Chapter Text
Dear diary,
Today’s the day. It’s actually happening. I’m moving to Munich. Even writing that feels unreal. The thought is almost absurd. Me, at Bayern? But… here I am, I guess.
I still can’t wrap my head around it. Not really. Fucking Bayern München wants me? Florian Richard Wirtz?
I don’t get it. At Cologne, sure, they called me a rising star. People had opinions. Expectations. And yeah, there were offers. A lot, actually. Dad kept saying it like it was proof of something. But this…
Bayern is different. It’s not just big. It’s Bayern. The club. Rekordmeister. The one with the stars, the trophies, the impossible standards. The one people dream about when they’re six years old, juggling a ball in the backyard.
Leverkusen probably would’ve made more sense. It’s close to home. Familiar. But also… rivalry. Cologne would’ve never forgiven me. And BAYERN? I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to say no. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Isn’t it?
The thing is—and I haven’t said this out loud—I’m scared. Like, actually scared. I’ve never lived without my family before. Obviously. I mean… I am only 17. I’ve never even packed my own lunches.
Now I’m moving across the country and sharing a room with a boy I’ve never met. His name’s Tom Bischof. He’s also new, which helps. I think. He’s coming from Hoffenheim. That’s pretty much all I know.
It’s just… so much. All at once. A new city. A new team. New people. New expectations.
I try not to think about it too much. But it’s always there. The fear. The pressure. The hope.
I hope I can make it here. I hope I can earn my spot in the first squad someday. I hope I don’t let anyone down.
And… I hope I can keep my secret safe. Because if they knew—if anyone knew—I don’t know what would happen. And I really don’t want to find out.
***
“Flori, are you sure you have everything you need?”
“Yes, mom. I promise. We packed together, remember?”
Her voice wavers, full of careful worry. She strokes his hair gently, fingers brushing through the strands like she’s done since he was little. He leans away, pulls a face—the usual performance—but his resistance is half-hearted at best. This time, he lets her hand linger a beat longer than he used to.
The truth is, he’s soaking it in. The feel of her touch. Familiar. Grounding. The smell of her, laundry detergent, a hint of perfume, something warm and sweet that smells like home. Like something he’s already starting to miss.
He doesn’t want her to stop.
Saying goodbye to his parents is hard enough. But somehow, it feels like more than that. Like the end of something he can’t name. Like he’s closing a door he won’t be able to reopen. Like he’s saying goodbye to something softer. Something lighter.
To being a kid.
To being held without questions. Loved without caveats.
His mom’s voice cracks just slightly.
“I know, dear. It’s just… hard to let my baby go.”
He rolls his eyes—dramatically, even—the way he always does when she gets too sentimental. But this time, it’s to keep the tears from spilling.
He blinks quickly. Swallows hard. Keeps his voice steady.
“It’s gonna be fine. I promise.” He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.
His dad’s already stepped forward, and suddenly both of them are around him, warm arms pulling him in close. The familiar weight of them, the way his mother’s temple rests against his cheek, the steady squeeze of his father’s arm across his back—it hits him all at once.
And for a second, he just lets himself be held. Not as a rising talent. Not as Bayern’s next big hope.
Just Flori.
Just their boy.
“I’m proud of you,” his dad says, voice quiet, right next to his ear.
There’s a pause. A breath.
“And remember. We’re always here for you. No matter what.”
Flo closes his eyes.
He wants to believe that. Wants to hold onto it like a shield. We’re always here for you, like it could protect him from everything that still sits unspoken between them.
But somewhere inside him, something curls tight. A small, familiar knot.
Because they don’t know everything. Not yet. And if they did…
Would it still be we’re always here for you? Would it still be proud smiles and tight hugs and his dad’s voice steady in his ear?
Or would it shift? Would something in their eyes change, not in a loud, angry way, but in that subtle, quiet disappointment that hurts worse than yelling ever could?
That soft flicker of something closing. The moment they’d stop seeing him the same way.
He tries to shake the thought. Tries to smother it. But it’s always there.
The guilt. For hiding. For lying by omission. For accepting their love while knowing it’s built, at least partly, on a version of him that isn’t real. The version who might fall in love with a girl someday. The version who won’t make things harder.
The version who never has to ask: Will you still love me, if I tell you?
