Chapter 6

The soft hum of the city barely penetrated the heavy curtains drawn tight against the world, muffling the vibrant life of Chicago to a distant whisper. In the disarray of his bedroom, Josiah lay sprawled across his unmade bed. The room was a cacophony of clutter, a tangible echo of the turmoil inside his head.

Piles of clothing littered the floor like colorful but forgotten confetti from a parade long passed. Skeins of yarn and scraps of fabric were strewn around with a careless abandon that spoke of his creative process halted mid-stitch. Somewhere beneath the chaos, his latest unfinished purse lay buried, a testament to his thwarted ambition. His creative sanctuary now felt more like a mausoleum than an atelier, each scattered sequin a reminder of brighter days.

A half-eaten bowl of cereal had fused to his nightstand, its sugary aroma souring by the hour, while the distant but ever-present tick of the wall clock marked time Josiah wished he could erase. The low drone of a crime show rerun filled the silence that had become unbearable, but nothing could capture his attention. He felt like a zombie: dead yet alive at the same time.

The doorbell's chime sliced through his haze. He blinked slowly, and it took a moment to process the intrusion of reality into his self-imposed exile. The doorbell rang again, persistent, jarring against the stillness of his solitude.

"Ugh," Josiah grunted, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hadn't expected visitors—didn't want them. His hair must be sticking out at odd angles, and the light dusting of makeup he'd applied days ago had probably smudged into a ghostly mask. The thought of facing anyone was akin to stepping barefoot onto an icy street.

His roommate would have to take care of it. Brian and Josiah had an unspoken agreement to avoid each other as much as possible, and for the last two years, that had worked well enough. They had nothing in common, moving around like ships passing in the night. Sometimes literally, as Josiah tended to work late and into the early hours of the morning, while Brian had the early shift and was in bed by nine.

"Go away…" he whispered. Hopefully, the universe would relay the message to whoever was outside his front door.

The relentless ringing finally ceased, but before Josiah could savor the silence, a series of sharp knocks thundered against his bedroom door. "Josiah! You've got company!" his roommate shouted, the words heavy and muffled through the wood.

Apparently, the universe wasn't taking requests today. What else was new? With a sigh, he swung his legs off the bed and stood, feeling as crumpled as the bedsheets tangled around his ankles. With a resigned exhale, he crossed the room, stepping over half-completed projects that reflected his once vibrant creativity but were now reduced to clutter.

"Tell them I'm not here," he called back as a last attempt to stave off the inevitable. He couldn't begin to fathom who would bother visiting him. He had no friends in this city and barely any acquaintances.

"Too late for that. He's already inside." The reply was tinged with impatience, and retreating footsteps told Josiah he couldn't escape this intrusion.

He? His visitor was a man?

He straightened his rumpled shirt in a futile attempt at dignity and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Taking a deep breath, he turned the doorknob, the cool metal grounding him for the briefest of moments.

The door swung open, and Josiah's heart skipped a beat. He slowly let his gaze travel down the man's body to the polished shoes and back up to the familiar face that seemed impossibly distant and painfully close all at once. Brody stood there, a vision of stability that contrasted sharply with the chaos of Josiah's world. It was as if the man had stepped out of his most desperate daydreams and nightmares simultaneously, materializing in the flesh. For a moment, time seemed elastic, stretching out as Josiah struggled to reconcile the man from his memories with the one standing before him.

"Brody?" His name came out as a whisper, disbelief painting every syllable. The last person he'd expected to see, the one who had ghosted him, leaving a cold void in his life, was now on his doorstep. Josiah's emotions were mirrored in Brody's eyes—a flicker of something vulnerable, something hopeful.

"Hi, Josiah." Brody's voice was soft, a tentative bridge extended across the chasm between them.

Brody looked so put-together in his crisp jeans and ironed shirt. A hot wave of shame crept over him, heating his cheeks as he became painfully aware of his greasy hair, stained sweatpants, and the faint odor of neglect clinging to him like a second skin.

"Can I come in?" Brody asked.

"Uh, yeah, sure." Josiah stepped aside. God, what must Brody think of the chaos in his room? It was like inviting someone into his mind, all tangled threads and frayed edges.

"Josiah, what's going on?" Concern etched Brody's features as he turned to Josiah.

The question hung in the air, heavy and expectant. Brody gazed at him as if searching for an answer in the hollows beneath his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.

"I've just been"—Josiah struggled to find words that wouldn't betray the mess inside him—"busy." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

"Busy?" Brody gestured at the disarray, his brow furrowed. "This doesn't look like busy, Josiah. This looks like something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," Josiah said too quickly, the defense reflexive. But the flicker of worry in Brody's eyes broke through his stubborn facade. His walls crumbled, and the truth spilled out. "I haven't been able to work on anything new. I've lost orders. I've just been… stuck."

