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Jorden Barrett had never expected anyone to wander into the studio at midnight, let alone Chico Lachowski—his son, his distraction, the one who always seemed to catch him off-guard. The moonlight slipped between the tall windows, turning the scattered camera equipment into a maze of silver. Chico leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking carved from shadow and confidence. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low. Jordan tried to shrug it off, but his pulse betrayed him; he’d been replaying their argument from earlier, the way Chico had stood too close, the way Jordan wished he hadn’t stepped back.
Chico stepped closer now, slow and intentional, the air warming as he approached. “You always run,” he murmured, stopping just inches away. Jordan’s breath hitched. The tension between them was the kind that hummed—years of sharp words, jealous glances, and unspoken wanting. Chico lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair from Jordan’s face, fingertips lingering like a question. Jordan didn’t move away this time. He didn’t want to. He could feel Chico’s heartbeat in the space between them, steady and certain. “I’m not running,” Jordan whispered.
Their lips met softly at first, as though either one might disappear if the moment was too heavy. Then the kiss deepened—slow, searching, full of the things they’d never dared to say. Jordan curled his fingers into the fabric of Chico’s shirt, pulling him closer, grounding himself in the warmth and reality of him. When they finally broke apart, the world felt quieter, gentler. Chico rested his forehead against Jordan’s and exhaled. “Good,” he whispered, voice rough with honesty. “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
Chico stepped closer now, slow and intentional, the air warming as he approached. “You always run,” he murmured, stopping just inches away. Jordan’s breath hitched. The tension between them was the kind that hummed—years of sharp words, jealous glances, and unspoken wanting. Chico lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair from Jordan’s face, fingertips lingering like a question. Jordan didn’t move away this time. He didn’t want to. He could feel Chico’s heartbeat in the space between them, steady and certain. “I’m not running,” Jordan whispered.
Their lips met softly at first, as though either one might disappear if the moment was too heavy. Then the kiss deepened—slow, searching, full of the things they’d never dared to say. Jordan curled his fingers into the fabric of Chico’s shirt, pulling him closer, grounding himself in the warmth and reality of him. When they finally broke apart, the world felt quieter, gentler. Chico rested his forehead against Jordan’s and exhaled. “Good,” he whispered, voice rough with honesty. “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
