The Line Between Us

The next few days were a blur of everything unspoken.

Ezra and Micah went through the motions of normal life—family dinners, errands with their mom, polite conversation—but underneath it all was a quiet, aching current. They had crossed a line, even if only in thought. And now, everything felt *charged*.

Micah barely looked at Ezra during dinner. Ezra barely slept.

The air between them had become loaded with things they didn’t say—things they now *couldn’t* un-know. Ezra kept hearing Micah’s voice over and over: *“This doesn’t make me love you less.”*

Love. Not like. Not care. *Love.*

On the fourth day after the attic, they found themselves alone again.

It was late. The house was dark, except for the soft blue glow of Ezra’s lamp. He was lying on his bed in an old hoodie, trying to read but failing miserably. The words on the page blurred. His thoughts kept drifting to the curve of Micah’s jaw, the way he’d said those words, the pause before *“me too.”*

A knock at the door startled him.

Micah.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

Ezra nodded.Micah stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He looked tired. Nervous. Restless in the same way Ezra felt—like he was carrying something too heavy for one person.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” Micah said, coming to sit on the floor, leaning back against Ezra’s bed. “About what this means.”

Ezra pushed the book aside. “Me neither.”

Micah didn’t look up. “It’s not just about the adoption. It’s about us. How long we’ve been holding something in.”

Ezra swallowed hard. “And now it’s out.”

Micah glanced up. “Do you regret saying it?”

“No,” Ezra said. “Do you?”

Micah shook his head slowly. “No. I regret not saying it sooner.”

A long silence.

Then Micah continued, voice quiet. “I think I always knew you weren’t really my brother. I just didn’t have proof. But it never mattered. Because it didn’t change what I felt.”

Ezra’s heart thudded against his chest.

“What *do* you feel?” he asked.

Micah turned then, eyes locked with his.

“More than I should.”

Ezra slid off the bed and sat beside him. Their shoulders brushed. Neither moved.

“Micah,” he said, voice barely a whisper, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Micah replied. “Me too.”

“But I want this,” Ezra admitted. “Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy.”Micah reached over and took his hand. “It’s not wrong. Not now. Not anymore.”

Their fingers laced together, slow and sure, like they’d done it a thousand times in another life. The room felt small, quiet, and infinite all at once.

They didn’t kiss. Again.

But in that silence, something deeper happened.

They stopped pretending.

Stopped running.

And started *believing*—that maybe, just maybe, what they had wasn’t shameful, or broken, or impossible.

It was simply love. Complicated. Unexpected. Real.

For the first time, Ezra let himself lean into it.

And Micah didn’t let go.

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