The shame is quieter, but it cuts deeper. Because it’s not just about them. It’s in him, too. Like he’s wrong for even thinking it. For feeling what he feels.
Like this part of him doesn’t deserve the same softness.
For wanting, for hoping, that he could be himself and still be loved the same. Still be seen the same.
But he doesn’t know that. And he can’t risk finding out.
So he hugs them tighter. Presses his face into his mother’s shoulder, breath catching on the edge of a tear he won’t let fall.
Let them believe this version of him.
The one who’s ready. The one who’s steady. The one who’s got nothing to hide.
He can be that boy. At least for now. For as long as he has to.
He doesn’t finish the thought. Not really.
He just hugs them tighter, while he still can.
***
There he is.
He stands in front of door 37, the key cold in his hand. His fingers won’t stop fidgeting with it. Flipping it over, pressing the edge into his palm, digging in just enough to sting. He needs the sting. Needs to feel something solid.
This is it. His new home.
Or at least, it’s supposed to be.
It doesn’t feel real. It also doesn’t feel like his. It doesn’t feel like anything yet. Just a hallway that hums too loud with silence.
The hallway is quiet, wide and bright in that sterile kind of way, like a school that hasn't been lived in yet. The doors all look the same. White frames, silver numbers.
The boxes with his stuff are already here—someone from Bayern had said they’d be dropped off ahead of time, like it was meant to help—but that doesn’t make this feel more familiar.
If anything, it makes him feel late to his own life.
Like the room’s already started without him. Like it’s waiting to be disappointed.
It still smells like fresh paint and someone else’s floor cleaner.
He glances at the key again, swallows hard. It’s his room too. He knows that. But something in him still hesitates.
Because what if Tom’s already inside? What if he walks in and interrupts something? What if he’s on a call? What if he’s annoyed? What if he opens the door and looks at Flo like he’s not what he expected? What if he doesn’t know what to say?
What if this is the moment everything starts to go wrong?
He lifts his hand, means to unlock the door—
But knocks instead.
Three short raps. Too sharp. Too sudden. His knuckles are too loud against the door. His hand is shaking. His palm is clammy. He wipes it against his thigh, heart thudding like he’s about to walk into an exam he didn’t study for.
For a second, there’s nothing.
Then—A thud. A muffled swear. Something clatters to the ground. Footsteps.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
Tom Bischof.
Shorter than Flo by a bit, maybe two or three centimeters, with messy blondish hair that looks like he ran a hand through it a few too many times. His skin is sun-warmed, a faint tan clinging to his cheeks and nose. His cheeks are flushed, probably from rushing to the door, and there’s a faint scrape on his shin like he might’ve tripped on a box.
His greyish eyes are bright though, quick and curious, already smiling before his mouth catches up.
He’s wearing a hoodie, slightly too big, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a pair of Bayern shorts.
Barefoot.
“Hey!” he says, grinning. “You must be Florian, right?”
Flo startles slightly at the full name. It sounds strange here. Too formal. No one here has said it like that yet.
He nods. “Yeah. Uh… Florian.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean. My friends usually call me Flo.”
Tom nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Hm… Then Flo it is.” He smiles a little softer. “At least, I hope so.”
Flo blinks at that.
It lands different. Easy. Like it’s okay to be nervous. Like it’s okay to want to be liked.
Something about it, about being told, not asked, and yet still given a choice, settles under his ribs. He finds himself half-smiling back, small and tentative.
“I hope so too,” he says.
And he means it.
Flo automatically reaches out his hand—then hesitates, wiping it quickly on his jeans before offering it again.
But Tom doesn’t shake his hand. He grins wider, then pulls him straight into a quick, firm hug.
Flo stiffens for half a second. Then exhales.
Tom smells like laundry and soap and something vaguely citrusy. Clean. Easy. Like summer mornings.
There’s no awkward hesitation in the hug—just warmth, solid and simple, like they’ve done this before. Like this is normal.
Like this is already okay.
“Welcome home,” Tom says, as he lets go. “I’m Tom. But you’ve probably already figured,” he laughs.
And something in Flo unclenches. Just a little.
Because Tom isn’t awkward. He isn’t standoffish or cool or trying to act like this is a chore. He’s open. Disarming in a way Flo didn’t expect. Effortlessly warm. Like he doesn’t need convincing that they’ll get along.
