returned to the editing room to grab a charger he left behind. The door was half-open, light still on.

Jes sat alone, shoulders hunched over his laptop, footage playing on a loop: the woman from the mountain school, tears in her voice as she spoke about love without language.

Bible stood in the doorway, unseen.

Jes didn’t move. Didn’t notice him. He just stared at the screen, headphones on, expression crumbling—slowly, like a dam leaking from the seams.

And then Bible saw it.

Jes’s hand shook as he clicked pause. He exhaled a sound like he was choking on everything he hadn’t said.

And whispered, to no one:

“Why did I push him away?”

Bible’s breath caught.

He stepped back silently into the hallway, leaning against the wall.

It hurt more than it should have. Jes, breaking down. Jes, vulnerable. Jes, finally feeling everything Bible had been feeling for weeks. For years, if he was honest.

Bible pressed the heel of his hand against his chest. Like that could soften the ache.

He wanted to go in. To touch Jes’s shoulder. To say: You didn’t lose me. I’m still here. Just bruised.

But something stopped him.

Because Bible had done that before—reached out first. Forgiven first. Stayed, even when Jes built walls faster than Bible could scale them.

Not this time.

Not until Jes meant it.

So instead, Bible turned and walked down the hall, alone, phone charger in hand.

And as the sound of the editing room door clicked shut behind him, he told himself one lie to survive the night:

If Jes really wanted him, he’d come find him.

Chapter Text

The assignment came out of nowhere.

A last-minute reshuffle meant two people had to cover the interview with the elderly rice farmer in a secluded village outside Nan province. It was a two-day shoot, no signal, no backup team.

Jes and Bible were the only ones available.

Nobody said anything when Job made the call. He didn’t need to. The tension in the room thickened like storm clouds, but neither of them protested. Jes simply nodded. Bible looked straight ahead.

They hadn’t spoken— really spoken—in almost a week.

The drive up was six hours of silence broken only by GPS reroutes and podcast static. Jes kept his eyes on the road; Bible stared out the window like he was a passenger in every sense of the word.

When they arrived at the village, the air smelled of fresh earth and woodsmoke. Locals greeted them kindly. They set up in near-total silence, Bible handling the cam rig while Jes triple-checked the mic levels like his hands weren’t trembling from proximity.

By sunset, they had most of the footage. Jes sat beside the tripod, scribbling notes, and Bible stood by the edge of the field, watching golden light spill across the stalks. It should’ve been peaceful.

Instead, it burned.

Jes stood and walked over.

“I need a wide shot of you adjusting the camera,” he said, voice tight. “We’re out of filler frames.”

Bible didn’t look at him. “Fine.”

Jes aimed the lens, but his hands were tense. Bible noticed—how Jes adjusted the settings three times when once would’ve sufficed.

“You’re shaking,” Bible said quietly.

Jes hesitated. “Cold.”

“It’s not cold,” Bible murmured, finally turning to face him.

Jes lowered the camera. The weight of Bible’s gaze hit harder than any lens could ever capture.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Jes asked, voice rough. “Not like… crew talk. You. ”

Bible swallowed. “Because I did. For years. And you only heard me when it was convenient.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

Jes stepped closer, like the space between them was something he couldn’t stand anymore. “I never knew how to deal with you.”

“I wasn’t asking you to deal with me,” Bible snapped. “I was asking you to see me. And not just when the rest of the world disappeared.”

Jes looked stricken. “I do see you.”

“Too late,” Bible whispered, voice cracking. “You only look at me when someone else does first. When it’s competition.”

Jes’s chest heaved. “You were never a competition, Bible. You were—” His voice broke, and he looked down. “You were the only part of this I never figured out. Because the moment I did, I’d have to admit I was in too deep.”

Bible stood perfectly still. The golden light softened his expression, but his eyes were hard. Sad.

“Then drown, Jes,” he said. “Because I’m tired of treading water alone.”

Jes didn’t answer.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And somewhere in that painful, heart-crushing stillness, the wind carried a truth too big to edit out.

The thunder rolled in just after dark.

What was meant to be a soft drizzle turned to a full monsoon, the kind that clawed at rooftops and drowned out your own thoughts. Jes stood by the wooden-framed window of the homestay, watching sheets of rain blur the world into smudged color.

He hadn't said a word since the field.

Behind him, Bible moved around their shared room quietly—setting down gear, pulling extra blankets from the shelf, placing towels near the door like muscle memory. Jes could feel him, even when he wasn't looking.

