Trace Voltage

The offer hung between them as the cool laminate bit into Milo’s lower back. Jude’s gaze held, a fixed pressure point between his ribs. The whole room bent to the low thrum beneath Jude’s words, thick as the scent of stale beer and sun-warmed wood drifting from the hallway.

"TV," Milo heard himself say. The word scraped out small, forced past the tightness in his throat.

Jude pushed off the counter, a fluid motion that unsettled the air. "Living room." His voice was flat, already moving. He didn’t look back.

Milo followed the space Jude carved through the dim kitchen, past the scarred table where the locket lay, catching light in a dull, accusing way.

The living room held more heat. Thicker air, edged with the faint electric buzz of the TV left running on mute. Colors flickered across the walls in broken patterns. The outlines of furniture blurred and sharpened with each pulse from the screen.

Above, the ceiling fan turned—slow and uneven—a monotonous counterpoint to the electronic buzz. Jude sank onto the old velvet sofa, the cushions undoing themselves to welcome his weight. He left space beside him. Neither an invitation nor a demand. Just space.

Milo hovered near the doorway, cool air clinging to his skin, warring with the attic heat still simmering beneath. He crossed to the sofa, the worn Persian rug muffling his steps.

He sat, not quite touching Jude but close enough to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough to smell cedar and dust, the salt trace of sweat still fresh on his skin.

The sofa springs groaned softly beneath them. Yellow light washed over Jude’s profile, etching the strong line of his jaw, the hollow of his temple. He stayed facing forward, eyes on the screen but not tracking anything. His breathing was even, but heavier now. Pulled deeper, from somewhere low.

Milo stayed still. Listening to the fan blades cut the air. Listening to the low fizz from the TV. Listening to his own pulse knock against the inside of his throat.

The bathroom door didn’t close all the way. The old frame stuck when it swelled, the wood warping just enough to leave a strip of air between latch and jamb.

Milo sat on the edge of the tub, knees drawn up, bare feet pressed flat to the cold tile. The chill climbed his calves, slow and mean. Sweat dried sticky along his ribs.

The t-shirt—Jude’s—clung damp to the middle of his back. Dust, cedar, salt. Something else he didn’t have a word for.

The bathroom fan hummed overhead, a low mechanical whine that didn’t cover much. Milo pressed his thumb to the inside of his wrist, tracking the jump of his pulse like it was some separate, troublesome thing.

Down the hall, floorboards shifted under weight. Light footsteps—bare, dragging. Then the quiet stop just outside the door.

For a second, Milo thought Jude might turn back. But the pause stretched, and then the door pushed inward with a slow, reluctant scrape.

Jude stood there, framed in the half-light that leaked from the hallway, one hand loose at his side and the other braced on the frame.

His skin was dull with sweat, the sharp line of his collarbone catching what little reflection the mirror gave back. Black hair was flattened at the temples where Milo’s hands had been.

No towel. Nothing in the way of covering what had already been shared.

His eyes, low and dark, stayed fixed somewhere near Milo’s knees. Neither of them spoke. Jude’s hands hovered loose at his sides, twitchy at the fingertips. Then they stilled.

Milo stayed where he was, spine pressed hard against the tile, breathing small to avoid the scrape of air against his throat. His stomach twisted. A slow, sour knot beneath his ribs.

He couldn’t think past the prickling skin—throat, gut, lower still. The press of Jude’s mouth lingered at the curve where thigh and groin met. Tender enough that shifting now sent small, bright shocks along the nerve endings there.

Jude moved, one foot dragging half a step inside the bathroom. Like he’d meant to lean against the sink and changed his mind halfway through. His breath pulled shallow, chest rising too fast before settling unevenly again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “You alright?”

Milo blinked at the floor. The tile’s cold seeped deeper. “Fine.”

Jude’s weight shifted again. The muscle along his thigh pulled tight, then eased.

“Okay.” But he didn’t leave.

The air pressed close.

Milo tipped his head back against the tiled wall, eyes closing for a beat longer than necessary. The bathroom smelled like soap and mildew and still, faintly, like both of them.

Jude's exhale was a coarse thing. His fingers found the back of his neck, dragging slowly over skin left red in places. They traced the small, faint line of an old scar that went up his neck. Milo’s stomach turned again at the sight of it—stupid, rash tenderness catching him off guard.

“You don’t have to—” Jude started, then stopped. His teeth clicked once, a small bite at the inside of his cheek.

Milo blinked as Jude’s gaze flicked up, fast. It caught him there for half a second before dropping away.

“You don’t have to stay in here,” Jude said finally. Low.

Milo smiled. The catch of it burned. He swallowed, wincing at the rawness deep in his throat, still thick with the strain of held-back sounds.

“I know.”

Jude shifted again, bracing against the doorframe. The line of his forearm shook once. Small and fast.

“Jude.”

Jude’s head tilted up, and Milo’s chest contracted. He flattened his hands against his thighs, steadying.

“I don't know if—” The sentence dried up midway.

Jude nodded. Tight. “I know.”

Neither of them moved for a long beat. Finally, Jude’s eyes slid closed, just for a second. When they opened, composure sat too thin on him. Like wet paper.

“I’ll get dressed,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Give you space.”

Milo didn’t answer.

Slowly, Jude turned, dragging fingers over the hinge of the door on his way out.

The air cooled behind him, leaving Milo with the fan’s thrum. Cold tile sharp beneath his soles. Jude’s breath still beating in his ear. Wrists burning where they’d been pinned. Mouth still tasting faintly of salt and sweat and skin.

It was a long time before he moved.