It gives Flo a good feeling, straight away.
Not just a good feeling—a safe one. Like maybe this isn’t going to be as hard as he thought.
And God, he didn’t realize how badly he needed that.
Tom steps aside, gesturing Flo in with a theatrical sweep of his arm, like he’s letting him into some grand palace instead of a small, still-mostly-empty apartment.
“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour,” he says with a crooked grin that borders on playful. “It’s very exclusive. Two beds, one room, zero privacy. And a bathroom the size of a shoebox.”
Flo huffs out something between a laugh and a breath of relief. He steps over the threshold, clutching the strap of his backpack like it’s a shield.
The room is compact and clean, lit in warm afternoon gold and already has the soft clutter of someone trying to settle in. It smells faintly of new furniture and hallway floor cleaner, a strange blend of unfamiliar and sterile, like a hotel that hasn’t been slept in yet.
One window. Two beds pushed against opposite walls. A desk and wardrobe each. And in the corner, right next to the door, a door to what must be the bathroom.
Tom wasn’t exaggerating. Flo peeks in: barely wide enough to turn around in, with a corner shower unit curtained off by a clingy sheet of plastic that sticks slightly at the edges.
Flo’s chest tightens. Not in panic—exactly. But in awareness. That this is it. Not just the room. The whole thing.
This is where he lives now. Where he’ll sleep. Shower. Brush his teeth. Lose matches. Win them. Call home when he can’t sleep. Miss things. Miss people. Wonder if he made the right choice.
He takes a step back into the room, eyes scanning everything again—but slower this time. Not just looking. Trying to make it mean something. Trying to feel the shape of his new life.
Tom’s already half-settled. His desk has a water bottle, a Bayern keychain looped lazily through the drawer handle, and a phone charger snaking toward the outlet. A jacket is slung over his chair, and a pair of sneakers sit kicked off near the door.
His boxes are open and half-unpacked—clothes spilling out, a toothbrush resting on top of a toiletry bag like he’d meant to put it away and got distracted.
Flo’s boxes, by contrast, are untouched. Four of them. Labeled in his dad’s handwriting. His name written across the top in black Sharpie. Too neat. Too final. Like someone was trying to make this feel safe and ended up making it feel more like goodbye.
Tom gestures toward the bed on the right. “I took this one. Mostly because your boxes were already on the other side, so I figured that was fate.”
Flo nods, grateful for the decision being made for him. One less thing to weigh. One less moment to feel like an intruder.
He steps further in, his gaze drifting over Tom’s space—and then stopping.
His eyes land on a small stuffed animal sitting on Tom’s pillow.
It’s a little faded, the stitching slightly worn, clearly well-loved. A small brown dog, maybe? One ear flopped over, like it’s been tugged a hundred times too many. It’s out of place in the best way.
Flo’s gaze lingers, surprised. Before he can look away, Tom follows his gaze, drifting toward his bed.
“Oh,” he says, almost sheepishly. “That’s Tommy.”
Flo blinks. “Tommy?” He huffs out a soft, incredulous laugh.
Tom scratches the back of his neck, but he’s smiling like he knows exactly how it sounds. “Yeah. I got him when I was like… one? Couldn’t say that many words, so… Tommy. Because it was mine, you know?” He shrugs, unbothered. “Kind of stuck.”
Flo lets the laugh out, real and warm. The kind that sneaks out before you remember to guard it.
“That’s actually… kinda cute.”
“Thanks. He’s survived four moves, countless washing machines, one traumatic airport incident. Basically indestructible.”
After a beat, Tom drops onto the bed beside him, flopping back like he’s said nothing remotely embarrassing. Like having a stuffed dog at seventeen is completely normal. And somehow, in this room with him, it kind of is.
Flo exhales, something loosening in his chest. That strange, quiet relief.
Like the ground under his feet just got a little more solid. Like this version of boyhood—the one that still allows softness—might be safe here after all.
Because there’s no front. No ego. No try-hard arrogance. Just a boy who’s not afraid to be soft in a place that usually demands sharp edges.
And Flo, still carrying the weight of goodbyes, of pretending to be steadier than he is, lets his shoulders drop just a little.
Because maybe this is okay. Maybe he’s okay. Maybe this could even start to feel like home.