He always could.

The storm swallowed the village whole. No signal. No road access. No choice but to wait it out. Together.

Jes spoke first.

“I hate storms,” he said, his voice low, tired.

Bible didn’t answer immediately. “You always act like you don’t feel anything.”

Jes turned to face him. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Bible said, looking straight at him this time. “You feel everything. You just bury it so deep, no one ever knows where to start digging.”

Jes stepped forward, hesitant. “I don’t know how to be the kind of person you deserve.”

Bible’s face didn’t change, but his voice turned quieter. “Why do you think I ever asked for perfect?”

Jes laughed once—bitter, broken. “Because I’m not kind. I’m not easy. I get cold, I shut people out, I obsess over work just to avoid… this.”

“Me,” Bible said flatly. “You avoid me .”

Jes nodded.

The thunder cracked loud above them.

And then he said it.

“I love you.”

Bible froze.

Jes’s voice wavered, but he kept going, eyes glassy. “I think I always have. Even when I hated you. Especially when you challenged me. When you showed up late with coffee, or rewrote my scripts because you knew they could be better. I fought you because I couldn’t lose to you. But I also couldn’t let go of you.”

Silence.

Only the storm, outside and inside.

Bible sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in his lap. “You broke my heart, Jes. Over and over. And you didn’t even notice.”

Jes knelt in front of him, knees to the floor, like this was some kind of apology—some kind of prayer.

“I notice now,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

Bible looked at him, and for the first time in days, something flickered behind his eyes that wasn’t guarded. It wasn’t forgiveness yet—but it was softness . Cracked open.

Jes reached up, fingers brushing against Bible’s. “Can I still love you, even if I’m late?”

Bible’s hand stayed still for a moment.

Then closed around his.

“You’re not late,” he said, voice shaking. “You just took the long way home.”

And Jes surged forward, not with urgency, but with ache —pressing their foreheads together, a breath away from falling apart. There was no kiss yet. Just that touch. That closeness .

Because some confessions aren’t made in words.

They’re made in the silence after you say everything and the other person doesn’t let go.

Outside, the storm screamed. But inside, for the first time in a long time—

They stayed.

The storm didn’t let up.

Thunder still rolled in the distance, but inside the small wooden room, the world had slowed to the space between breaths.

Jes’s forehead rested against Bible’s. Their hands stayed intertwined, holding on like they were afraid letting go would mean rewinding everything. Undoing the softness. The choice to stay.

Jes whispered, “Tell me to stop. If this isn’t what you want.”

Bible didn’t move. “It’s what I’ve wanted. Even when I hated you for it.”

Jes kissed him then—tentative, reverent. Not rushed. Not possessive. Just real . Like it hurt to feel this much.

Bible kissed back with everything he had left: grief, longing, forgiveness buried deep beneath skin. Jes’s hands shook where they touched his waist, as if even now he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this.

They undressed each other slowly, fumbling through layers damp from rain and tension. Not perfect. Not choreographed. Just years of near-misses unraveling one piece of clothing at a time.

Jes hovered over him, breath caught in his throat as he looked down. “You always made me feel like I couldn’t look away.”

Bible reached up and tucked a hand behind Jes’s neck. “Then don’t.”

Their mouths met again, this time deeper, and Jes’s hands traced over familiar lines like rediscovery. Bible arched into the touch, the cold night forgotten beneath the fevered warmth of skin-on-skin.

When Jes finally pushed in—slow, careful, eyes locked with Bible’s—they both exhaled like they’d been holding it in since the beginning. Jes buried his face in Bible’s neck, breath ragged, body trembling with restraint.

Bible whispered, “You don’t have to be scared. I’m right here.”

Jes nodded against his skin. “I’m always scared with you. Because you matter.”

They moved together, not for release, but for connection. Everything unspoken—regret, want, the ache of wasted time—bled into each thrust, each gasp, each whispered name between kisses too desperate to be soft.

Jes kissed the scar just beneath Bible’s collarbone like an apology. Bible curled his fingers in Jes’s hair like he was grounding both of them.

When they came, it was quiet—no fireworks, no dramatics. Just Jes pressing their foreheads together again, whispering “I’m sorry” and “I love you” like prayers.

And Bible, still catching his breath, whispering back:

“Then stay. This time, stay.”

Jes pulled him close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And outside, the storm finally began to quiet.

Jes woke first.

It was still early—too early for noise, too early for consequence. Just the soft gold of dawn spilling through the cracks in the shutters and the faint smell of rain-damp wood.

