The sound of the gunshot lingered like smoke in Steve's ears. It was the kind of silence that didn't feel empty—but full. Full of everything unsaid. Full of every wrong turn they'd all taken to get here.
Joe lay crumpled on the concrete floor, blood pooling beneath his head. His eyes—once so alive, so hungry—were glassy now. Still. Empty.
Christian was the first to move, wrenching free from the ropes that held him. He rushed to Steve, catching him before he could fall completely.
"Hey, hey—stay with me," Christian said, pressing his hands against the bleeding wound in Steve's chest.
Steve winced, the pain sharp but not fatal. Not yet.
"You shouldn't have come," he rasped.
Christian's jaw tightened. "Don't do that. Don't act like you didn't know I would."
Their eyes met, and in that moment, Steve wasn't a monster, and Christian wasn't a broken boy who'd learned how to survive fire.
They were just two men trying to outrun the ashes.
⸻
The cops came later.
Christian called them anonymously, made it look like an accident—the way Joe would've wanted it, maybe. Steve refused the hospital at first, until Christian begged. He bled on the floor of Christian's car, staring out the window like he could still see Joe in the rearview mirror.
"I loved him once," Steve murmured. "Not the way he wanted. But I did."
Christian didn't answer. He just drove faster.
⸻
Weeks passed.
The city swallowed Joe's death like it swallowed everything else—without ceremony.
There was no funeral. No one to claim the body. Steve paid for the cremation in cash, then scattered the ashes over the harbor where they used to run deals as kids.
"He was just a boy," Steve said softly. "All he ever wanted was to be chosen."
Christian stood beside him, silent, until he finally asked, "Did you ever think about choosing him?"
Steve didn't lie.
"Yes."
Christian's throat tightened. "But you didn't."
Steve looked out over the water, eyes burning. "No. Because by the time I could've… it was already too late."
⸻
Back at home, things weren't the same.
There were nights when Christian caught Steve staring at nothing, lost in memories that wouldn't fade. Joe haunted the spaces between them—what he said, what he didn't say. His laughter. His pain. His silence.
One night, Christian woke to find Steve outside in the rain, shirt soaked, cigarette between trembling fingers.
"You can't save ghosts," Christian said gently, stepping toward him.
Steve didn't look at him. "I think he loved me more than I ever deserved."
Christian reached for his hand. "Then let's be better. For him. For us."
They stood there, soaked in grief and stormlight, trying to build something new from the ruins Joe left behind.
⸻
But some nights…
Some nights Steve still dreams of Joe.
Bloody knuckles. That sharp smile. The way he whispered: You could've had me.
And Steve wonders—
What if he had?