"Stuck," Brody repeated softly.

"Look at me. I'm a mess." A shaky laugh escaped Josiah, but it lacked any humor. "I don't remember the last time I showered or ate properly."

"Josiah," Brody said, his voice firm yet filled with care, "we're going to fix this. Let's start with getting you cleaned up and fed. You need it."

Fix this? As if Brody was gonna hang around long enough for that. "Why are you here?"

Brody took a deep breath, the kind that seemed to pull the room's stale air into his lungs. "I came because I owe you an explanation… and an apology." His gaze didn't waver, even as it collided with Josiah's. "Ghosting you was wrong, and I regret it every day. I'm so sorry, Josiah. So very sorry, and I wish I could undo what I did. I'm here because I missed you and couldn't stop thinking about you. I'm here because I can't shake the feeling we have something worth trying for. I'm here to beg you to give me another chance."

The sincerity in his voice should've been comforting, but it only tightened the knot in Josiah's stomach. He backed away, wrapping his arms defensively around himself as if they could shield him from the past repeating itself. "Another chance?" Josiah scoffed. "To do what? To decide I'm too much trouble again?"

"No." Brody took a tentative step forward. "I left because I thought it was safer for you, not because you were ever too much. I promise I can explain, but not now. But please, Josiah. I know I made a hurtful mistake, but I'm hoping you can forgive me."

"Safer?" Josiah laughed darkly. "And what about now? What's changed, Brody? Sooner or later, you're going to realize I'm not worth the risk, that I'm too much."

"Stop that." Brody's voice hardened, a command woven into the concern. "I hate that I reinforced that lie and made you believe that's how I felt. It's not. You're not too much for me. You never were."

Josiah wanted to believe him, wanted to let those words wash over him like a cleansing tide. But self-doubt was a stubborn stain that had set into the fabric of his soul, one not so easily removed. "You'll only leave again."

"Look at me." Brody's voice softened. "I'm not here to judge you or to walk away again. I'm here because I care, dammit, and because I think we both missed out on something good."

Josiah buried his face in his hands. "I don't know…"

Brody's hand landed on his shoulder, gentle but firm. "Why don't we park this discussion for later? Right now, you need to shower and eat."

The order was like a velvet glove masking the steel beneath. Josiah hated that he instinctively responded to it, that his whole being yearned to obey. "You can't tell me what to do."

"I know, but I'm asking you to trust me. This is not about domination. This is about letting me take care of you and give you what you need. This is about you, not me. Please, Josiah, let me help you find your way back."

Josiah's mind waged war with itself as he lowered himself onto his bed. Every fiber in his body screamed to resist, to maintain the walls he'd built around his bruised heart, yet the gentle firmness in Brody's tone chipped away at his defenses. His shoulders slumped as he acknowledged the truth in Brody's words.

"Fine." He breathed out, a surrender whispered into the charged air. "I'll shower."

"Good." Brody's approval was simple, but it carried weight, filling him with a sense of purpose that had been absent for far too long.

He pushed off the bed, his movements slow, as if he waded through molasses on lead feet. Each step toward the bathroom was a battle, an internal struggle between the desire to collapse back into the tangled sheets and the faint, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, Brody's presence signified the start of something different—something better.

After locking the door behind him, he dropped his clothes on the floor. He turned the knob, letting the water run until steam veiled the mirror, hiding his reflection from view. As he stepped under the spray, the warmth cascaded over him, inviting him to wash away the layers of despair clinging to his skin like a shadow.

His hands shook as he picked up the soap. The scent of lavender—so different from the musty fog that had settled over him—pricked his senses, reminding him of days when self-care was a nonnegotiable ritual. He scrubbed fiercely as if he could peel away the grim residue of his despondency with every stroke against his skin.

"God, how did I let it get this bad?" he muttered, catching a whiff of his scent that had been masked by the staleness of his room. His face heated with shame.

A shower. Something so simple, yet it felt like a step toward reclaiming parts of himself he'd let slip away.

"Josiah?" Brody called, his voice muffled by the door and the water from the shower, yet laced with that same caring firmness. "You okay in there?"

"Yeah. Just give me a minute."

He'd need more than a minute to make himself presentable again, but it was a start.

When he was finally satisfied he was clean again—he'd washed his hair three times—he toweled off, a little surprised he still had a clean towel. Then again, if one didn't shower, one didn't have dirty towels. The irony wasn't lost on him.

When he walked back into his room, Brody was nowhere to be seen, but the windows had been opened and the half-eaten food from days, maybe even weeks, ago was gone. Where was Brody?

The clink of dishes came from the kitchen, and the aroma of garlic and onion wafted through the small apartment, promising nourishment and a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. Brody was making food for him. Josiah's stomach rumbled, a testament to how he'd neglected himself, but his heart ached as much as his belly did—probably because it had been equally empty.