Beside him, Bible slept on his side, face turned toward Jes, brow smooth in a way that felt unfamiliar. Peaceful. Bare.

Jes didn’t move. He just lay there, drinking in the sight like it was the only proof he had that last night hadn’t been a dream. The curve of Bible’s neck. The faint crease between his brows that always reappeared when he was about to stir.

The sheet had slipped down his back, exposing skin Jes had memorized in reverence just hours before. Jes didn’t reach for him.

Not yet.

His chest was tight. Not with regret—but with the terrifying clarity that came after the storm.

He had said I love you. And this time, Bible hadn’t walked away.

Jes swallowed the lump in his throat.

A soft sound escaped Bible—a sleepy hum, half-conscious—and Jes tensed, watching him slowly blink into wakefulness.

“Morning,” Bible murmured, voice scratchy.

Jes offered a small smile. “Hey.”

They didn’t kiss. Didn’t reach. But they didn’t pull away, either. They just were —wrapped in the fragile comfort of shared space, warm skin, and unsaid things.

Bible sat up slightly, dragging the sheet over his lap. Jes followed, careful not to let the moment crack.

There was a mug on the bedside table. Jes had gotten up in the middle of the night, made tea, brought it back, but Bible had been asleep.

He pushed it toward him now. “Cold, but... it’s still yours.”

Bible looked at it, then back at him. Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.

“You always do that,” he said softly.

Jes blinked. “Do what?”

“Take care of people when they’re not looking.”

Jes looked down, caught off guard. “It’s easier when they’re asleep. No risk of being told to stop.”

Bible exhaled a laugh—sad, fond. “You’re such an idiot.”

Jes glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“You think pushing people away protects them. It doesn’t.”

Jes’s voice dropped. “I’m trying to learn.”

Bible leaned over, pressed a kiss to his temple—brief, soft. Like forgiveness in motion.

“I know.”

They didn’t talk about what came next. Didn’t label anything. They got dressed in silence, Jes helping button Bible’s cuff when his fingers fumbled with the fabric. Bible stealing bites of leftover sticky rice while Jes re-packed their gear.

It felt like an almost-life.

Like maybe, in another version of their story, they had already been this — familiar, unguarded, home.

As they stepped outside into the fresh-washed morning, Jes held the door open, and Bible brushed past him, just barely grazing his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

And Jes, for once, let that small touch be enough.

Chapter Text

The hum of the newsroom was louder than usual.

Cameras clicked in the distance. Phones rang off the hook. A new assignment board glowed from the central screen as producers barked call times and half-shouted changes in the schedule.

Jes walked in behind Bible. Not beside. Not close.

But not far, either.

Still, it only took a glance from Bas — one of the assistant producers — for the tension to thicken.

His eyes flicked between them. Bible’s slightly too-casual smile. Jes’s stiff posture. The pause when their shoulders almost brushed near the coffee machine.

Then he said, a little too light, “Well, look who finally made it back. Was the countryside good for your… creative flow, Jes?”

Jes didn’t blink. “We got the footage. That’s what matters.”

Bible said nothing, already ducking into Edit Bay 2. Jes watched him disappear behind the door, jaw tight.

Bas tilted his head. “He’s been quiet today.”

Jes turned to him. “He’s tired.”

Bas leaned in slightly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Jes met his gaze, warning simmering behind his eyes. But Bas only smirked, tapping a stack of call sheets against his palm.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s not like everyone’s blind. You think people haven’t noticed how you look at him?”

Jes said nothing.

He stepped back, voice lower. “I’m just saying… you’ve built a reputation on control. Don’t lose it now.”

Jes clenched his jaw as Bas walked away.

Later that afternoon, during a production meeting, Jes found himself flinching when Bible laughed at something another editor said — a warm, easy sound that used to be reserved for private spaces. For them.

He didn’t know what stung more: the possibility that it meant nothing, or the fear that it had meant something… and would now be picked apart by the very world they worked in.

After the meeting, Bible caught his arm in the hallway. Pulled him just out of sight behind the lighting equipment.

“What’s wrong with you?” he whispered sharply. “You’ve been cold all day.”

Jes didn’t look at him. “People are starting to talk.”

Bible’s face shuttered. “So?”

Jes turned then. “So maybe we shouldn’t give them anything to talk about.”

Bible took a step back like Jes had slapped him. His voice dropped. “That’s convenient. Last night you were saying you—”

Jes cut him off. “This isn’t about last night. It’s about here. This job. This world.”