Tom stretches out on his bed, hands behind his head, clearly comfortable in a way Flo can’t quite imagine being yet. The sight of him like that—so at ease, like he belongs here already—makes Flo feel both envious and strangely hopeful.
He sets his backpack down slowly at the foot of the other bed, fingertips brushing the edge of the mattress. It’s firm. Neatly made. Sheets still stiff with that new-fabric smell.
Nothing about it feels like his. Yet.
Tom glances over. “We can unpack later,” he says, casual, like it’s not a big deal. “We’ve got all weekend to settle in. Want a water? I nicked a few from the welcome table.”
Flo nods. “Sure, thanks.”
Tom hops up and tosses one his way. Flo catches it—barely. The bottle slips a little in his damp palm.
“Nice reflexes,” Tom grins. “Bayern really got themselves a star.”
Flo chuckles under his breath, unscrews the cap, and takes a sip, mostly to have something to do with his hands. The compliment lands awkwardly in his chest, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
Tom doesn’t push. Just leans back against his desk and watches him for a second, head tilted.
“Hey,” he says, voice softening. “You okay?”
Flo blinks. “What?”
Tom shrugs, smile softening. “You just looked like your brain’s doing, like… fifteen laps at once.”
Flo looks down at his shoes. His throat is tight again. He lets out a breath. Not a sigh, exactly, but close.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
He doesn’t know why it’s so hard to say how he feels. Maybe because there’s too much to name. Or maybe because he’s scared that if he says one thing out loud, everything else might follow.
He sits down on the edge of his bed, water bottle cradled between his hands.
The room feels too still now. Not empty—just fragile. Like one wrong word could break whatever peace they’ve managed to build in the last five minutes.
Somewhere outside, a suitcase drags across the floor.
“I said goodbye to my parents earlier,” he says, not quite sure why he’s admitting it.
Tom nods like he gets it. “Yeah. It’s weird, right? Doesn’t feel like you’re just saying bye for the weekend.”
“No. It’s like…” Flo swallows. “Like the person who hugged them isn’t coming back the same.”
He hadn’t meant to say that part. But now that it’s out there, it feels true in a way that knocks something loose inside him.
Tom sits up, walks over and sits cross-legged on the floor between their beds, arms resting on his knees.
“Yeah. Like you’re supposed to be ready for all this, but no one actually tells you what this is.”
Flo meets his eyes, surprised again—at how easy Tom makes it to talk.
There’s something about the way he listens. Not performative. Not patient in the condescending way adults do it. Just… present. Like he’s not waiting for a turn to speak. Like he actually wants to know.
“I was thirteen when I left for Hoffenheim,” he says. “Smaller place than this. Less intense. But same vibe. Shared rooms, packed schedules, homesickness you’re supposed to ignore.”
Flo looks at him, surprised.
Tom shrugs. “So yeah. I’ve done this before. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
He tilts his head. “First week’s usually the worst. Everyone’s trying to act normal while secretly losing their minds. But it gets better.”
Flo studies him for a second.
He wants to believe that. Wants to believe he won’t always feel like a guest in his own skin here. That maybe this fear—this hollow, flickering dread—won’t follow him everywhere.
“You didn’t seem nervous at all when you opened the door.”
Tom shrugs again, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I tripped over my own backpack trying to get to the door. My deodorant is probably still rolling around under your bed.”
Flo laughs, startled. “That was the crash I heard?”
“Yup. First sacrifice of the season. You owe me.”
They both laugh now—quiet but real. The sound echoes faintly in the newness of the room.
Tom nudges his naked foot against Flo’s.
“It gets better. I promise. It becomes… not home, exactly. But close enough.”
Flo nods slowly.
He hadn’t expected to feel seen this fast. And it’s terrifying, honestly. Because what if he says the wrong thing? What if he messes it up? What if this tiny moment of safety disappears the second someone looks at him too closely?
But Tom’s still there. Still smiling. Still real.
“Well, we could panic about it together,” he says. “Or we could pretend we’ve totally got this under control.”
Flo snorts. “Fake it till we make it?”
“Exactly.” Tom’s grin flashes again, bright and reassuring. “And hey—if you ever feel like the walls are closing in or whatever, I’ve got snacks hidden in my suitcase. Real ones. From home. Not that healthy shit.”
Flo smiles, something easing in his chest.
