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The words came out without rehearsal. He hadn’t fully planned the delivery. He offered a bare sentence to a closed door.

"I snooped through your desk. I read your manuscript without permission. I built a theory about you that was… elaborate and wrong. I convinced myself you were dangerous because the alternative was that you were paying attention to me, and I didn't know what to do with that."

Through the door, silence, but he sensed Antonio listening attentively.

"Your prose is so good at making you realize what your body knows before you're willing to admit it," Hakeem said. "And then I spent a month doing exactly that. Knowing in my body that you weren't what I was afraid of. Admitting it with my brain only after I'd accused you of⁠—"

He stopped. Pressed his forehead harder against the wood.

"I'm sorry for accusing you and snooping. I'm sorry I let fear be easier than trust."

Hakeem pressed one palm flat against the wood. On the other side, he heard Antonio shift closer. The door was thin enough that Hakeem imagined he could feel warmth through it, though he knew that was impossible. It was exactly the kind of thought that got him into trouble in the first place.

"I was jealous of you… am jealous of you," Hakeem continued. "You built something real, and you’re so, so good, while I was bartending and fake-dying and telling myself that being close to art was the same as making it. Seeing your manuscript and how real and fucking legit it was hit somewhere I didn't want to look. It was easier to make it about danger than about envy."

"Hakeem—"

"Let me finish."

Silence.

"I submitted the self-tape," he said. "For After Amy. I set up my phone in my room and did the scene. It was good. It was really fucking good. And it’s because I was terrified and honest about our dynamic. I said the lines like I meant them. And the reason I could do that is because everyone was telling me to stop hiding… but you—you were the one person who made me understand what being seen actually felt like. Even when I misread being seen as threatening."

The door opened halfway.

Antonio stood in the gap with his hand on the edge, wearing a loose T-shirt with a worn neck and sleep pants. His glasses were pushed off, and his eyes were red-rimmed. It didn’t look like he’d been crying for hours, but it did look like he’d rubbed his eyes raw. His hair was pushed back from his face in a way that made him look younger and less defensive than Hakeem had ever seen him. It looked like he'd been sitting in a room alone for a long time grappling with some quiet emotion he would never admit to.

"You're going to stand in the hallway and deliver that through my door?" Antonio said.

"It seemed appropriate. You're a writer. You’ve got to appreciate a dramatic third-act structure."

"I'd appreciate you not doing this in the hallway."

"Is that an invitation to come in?"

Antonio opened the door the rest of the way.

Hakeem stepped into the room.

It looked the same. The desk, the chair, the neat stack of books, the lamp angled just so. The drawer was closed. The mug was in its place. Everything was where it belonged, and Hakeem understood now that this was not the room of someone hiding malicious intent. It was the room of someone who clearly needed order because the work he did required him to take everything else apart.

Antonio stood near the desk, arms at his sides, completely open. It was as if he’d decided to stop holding a posture and was letting his body be whatever shape it naturally was without him consciously managing it.

"Your tape was really that good?" Antonio asked.

"I think so."

"Good. I knew it would be."

They looked at each other. The room was small enough that the distance between them felt chosen—just four feet of old hardwood, the bed to the left of Antonio, the window to his right. The same room Hakeem had entered weeks ago, with shaking hands and betrayal on his mind. All of it the same and all of it wholly different.

"I keep Toni separate because Toni isn't a person," Antonio said quietly. "Toni is a name on a cover. Antonio is the person. The person who wanted to exist in this house with you, wanted to exist without being a name on the cover. I didn’t want you to read me before you met me. Without⁠—"

He paused.

"Without you knowing who I was when you said those things about the hallway scene. If you'd known it was mine, I would have thought you were performing. I would assume you were just being generous, careful, or polite. It would have felt like a hollow compliment you were handing to someone. I didn't want the compliment. I wanted—still want, real."

Hakeem felt that settle into him. It was the most Antonio had ever explained about himself—his need. The need to be known through the work before being known as the worker. The need to hear an honest reaction from someone who didn't know they were reacting to him.