Bible’s eyes burned. “You think I don’t know that?”

Jes stepped forward, softer this time. “I’m trying to protect us.”

Bible shook his head. “No. You’re trying to erase what happened before someone else can ask if it mattered.”

Jes opened his mouth, but Bible was already walking away — not storming off, not slamming doors.

The wrap party was loud.

Glasses clinked, laughter bounced off the walls of the rooftop bar, and the city glittered far below like nothing could go wrong. The broadcast had aired. Ratings were high. The company was celebrating.

Jes wasn’t.

He stood near the edge of the gathering, a whiskey glass untouched in his hand, watching Bible across the crowd.

Bible was smiling — the kind of smile he wore like armor. Charming, practiced. Safe. He stood beside one of the new scriptwriters, laughing at something she whispered. Too close. 

Jes’s stomach turned.

Every now and then, Bible’s gaze would flick toward him. Just a second too long. Just sharp enough to sting.

Jes knew that look. He used to be the reason behind it.

Bas passed behind him with a low laugh. “You might want to do something before someone else really does.”

Jes didn't answer. His fingers tightened around the glass.

Later, when the crowd thinned and the music softened into background noise, Jes finally made his way to the bar. He didn’t plan it. He just moved — drawn to Bible like gravity. Or a wound you couldn’t stop picking at.

Bible stood with his back to him, swirling ice in his drink. Jes hesitated, then said quietly, “Do you have a minute?”

Bible didn’t turn. “Are you going to tell me again that we should pretend it never happened?”

Jes’s voice was low. “No. I’m going to say I was wrong.”

Bible turned then — slow, deliberate. His eyes were glassy from the alcohol, or maybe from something else.

“You think one admission fixes all of it?” he asked, voice quiet. Too quiet.

Jes stepped closer. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” Bible said, the words sharp but hushed. “Not by pushing me away. By making me believe, for one night, that I didn’t have to be guarded around you.”

Jes swallowed hard. “You don’t.”

Bible gave a hollow laugh. “Jes. We work in a place where people count your eye contact like it’s currency. Where every look, every pause, becomes gossip.”

Jes didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

But then Bible leaned in — not close enough to touch, but close enough to cut. “You want me in the dark. Want me when it’s quiet. When no one’s watching.”

Jes’s next words cracked in his throat. “That’s not true.”

“Then prove it,” Bible said. “Say it here. Say what you said in that room when you thought no one could hear you.”

Jes felt the silence close in around them. A few people looked over — casual glances, nothing alarming.

But in their world, casual was a loaded gun.

Jes looked at him — really looked — and knew he was about to lose him if he didn’t do something reckless. Or brave. Maybe both.

So he stepped forward, closing the space between them, and said, “I love you.”

The music didn’t stop. No one gasped. But a few heads turned. The girl from earlier raised her brows.

Bible didn’t move.

Then, voice low and raw, Jes added, “I’m done pretending. I don’t care who’s watching.”

Bible stared at him. For a moment, Jes thought he might walk away again.

Instead, Bible reached out, slow and deliberate, and took the glass from Jes’s hand. Set it down.

And then?

He pulled Jes into a kiss — nothing obscene, nothing wild.

Just a kiss. Real.

And that kiss, under the soft neon lights and half-curious glances, said everything that had been building in the spaces between anger and longing.

When they pulled apart, Bible whispered, “You better not fuck this up.”

Jes nodded. “I won’t.”

But the look in his eyes said: Even if I do… this time, I’ll fight for it.

By Monday, the newsroom was silent in all the wrong ways.

Jes felt it the moment he walked in — the sudden hush that dropped mid-conversation, the sidelong glances that didn’t bother pretending anymore.
Whispers were louder than words.

He caught snatches:
“Did you see that kiss at the party?”
“I thought they hated each other—”
“HR’s going to love this mess.”
“That’s why Jes got lead on the docuseries, isn’t it?”
“I’d keep an eye on Bible, poor thing…”

He found Bible in the editing suite, headphones on, fingers moving fast across the timeline. Jes stood at the door, heart in his throat, until Bible finally looked up.

His expression told Jes everything.

“I thought we were ready for this,” Jes said quietly.

Bible removed the headphones. “We were. But they weren’t.”

Jes stepped in, locked the door.

Bible didn’t move from the workstation. “Jes, what are you doing?”

Jes walked forward until there was no space left to pretend. “I’m tired,” he said, voice low. “Tired of watching people tear you down. Of pretending that what I feel for you only matters when no one’s looking.”