This wasn’t what he pictured. Not even close. He thought he'd feel out of place for weeks. He thought he'd have to prove something right away—earn kindness, earn space. But Tom offered it freely. Like it wasn’t even a question.
Part of him was ready for it to be lonely. Cold. Competitive from the first second.
But this?
This is better than he let himself hope.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
Tom just shrugs. “You’d do the same.”
And Flo doesn’t say it aloud, but he already knows he would.
Tom shrugs like it’s no big deal. “What are roommates for?”
***
At some point, Tom fiddles with his phone and puts on music—some indie playlist with bright guitar riffs and lazy vocals that spill into the room like sunlight, easy and golden, the kind that pretends everything will be fine.
They start unpacking again, talking in fits and starts: their positions, their old clubs, their families.
It’s easy, somehow. Not effortless, nothing about Flo feels effortless right now, but easier than he thought it would be. He finds himself answering questions without rehearsing first. Laughing at the dumbest things. Remembering how to breathe without thinking about it.
Flo almost forgets how nervous he is—
Until a sudden knock cuts through the music.
It’s sharp. Too sharp. Like it doesn’t belong.
His stomach drops.
Shit. Already in trouble. Already too loud. Too much.
Tom doesn’t look worried. He only raises an eyebrow. “Probably our first noise complaint,” he mutters, strolling to the door.
Flo scrambles for the Bluetooth speaker, nearly dropping it as he stabs at the buttons until the music cuts off mid-chorus. His palms are sweaty. He wipes them on his jeans, his pulse thudding in his throat.
The door swings open.
Two boys stand in the hallway in Bayern training gear.
The one on the left is tall and broad-shouldered, with strong eyebrows and a square jaw that makes him look like someone who never had an awkward phase. He has damp dark hair flopping over his forehead like he just came from training, his skin still dewy with leftover sweat. His grin is wide and unapologetic, dimples creasing both cheeks—the kind of grin that doesn’t know how to hesitate. He leans against the doorframe like it’s his, easy and self-assured.
Next to him stands someone else.
Jamal Musiala.
And just like that, the whole room tilts.
He’s leaner than the other boy, wiry and quiet in his posture—but there’s a gravity to him that’s impossible to ignore. His curls are perfectly defined and cropped close on the sides, the top soft and dense like he ran his hands through it a dozen times and it still fell back into place. His eyes—dark, thoughtful, always a little faraway—scan the room like he’s reading the temperature before stepping in.
His cheekbones are sharp under smooth, golden-brown skin, and his long limbs give him that dancer-like elegance that makes everything he does look unintentional and perfect.
He’s wearing a loose Bayern top that somehow looks tailored just for him. And Flo can’t help but notice: it’s the kind of loose that lets you see how lean his torso is underneath. Not deliberate. Not trying. Just there.
Unfair. Unfair, and kind of unreal.
He doesn’t bother leaning. He just stands. Arms folded, chin lifted slightly, gaze steady.
Flo’s throat goes dry.
He doesn’t need an introduction. He could pick Jamal Musiala out in a crowd of thousands.
The wunderkind. Bayern’s future. The one everyone wants to be. The one he’s been compared to again and again, until the comparisons started to feel like bruises.
Unfairly. Uncomfortably.
And still—he can’t look away.
Tom crosses his arms. “Well, you don’t look like security to me.”
The tall one rolls his eyes while grinning shamelessly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tom shrugs. “Security usually doesn’t smile so much.”
“We’re here to be nice. Kind of our duty to welcome the newbies. We live across the hall.” He pushes off the frame. “I’m Aleks. Or Pavlo. Whatever.”
He pulls Tom into a hug like it’s second nature. Tom slaps him on the back, laughing softly.
“I’m Tom.”
Aleks nods toward his teammate. “And this is Jamal.”
Jamal doesn’t speak yet. He just watches.
But before Flo can even react, Aleks grins wide and steps in, arms open.
“Come on, you get a hug too. It’s tradition.”
Flo blinks, but there’s no time to protest—Aleks wraps him up in a firm, warm hug that smells like fresh laundry and grass.
Flo stiffens automatically. His brain can’t keep up. This is happening too fast.
For a second, Flo doesn’t know what to do with his arms. Then he pats Aleks’s back awkwardly, feeling about twelve years old.
Aleks lets go, still smiling like this is the easiest thing in the world. “There. Now it’s official.”
