Dion still thought it was kinda fucked how they met. Not in a bad way—just in a yeah, that tracks for us way. One minute he’d been sneaking onto the roof to get air away from the noise in his house, the next he’d found you there, standing too close to the edge, looking like the night had already decided something for you.

He hadn’t said anything smart. No speeches. No “it gets better” crap. He’d just sat down near you and said you didn’t have to do anything right then. Somehow, that turned into friendship. Into you being part of his life. Into you being in his room more than half the shit he actually owned.

Dion was gay—he knew that now. No denying it. No joking around it. But the town had done its damage anyway. He still felt that reflex sometimes, that tight twist in his chest when he caught himself being too soft, too close, too aware of certain thoughts. Internalized homophobia clung to him like static—quiet, annoying, hard to shake. He hated that part of himself. Hated that the town still lived rent-free in his head. You never made him feel wrong for it though. You just stayed.

Now the two of you were stretched out on his bed, lights off, a stupidly corny horror movie playing on the TV. The kind where the “scary” part was just loud music and bad acting. Smoke drifted lazily from the joint between them, the ceiling fan barely doing its job.

Then one of the characters said something so painfully dumb it caught Dion off guard.

He lost it.

Full-on laughter, breathless and unfiltered, until he rolled right off the bed. As he went down, he grabbed at you without thinking—dragging you with him so you both hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

“Ha! That’s payback for calling me lame!” Dion laughed, trying to push himself up—

—and that’s when you caught his hand.

Your fingers wrapped around his, steady and warm, stopping him mid-rise. Dion froze for half a second, blinking down at where your hands were connected. The laughter softened into something quieter, realer. He squeezed back without even thinking about it, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

For once, the house was quiet. For once, his head was quiet too.

Yeah. This—right here—was the good shit.

The movie’s still playing, but nobody’s watching it anymore.

From the next room over, Dion’s parents are at it again—voices sharp, words stepping on each other, the kind of argument that’s been rehearsed so many times it doesn’t even sound angry anymore. Just tired. Mean. Too loud. There’s a thud against the wall that makes Dion’s jaw tighten, shoulders going stiff like he’s bracing for impact even though he’s not the one in the room.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for the remote and turns the TV volume up a notch—not enough to drown it out, just enough to pretend.

Smoke curls lazily between them, the joint burning slow in his fingers. Dion exhales, then laughs under his breath at something dumb on-screen that isn’t even funny. It’s fake, and he knows it. A cover.

He glances over at you, checking your face like he always does when things get like this.

“They’ll tire themselves out,” he mutters, more to convince himself than anyone else.

Another shout cuts through the wall. Dion flinches this time—barely, but it’s there. He shifts closer without making a big deal out of it, knee brushing yours, like proximity alone might keep the noise from getting in. His hand hovers for a second, uncertain, that old reflex kicking in—don’t be weird, don’t be soft—

Then he ignores it.

He lets his fingers rest against yours, casual on the surface, thumb tapping once like a question. When you don’t pull away, his shoulders finally drop a fraction. The tension in his chest eases, just a little.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the TV. “They get... like this.”

The shouting fades into muffled noise, then silence. The house holds its breath.

Dion squeezes your hand once—small, grounding—and leans back against the bed, exhaling slow.

“Stay,” he adds, almost offhand. Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean everything.

And for a few minutes, at least, the room feels safe again.

Neither of them had said the word Valentine’s out loud.

It just... happened.

Dion had climbed out his bedroom window like usual, hoodie pulled tight against the cold, lighter and cigarettes shoved in his pocket. You followed, shoes scraping softly against the shingles as you both made your way up to the roof. The town stretched out below—quiet, dull, pretending tonight wasn’t anything special.

Someone, somewhere, had taped pink hearts to a streetlight. Dion scoffed when he saw it.

“Lame,” he muttered automatically.

But he didn’t move away.

They sat side by side, backs against the slanted roof, passing a joint between them. The air was cold enough to sting, but not enough to chase them back inside. Below them, a few houses glowed warm through their windows. Somewhere far off, a radio played something slow and old.

Dion leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky. He told himself it was just another night. Same roof. Same smoke. Same you.

Still—his knee stayed pressed against yours. Still—when the wind picked up, he shifted closer without thinking. Still—that weird tight feeling in his chest showed up, the one he never knew what to do with. Part of him wanted to shove it down, call it stupid, call it gay in the way this town had taught him to hate.

Instead, he stayed quiet.

You tipped your head back to look at the stars, and Dion followed your gaze. There weren’t many—too much light pollution—but the few that made it through felt earned. He smiled, small and real, the kind he didn’t use around anyone else.

“Kinda fucked,” he said softly, “that this is the nicest thing I’ve done all week.”

The joint burned down between your fingers. Dion reached over to take it, his hand brushing yours—just for a second—but neither of you pulled away right away. When he finally leaned back again, his shoulder rested against yours like it’d always belonged there.

No flowers. No plans. No cards with dumb poems.

Just the roof. The cold. The quiet. And Dion, sitting there thinking—without saying it—that if this counted as a date... he didn’t hate that idea at all.