Bible turned in his chair. “Then stop pretending.”

Jes didn’t answer with words.

He cupped Bible’s jaw and kissed him hard — not reckless, but raw with urgency. Bible gasped against his mouth, hands fisting into Jes’s shirt as if he’d been holding it in for weeks.

Jes guided him up and back against the editing table. Drives and notes scattered, forgotten.

“Here?” Bible breathed, breath shuddering as Jes’s lips traced down the column of his throat. “Anyone could walk in—”

“Let them,” Jes whispered, voice hoarse. “Let them see what they’re trying to tear apart.”

Bible pulled him closer, fingers slipping under Jes’s shirt, palms greedy against warm skin. Jes groaned softly, low in his throat, as their bodies locked into a rhythm older than fear. Need unspoken, now unleashed.

Jes lifted Bible onto the table, lips trailing heat down his chest as buttons came undone. Bible’s head tilted back with a low moan, one leg curling around Jes’s waist, pulling him closer.

“I missed this,” Jes said against his skin. “Missed you.”

Bible’s voice trembled. “Then don’t stop.”

Hands found skin. Zippers were undone with practiced urgency. Jes pushed Bible’s slacks down just enough, kissing the sharp angle of his hipbone before pressing their foreheads together again.

There was no slow buildup now — just friction and whispered promises, bodies grinding in desperate rhythm, Jes’s hand wrapped around them both, stroking in time with the tension that had lived between them for weeks.

“Jes—” Bible gasped, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’ve got you,” Jes murmured, kissing his jaw, his lips, his throat. “Let go for me.”

Bible came first — a choked sound swallowed by Jes’s mouth. Jes followed not long after, forehead pressed against Bible’s shoulder, breathing ragged, heart thundering like he’d just stepped into the fire instead of running from it.

They stayed tangled for a moment, skin flushed and breath mingled, the air thick with what they hadn’t said — and what they finally had.

Jes eventually leaned back, brushing Bible’s hair away from his face.

“I love you,” he said again. No hesitation this time.

Bible’s lips curved, not quite a smile — but something softer, something real. “Then fight like you mean it.”

And just as Jes bent down to press another kiss to his lips—

Knock.

Sharp. Impatient.

Jes cursed under his breath. Bible quickly adjusted his clothes, already reaching for his headset as if nothing had happened.

“Meeting,” P’Pond called through the door.

Jes looked back at him once before unlocking it.

But even as they left the editing room — faces neutral, clothes barely smoothed — something had changed.

They followed him to the glass conference room. Inside: the head of content, HR, two senior producers, and a printed copy of the company’s ethics policy.

Jes’s blood ran cold.

P’Pond didn’t mince words. “There’s a growing perception of favoritism. A relationship between two key staff members, one of whom has repeatedly been given lead roles.”

Jes opened his mouth, but Bible spoke first — steady, sharp.

“Then review the performance records. You’ll see why Jes gets what he gets. And you’ll see I’ve delivered on every assignment you’ve ever given me.”

Jes looked at him. There was no trace of bitterness in Bible’s voice. Just the truth.

The room stayed silent for a moment.

The HR rep finally cleared her throat. “We're not here to judge the validity of anyone's feelings. But for transparency and professionalism, we’re recommending reassignments.”

Jes stiffened. “You’re splitting us up.”

Bible blinked slowly, jaw tight.

“Temporarily,” the HR rep added. “To avoid bias and give space. For both of you.”

Jes turned to Bible. But Bible was already nodding.

“Fine,” he said.

Jes’s heart dropped. “Bible—”

“No. It’s okay,” Bible interrupted, standing. “Maybe space isn’t the enemy.”

He didn’t look back as he left the room.
Jes sat frozen in his chair, the room spinning quietly around him.

He’d fought for this once.

But now, it felt like the world was fighting back.

And for the first time… he didn’t know how to win.

Chapter Text

The newsroom felt colder without Bible beside him.

Jes kept busy—drowning in his new project, a hard-hitting exposé that demanded every ounce of focus. But every time he sat down at his desk, he caught himself glancing toward the editing suite, half-expecting Bible to be there.

He wasn’t.

Jes knew they were on different assignments now, officially “separated” to keep things professional. But Jes refused to let that be the end.

He started small.

A quick text in the middle of the day:
“Found a coffee place you’ll like. Blueberry scones.”

Bible replied late that night:
“Saving the address. Thanks.”

