The nightmare always started the same way—with silence.
Not the good kind of quiet that meant Evan was sleeping peacefully down the hall, or the satisfied hush after a clean goal. This was the hollow, echoing silence of an empty arena, where my skates scraped against ice that stretched on forever, and the puck died on my stick and didn't move.
In the dream, I stared up at empty stands. The crowd had vanished mid-game, collectively deciding I wasn't worth watching anymore. Coach turned his back. My teammates skated away. And somewhere in the distance, I heard Evan's voice calling my name, but I feared he was saying goodbye.
Then came the footage—grainy clips fromLove on Iceplaying on the jumbotron above my head. Me in sequins, crying real tears that the editors had turned into performance art. Canned audience sounds filled the arena.
I woke with my heart pounding.
The apartment was dark except for the streetlight sending a pale, amber beam bleeding through the blinds. My chest wassweaty, and I gasped for breath, as I did after wind sprints in practice.
I lay back down, but the dream clung to me like wet gear—heavy, suffocating, and impossible to shake off. I'd learned from experience that staying in bed only made it worse.
I could text Hog. He was probably awake anyway, knitting something ridiculous and listening to true crime podcasts. Or Juno—she kept weird hours and wouldn't judge me for having a midnight anxiety spiral.
Those were possibilities, but the only person I really wanted to see was sleeping twenty feet away, behind a door I'd never knocked on in the middle of the night.
My bare feet hit the cold hardwood, and I padded toward the hallway before I could talk myself out of it. Evan had left his door cracked open just enough for me to peer inside. He always slept with the door slightly ajar—a habit he told me he started while living in foster homes.
I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly aware of the ridiculous situation. I was twenty-six years old, standing in my boxers outside my roommate's bedroom because I'd had a bad dream.
When I was eight, I'd stood outside my older brother's room after a nightmare about monsters under my bed. I'd raised my hand to knock, then heard him tell his friend on the phone that little kids who couldn't handle their own dreams needed to "man up or shut up." I'd gone back to my room and never asked for help with nightmares again.
I almost turned around.
Then, Evan stirred, sensing my presence the way he seemed to sense everything else about me.
"Jake?" His voice was soft, sleep-rough around the edges.
He pushed up on one elbow, and even in the dim light, I saw him studying my face. Reading me like one of his perfectly organized spreadsheets.
"Don't worry, I'm not here to reorganize your sock drawer. Though I noticed you're color-coordinating them now, which is either progress or a cry for help."
Evan didn't smile. He never fell for my bullshit when I was trying too hard to sell it.
"Are you okay?"
"No. I mean, yeah. I'm fine. It's just—" I stopped and ran a hand through my hair. The Jake Riley version of the truth, the one with a punchline, eluded me.
The words rolled out of my mouth when I finally got started. "Bad dreams. Not one thing. Everything. The games where I fucked up, the headlines, and how people look at me like I'm a walking punchline."
I leaned harder against the doorframe, suddenly exhausted by the effort of my confessions.
"I keep dreaming that I look up and everyone's gone. The stands are empty, my teammates have skated away, and I'm just... there. Alone on the ice with a puck I can't control and nowhere to go."
Evan was quiet, and I wondered whether he thought he'd miscalculated. Maybe there were limits to how much mess even he could handle.
Then, he lifted the corner of his blanket.
Not dramatically. It didn't come with fanfare or a big speech. He pulled the blanket back, creating a space for me in his carefully ordered world.
"Get in."
Relief and panic fought for control of my nervous system, with panic winning by a narrow margin. I'd been in Evan's bed once before, when I collapsed there after I delivered a blow job that deserved its own highlight reel.
This, being asked when it wasn't part of sex, was a different level. I assumed it was a line I wouldn't get to cross until much later, if we survived that long.
I wanted to cross it. I had wanted to since the night we'd kissed in the kitchen, and I discovered that Evan Carter tasted like Earl Grey and my potential future.