He found some clothes and put them on. A fashion statement they weren't, but they were clean and fresh, and right now, that was progress. After slipping into some slippers, he padded into the kitchen, where Brody moved with quiet efficiency. His large hands, which could easily intimidate, were delicately handling porcelain plates, sliding them into the dishwasher.

He looked over his shoulder. "Have a seat. Your food is ready."

Josiah hovered in the doorway. "I can take care of myself, Brody. I don't need… this." His voice was thin, trying to muster defiance but betraying vulnerability instead.

"Josiah," Brody said, his tone leaving no room for argument, "sit down and eat. You'll feel better."

Josiah swallowed. "Yes, Sir."

Brody's expression softened as he switched his attention to the skillet, where an omelet was bubbling. "You don't need to call me that now."

Josiah shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

He sat, his legs shaky, and watched, almost in a daze, as Brody scooped a generous portion of fluffy omelet laden with colorful vegetables onto a plate.

Brody set the plate before him, along with a fork, and sat across from him with his own plate. "Eat," he said again, softer this time but just as insistent.

He hesitantly took a bite, but as the flavors burst on his tongue—rich egg, the sweet tang of bell peppers, the sharpness of cheese—Josiah took another and another.

"Good, isn't it?" Brody asked, a gentle tease in his voice as Josiah demolished the food with growing appetite.

"Better than I remembered food could taste," Josiah said between bites. His cheeks flushed with warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with Brody's care.

"I'm glad. You needed this."

Licking his lips, Josiah pushed back his empty plate, a sense of contentment seeping through the cracks of his fatigue. The meal had been more than just food. It had nourished his soul, while Brody's presence was a balm to the raw edges of his spirit.

"I know we have things to talk about," Brody said softly. "But you're exhausted. Why don't you get some sleep first, and we'll talk after? You need rest, baby boy. Please."

That last word stabbed straight through Josiah's defenses. Tiredness wrapped around him like a thick blanket, heavy and inescapable. He should be angry, should be screaming and throwing Brody out. Instead, he experienced this bone-deep weariness and an ache for the care and concern Brody was showing. It wouldn't last, but would it be so bad to soak it up for a little while?

"Will you be here when I wake up?" His voice broke near the end.

Much to his shock, Brody's eyes grew misty. "Yes, baby boy. I'll be here when you wake up today, tomorrow, and the day after. As long as you'll let me."

"Okay."

Brody rose, walked over to Josiah, and kissed the top of his head. "Where do I find clean bed linens?"

"You don't have to?—"

"Where, Josiah?"

"Right closet door, top shelf."

"Stay here. I'll come get you when I'm ready."

He nodded, then closed his eyes, reveling in the deep knowing of not being alone. What felt like seconds later, Brody gently shook him awake. "Don't fall asleep here, baby boy."

"So tired," Josiah mumbled.

"I know." Brody lifted Josiah as if he weighed nothing. "Time for bed."

Josiah had expected Brody to put him on the bed, but he carried him to the bathroom. "Brush your teeth."

Oops. Probably not a bad idea, since he couldn't even remember when he'd last brushed them. His movements were slow as he took care of that, but he managed.

"Good boy. Now, use the bathroom so you don't wake up because of a full bladder."

Right. Somewhere deep inside, Josiah felt like he should protest against this level of micromanaging, but he lacked the energy. Going along was so much easier right now.

When he was done and had washed his hands, Brody gently guided him to the bed, which he had made with Josiah's favorite sheets—a worn-out Star Wars set Denali had given for his birthday years ago. God, it smelled so fresh. Josiah moaned when he slipped between the sheets, already half-asleep.

To his surprise, Brody stripped down to a t-shirt and underwear and slid next to him. He held out his arm. "Come here," Brody murmured. It wasn't a command but an invitation.

Josiah allowed himself to be drawn into the circle of Brody's arms, the solid warmth of his body saying all the things they couldn't talk about now. As Brody held him close, Josiah's body uncoiled, tension seeping out of him drop by drop. Comforted by the steady heartbeat against his ear, he closed his eyes, breathing in Brody's scent.

"Sleep, Josiah. I've got you," Brody whispered, his breath ruffling through Josiah's hair.

"Stay…" It was barely audible, a plea laced with vulnerability. Josiah fisted Brody's shirt, holding on as if he might float away into the darkness. "Please stay."

"I promise." Brody pressed a tender kiss to Josiah's temple.

In the sanctuary of Brody's arms, Josiah succumbed to slumber, and he drifted off to the rhythm of Brody's heart—a metronome of security and comfort and the promise of a tomorrow when he wouldn't have to face the world alone.

If Brody kept his word.