Jes left a half-finished sandwich on Bible’s desk once, with a note—
“Thought you might need a break. Don’t get lost in the edits.”

Bible didn’t say anything about it the next day, but Jes caught him glancing at it before shoving it in the trash.

Jes smiled.

He slid Bible a playlist for long nights in the booth—mostly jazz and slow blues, the kind that didn’t demand too much attention but filled the quiet spaces.

One afternoon, Jes caught Bible staring at his screen over the partition. They locked eyes. Jes offered a small, tentative smile.

Bible returned it, just a flicker, then looked away.

It was progress.

Jes wasn’t blind to the challenges—they both knew their whispered messages were fragile, their moments stolen in between deadlines and meetings. But Jes was determined.

When Bible’s project hit a roadblock, Jes showed up at the edit bay with two cups of coffee—black, just like Bible liked it.

“I figured you could use a break,” Jes said quietly.

Bible looked up, surprise softening his expression.

Jes didn’t wait for an invitation. He sat beside him, passing over one of the cups.

The room was small, humming with machines and tension.

Bible exhaled slowly. “You didn’t have to.”

Jes shrugged, heart pounding. “Maybe I did.”

Their hands brushed briefly as Bible took the cup. Neither pulled away.

Jes caught the unspoken admission in Bible’s eyes—the silent agreement that, no matter the distance forced between them, they weren’t done yet.

Jes lingered by Bible’s editing suite longer than usual that day, watching the subtle ways Bible’s fingers moved over the controls, the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to the clock like he was counting down to freedom.

Jes finally cleared his throat.

“Bible... do you want to grab dinner? Tonight. Just the two of us.”

Bible blinked, surprised enough to forget the timeline for a moment. “Dinner?”

Jes nodded. “I mean, we barely talk outside the newsroom. And… maybe you need a break. From everything.”

Bible hesitated, then gave a small, almost shy smile. “Okay.”

Jes felt his heart thud. “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Bible nodded again, quieter this time. “Seven.”

Later that evening, Jes opened the door to his apartment and stepped back, motioning Bible inside.

“Make yourself at home,” Jes said softly, leaning against the doorway.

Bible looked around—the space was small but cozy, with framed photos, a well-worn couch, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of something Jes had cooked earlier.

Jes went to the stove, plating the dinner he’d prepared: simple pasta, a salad, and warm bread.

Bible settled on the couch, eyes tracking Jes as he moved. For a moment, neither spoke.

Jes sat beside him, careful to keep some space but close enough to feel the quiet between them.

“So,” Jes began, voice low, “how are you really doing?”

Bible’s gaze dropped to his hands, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “It’s been… hard. Not just the rumors, or the assignments. Everything feels… heavier.”

Jes nodded slowly. “I get that.”

Bible looked up, eyes glistening. “I miss how things were. Before. When we could just be—”

Jes reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Bible’s forehead.

“Me too,” Jes said.

Bible’s breath hitched, then he exhaled slowly. “I’m scared, Jes. Scared that once this all dies down, things won’t go back. That maybe we don’t fit in either world anymore.”

Jes’s fingers tightened just a bit on Bible’s arm. “We’ll find a way. Together.”

Bible swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Together.”

They sat like that for a long moment — the sounds of the city outside drifting through the open window, the warmth of food and quiet between them.

No big words. No promises.

Just two people trying to heal the spaces they’d let grow too wide.

After dinner, they moved to the couch, settling into a comfortable silence. The city lights painted soft patterns on the walls, but inside Jes’s apartment, the world felt smaller — more intimate.

Jes reached out, tracing circles on Bible’s hand with his thumb.

“Tell me everything you’re holding back,” Jes said gently.

Bible swallowed, his voice low and shaky. “I’m tired, Jes. Tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of feeling like I have to be strong all the time. At work, at home… even with you.”

Jes’s heart clenched. “You don’t have to be strong with me. Not here.”

Bible’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I want to be, but sometimes I’m afraid you’ll get tired of the real me.”

Jes cupped Bible’s cheek softly. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Bible leaned into the touch, exhaling a breath he’d been holding for too long.

They talked then — about fears, regrets, the weight of expectations.

Jes confessed how the rumors crushed him, how every whispered conversation at the station felt like a punch to the gut.

Bible shared the loneliness he’d buried under smiles and professionalism.

Their voices dropped lower, growing softer, more honest.

When words failed, their hands spoke — fingers entwining, palms pressing, the electric ache of being close but vulnerable.