Flo’s head is spinning. And when he glances up—
Jamal is still watching him.
That same amused expression. Like he’s read every thought in Flo’s head and is quietly filing it away for later.
Jamal unfolds his arms and steps forward, gaze steady, like he’s about to announce the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t smile right away—just studies Flo with a cool, amused expression that makes Flo’s skin prickle.
It’s not unfriendly. Just direct. Like being held under light that’s too bright.
“Ah,” Jamal says finally, voice soft but edged with something almost teasing. “You must be Florian Wirtz.”
Flo’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He nods too quickly. “Uhm… Yeah. Hi.”
Jamal’s gaze flicks down his shirt, up to his face again, assessing and unhurried. Lingering a fraction too long. Then his mouth curves into a slow grin.
It’s infuriating. And devastating. And unfairly attractive.
Too much. Too soon. Too sharp.
“My competitor for the number ten,” he says, and winks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Flo feels his ears go hot.
There’s a second where he forgets how to breathe. A half-second more where he wonders if Jamal felt it too—whatever that was.
Tom clears his throat. “You’re here to…?”
Aleks smirks. “Like I said. Welcome committee. Make sure you don’t cry yourself to sleep the first night.”
Jamal doesn’t look away. He finally offers his hand. But it feels less like a greeting and more like a dare. Flo almost drops his phone trying to grab it.
Jamal’s palm is warm. His grip is confident, relaxed. His thumb brushes lightly against Flo’s knuckles before he lets go. Intentional or not, it leaves a mark.
His smile goes a shade more crooked. Voice lowering just enough to feel like a secret.
“Welcome to Bayern,” he says, eyes flicking to Flo’s mouth, just briefly. “Try to keep up.”
Flo opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He just nods.
“He’ll be fine,” Tom says, nudging Flo with his elbow. “Flo’s tougher than he looks.”
His heart is battering against his ribs like it wants out. And he tries to look anywhere but Jamal’s eyes.
Because if he looks again, he’s not sure he’ll be able to pretend it didn’t happen.
Holy shit. Is he imagining things already?
***
The lights are off. The room is quiet again.
Tom fell asleep mid-sentence, one arm flung over his eyes, the corner of his blanket half on the floor.
Flo’s lying on his back, eyes open. He hasn’t moved in almost an hour.
He can still hear the knock on the door. Still feel Jamal’s handshake like it left a fingerprint.
Every time he closes his eyes, that moment plays again—Jamal’s gaze, the way he looked at him, like he already knew something Flo didn’t.
Try to keep up.
Flo had nodded. Said nothing.
Now his heart won’t shut up about it.
The ceiling is just shadows and silence. The mattress unfamiliar. His limbs too heavy, too alert.
But his mind is wide awake.
And for the first time all day, with no one watching, no one waiting for him to prove anything—he lets the thoughts in.
Not about training. Not about the system. Not even about the pressure.
About Jamal.
Not just the face. Not just the curls or the lashes or the way his top fell just right over his collarbones.
But the presence.
The way he stood like he’d been here forever. Like the hallway was his. Like the air around him bent to make space.
He hadn’t smiled right away. He’d watched. Assessed. That calm, unreadable gaze that felt like it saw straight through you.
Not cold. Not unkind. But certain. Detached in a way that made Flo feel younger. Smaller.
He already trains with the first squad. He’s already sat on the bench in the Bundesliga. Already warmed up in front of thousands of people like it meant nothing.
Flo knows that. Everyone does.
But standing in that doorway, Jamal hadn’t looked like the wunderkind or the prodigy or the boy whose name floats through headlines like a promise.
He’d looked untouchable.
Composed. Controlled. Like the world answered to him in small, silent ways.
And when he smiled—slow, deliberate, just a flicker at the corner of his mouth—it hadn’t been warm. Not really.
It had been something else entirely.
Flo presses the heel of his hand to his chest. Feels the beat under his ribs. Too fast. Still.
What must it be like to grow up that beautiful?
Not just outside. Inside.
To walk into a room and never have to ask if you belong there. To be so sure of your place in the world that it doesn’t even feel like confidence anymore—just fact.
Flo swallows.
He doesn’t let himself think anything more.
Just breathes in the dark.
And tries to remember who he’s supposed to be in the morning.