Donny's room wasn't big, but it felt vast when filled with music and quiet company. He kept his door half-open, not for air circulation, but for the comfort of possibility. That someone might walk in, interrupt his solitude, and bring a different kind of silence.
That afternoon, Christopher was there, sketching curled against the beanbag while Donny thumbed through vinyl records. Benjamin would arrive later. The light through the window painted lazy golden stripes on the floorboards.
"You know," Christopher said, "your room feels like a waiting place. Like something good always wants to happen here."
Donny smiled faintly, unsure how to respond. He'd always tried to curate spaces where people could be soft. Not showy. Just safe.
He sat beside Christopher and picked up a record sleeve - Ella Fitzgerald. "This one's about love. Not the shiny kind. The worn, tender kind."
They listened. Not talking. Christopher leaned his head on Donny's shoulder and it was easy, familiar, good. Then Donny said, "Does it scare you? Wanting more?"
Christopher nodded. "All the time."
"Me too."
Their hands touched. Not grasping. Just existing side by side. Donny glanced down at Christopher's fingers, traced one soft freckle with his eyes, and felt something settle in his chest. Not urgency. Just clarity.
And outside the half-open door, the rest of the world waited. But inside, something quiet and brave bloomed between them.