Jes pulled Bible gently toward him, and their lips met in a kiss slow and steady, a promise and a plea all at once.

The night stretched around them — safe, tender, and full of beginnings.

Six months earlier.

The editing bay was a warzone of deadlines and clashing egos.

Jes had just come off another award-winning segment. Bible, fresh from his own praised feature, had been given the follow-up slot. The newsroom was buzzing — two rising stars, both brilliant, both impossibly stubborn.

And now, they were forced to collaborate on a mid-season live special.

Jes was livid.

“This rundown makes no sense,” he snapped, tossing the clipboard onto the desk. “You’re jumping segments with no narrative thread.”

Bible didn’t flinch. “That’s because you keep writing your part like it’s a documentary and mine like it’s filler.”

Jes narrowed his eyes. “Maybe because you keep treating this job like you’re trying to prove something.”

Bible met his gaze, unwavering. “Aren’t you?”

Silence.

It should’ve exploded again — like always.

But Jes noticed something that stopped him: Bible’s voice had cracked, ever so slightly. His shoulders, normally squared with defiance, were slouched in exhaustion.

Jes blinked. “How many hours have you been here?”

Bible exhaled. “Too many.”

Jes looked down, guilt curling low in his stomach. “You should’ve said something.”

Bible laughed — tired and bitter. “Right. Because that would’ve gone over well with you .”

Jes sat down, quieter now. “I didn’t mean to make things worse.”

For the first time, Bible looked unsure. “Then why do you always act like I’m competition?”

Jes stared at him. “Because you are .”

Bible’s mouth opened — about to protest — but Jes continued:

“You’re smart. Sharp. And you never back down. And maybe… maybe that scared me a little.”

Bible’s brows furrowed. “Scared you?”

Jes looked away. “Yeah. Because I couldn’t stop noticing you.”

That was the first time the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was delicate.

Bible didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he sat beside Jes, their knees brushing.

“I don’t want to fight you all the time,” Bible said softly. “I just want to… keep up.”

Jes gave a small, broken smile. “You already do.”

Their eyes met. For once, nothing about it was a challenge.

Just quiet understanding.

That night, they rewrote the rundown together.

Jes let Bible take the lead.

Bible let Jes stay past midnight just to keep him company.

They didn’t talk about it the next day.

But the crack had formed — and from there, everything slowly shifted.

Jes woke to the soft weight of morning light streaming through the windows, casting golden lines across the hardwood floor. His apartment was still — the kind of stillness that made time feel slower, like the world outside had paused just long enough to let this moment stretch.

He turned gently, careful not to shift the bed too much.

Bible was still asleep.

Curled beneath the blanket, his bare shoulder peeking out, hair tousled from sleep and the night before. One hand tucked under his cheek, the other lightly gripping the edge of Jes’s pillow — as if holding onto a piece of him.

Peaceful didn’t feel like enough of a word.

Jes lay on his side, head propped against his palm, watching quietly. Not out of fear that the moment would vanish — but because for once, he was allowed to look. Really look. Without pretense. Without the newsroom tension, without the weight of unsaid things.

Without rivalry.

Just Bible, in his bed. Just Bible, breathing soft and warm.

Jes reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Bible’s forehead with careful fingers. He let his thumb linger a moment longer than necessary.

“I noticed you then, you know,” Jes whispered, voice low and warm. “Not as a rival. Just you.”

Bible stirred at the sound, brow twitching, lashes fluttering open — hazy, still caught between sleep and waking.

Jes began to pull his hand back, but Bible’s fingers found his wrist and held it. Not tight, but sure.

“I was awake,” Bible murmured, voice scratchy with sleep. “I heard you.”

Jes froze, lips parting. Bible’s eyes found his, slow and soft — the same look from that night six months ago. The one that said I see you now.

“I remember that night too,” Bible whispered. “It’s when I started hating you less.”

Jes let out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “Only less?”

Bible smirked, then snuggled closer, burying his face against Jes’s chest. “I didn’t know how to stop… but I never really hated you, Jes.”

Jes wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer. “Then what was it?”

Bible yawned, muffled against Jes’s skin. “It was always something else. Something I didn’t want to admit.”

Jes kissed the top of his head. “Same.”

They lay like that for a while — tangled, limbs draped over one another like they didn’t know how to be apart anymore. Bible drew slow patterns across Jes’s stomach with his fingertips, and Jes kept brushing soft touches against the nape of Bible’s neck.

“You always wake up this soft?” Bible mumbled.

Jes grinned into his hair. “Only for you.”

Bible hummed, smiling, then murmured, “Can we stay like this? Just a bit longer?”

Jes tightened his hold. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Not even for coffee?” Bible teased, though he made no move to get up.

“I’ll make you coffee later. For now, you’re staying right here.”

Bible lifted his head just enough to look into Jes’s eyes — playful, but with something deeper underneath. “Clingy.”

Jes kissed him, sweet and unhurried. “So stay. Cling back.”

And Bible did.

With a sleepy sigh and a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, he sank into Jes’s arms again.

The world outside might start spinning again soon — but for now, they were exactly where they wanted to be.

The clatter of dishes was muted under the soft hum of an old indie playlist Jes had queued up on his phone — mellow guitar chords curling into the warm air of his kitchen.

Bible sat cross-legged on one of the bar stools by the counter, wearing Jes’s oversized hoodie — the sleeves hanging past his hands. His hair was still messy from sleep, but his eyes tracked Jes’s every move, warm and a little amused.

“You’re really doing this whole domestic thing,” Bible said, chin propped in one hand.

Jes glanced over his shoulder with a half-smile, flipping the eggs in the pan. “I can fry an egg, Bible. That doesn’t mean I’m auditioning for a sitcom dad role.”

Bible smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jes slid eggs onto two plates beside toast and sautéed tomatoes, then set one in front of Bible. “Try it before you roast me.”

Bible took a bite and paused — eyes widening just slightly. “Okay, wait. Why is this actually good?”

Jes leaned on the counter with his mug. “Because unlike someone, I read instructions.”

Bible rolled his eyes, but his lips curved in that soft, quiet way Jes had come to memorize.

The moment stretched comfortably between them — the clink of forks, sips of coffee, the occasional brushing of their feet beneath the table like neither could stand too much distance.

“You do this a lot?” Bible asked, voice gentler now.

Jes looked up. “Make breakfast?”

Bible nodded. “Wake up early. Cook for someone. Let them see… this side of you.”

Jes shook his head slowly. “Not really.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Bible looked away, like maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

Jes reached across the table, catching Bible’s fingers where they rested on the ceramic mug.

“But I like it with you,” Jes added softly. “This. All of this.”

Bible’s eyes met his again, less guarded. “Even the hoodie stealing?”

Jes grinned. “Especially that. You look better in it anyway.”

Bible’s fingers turned to lace through Jes’s. Neither let go.

The world could wait — the station, the politics, the whispered rumors. None of that mattered here, between sips of coffee and stolen glances across a sunlit kitchen counter.

This wasn’t just a pause.

It was a glimpse.

Of something that felt like home.

The studio was quiet after the wrap. Too quiet.

Boxes stacked near the corner. A few cables still waiting to be coiled. It was the kind of silence Jes used to crave — the end of a long day, a clean break from noise.

But now, it felt like the breath right before something changed.

Bible stood near the window, arms folded, gaze far beyond the glass. The sunset washed him in gold. Jes watched him for a moment longer than he should’ve, wondering — not for the first time — how he ever mistook this man for his enemy.

Bible turned, catching him in the act.

"You’re staring again."

Jes shrugged, walking over. “Can’t help it. It’s habit now.”

Bible’s smile was small, but real. “You going to say something corny like ‘I liked you better when we were fighting’?”

Jes shook his head. “I liked you best when you stopped running.”

There was a pause. A long, weighted one. Bible looked at him — really looked at him — like he was measuring the truth in those words, and maybe, measuring what they both were brave enough to hold onto.

“Jes…”

“I’m not asking you to choose me over the job,” Jes said quietly. “Or to throw away everything you’ve worked for. But I’m here. And I don’t want to keep pretending we’re just a story that happened off-camera.”

Bible’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We were never off-camera. Everyone saw it before we did.”

Jes laughed, soft. “Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s make something real.”

Bible took a step closer, then another. Until there was no space left between them. Until Jes could feel the shape of the answer before it was even said.

“You’re impossible,” Bible murmured.

Jes grinned. “Still worth it?”

Bible didn’t answer.

He just kissed him — slow, sure, like a thousand unsaid things all collapsed into one simple truth.

Outside the studio, the city kept moving. Projects would shift. Rumors would come and go. Schedules would clash, and distance might stretch.

But Jes and Bible? They would find their way back — again and again.

Because this time, the dead air between them wasn’t silence.

It was home.

And in it, their hearts beat loud.

THE END