“Dylan!” Bryce shouted, slamming his reddened hands on the door. New life flooded through him, his hands opened and banging the door’s frame. He kicked and screamed until his breath was gone, his chest heaving with light, euphoria, and exhaustion. Bryce didn’t care if people on the street were watching him; he had to talk to Dylan.

Dylan sat down on the landing between the ground and first floors, his fingers wrapped tightly around his knees. “Please just go,” he whispered.

Angry tears threatened to gather in Bryce’s eyes, which pushed him to smash the door more. One of Dylan’s neighbours leaned out the first-floor window and told him to stop the racket or they’d ring for the police. A stifled, defeated sob caught in Bryce’s throat and, looking down through his yellow Glow, he exhaled, leaning forward and resting his forehead on the cool door. “Dylan, I don’t know if you can hear me. Just – ” He inhaled through his nose. “I need ten minutes.”

Every fibre of Dylan’s being told him to stop and hear Bryce out. ‘What happened to just ignoring this?’ he asked himself.

Bryce pounded on the door, his knuckles red and swelling. “Ten minutes. That’s all I need.”

Dylan’s shoes shifted. He rose to his feet and, shaking profusely, found his hand around the doorknob. “Bryce?”

The man in question looked up at the peephole. “What? You there?”

“Only ten minutes?”

Bryce pressed his head against the door again, the cool metal soothing his headache. He nodded and smiled, a tinge of accomplishment spreading through him. “Yes,” he answered, breathless. “Ten minutes.”

The lock clicked, and Bryce found himself staring into Dylan’s brown eyes, the light gone from his gaze. He opened the door and stepped aside, his stare low and distant. “Do you, want some,” Dylan glanced at the red marks on Bryce’s hands, “ice for your hands?” he whispered.

Bryce eyed Dylan, noting the mixture of shame and anger on his face. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he admitted, pulling his bag back to his shoulder. Dylan shook his head, pushed away his overnight bag, and let Bryce into the building, shutting the door behind him. “What, uh…what floor are you on?”

“…fourth,” Dylan replied, turning and taking his bag towards the staircase.

Bryce’s impulse was to groan and ask if it had a good view. Instead, he whispered back, “Okay.” He followed Dylan up to the door of Flat 4B. Once there, Bryce pressed himself into the corner between Flat 4A’s door and the wall, separating himself from Dylan.

Dylan noticed the growing distance between him and Bryce. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, it’s weird. Stop it.” Bryce stepped out onto the landing, watching as Dylan opened the door.

Dylan slid in first to drop his keys on the counter. Bryce followed behind slower, staring through the large floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room that revealed the City’s skyline, which would’ve been impressive if it had been facing the opposite direction. What Bryce saw was the seemingly neglected portion of the City – buildings that were built after the Great War, intended to be innovative but were now architectural eyesores; he winced at their presence.

“Nice view, isn’t it?” Dylan asked, scooping up his bag into his arms. Bryce wasn’t sure if this was sarcasm or not.

It was.

Dylan took this moment to withdraw from the living room and bring his things into the area designated as the bedroom.

Bryce studied the space. Pulling his gaze away from the windows, he took in the kitchen, a small space tucked away in the corner which was small and operated mostly with appliances that looked like they were rejected designs from two decades ago; the colour scheme was black-on-black. An island counter sat wedged between two columns embellished in a Greek design and black paint.

The dining room, which took the space against the windows by the kitchen, was occupied by several moving boxes yet to be unpacked, three wooden chairs, and a table with magazines under two legs.

The living room, to the immediate left of the flat’s door, consisted of a yellow hand-me-down couch, a dark brown coffee table, two fading paint cans being used as side tables and stacked high with mail, with an aged television sitting on the floor against the wall; a standing coat rack filled the space between the coffee table and the door.

A small bathroom lied just beyond, a frosted glass door concealing a room decorated in blue and white tiles.

Just beyond the only room in the flat was Dylan’s bedroom, which Bryce didn’t think to see. ‘Probably because Dylan would be pissed,’ he reminded himself.

“What do you want?” Dylan asked from behind the curtain.

Bryce fiddled with his fingers. “I-I just wanted to chat.” But about what, exactly, was what Bryce was still trying to piece together.

Dylan pulled the curtain away and re-entered the living space. He had removed his shoes and socks, intending to replace them with a different set, and tossed his jacket on the couch. “You’ve got seven minutes.”

“I asked for ten, though,” Bryce reminded.

“It took three to get from downstairs to this moment.” Dylan pulled the curtain back and disappeared into his bedroom again. “You can begin.”

“Thanks, your Majesty,” Bryce replied, taking off his bag and sitting on the couch. “What are you doing?”

“Changing. I want fresh clothes. Is this really what you wanted to talk about?”

Bryce looked down at his Glow, which beat in-sync with his heartbeat. The euphoria was comforting for him, though; it was light and made him feel warm all over. Looking towards the bedroom, he saw Dylan’s Glow similarly alternating brightness on the polished black floorboards. His heart dropped at the thought that Dylan was trying to ignore it.

Dylan couldn’t see Bryce’s Glow through the curtains of his bedroom but knew it was there. Hands plunged into his shirt drawer, he sighed, finally naming the feeling he couldn’t, nor wanted to recognise the previous night. ‘What do I do?’ he thought. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ But Dylan cleared his throat and asked, throwing on his shirt with shaking hands, “Are we going to talk? Because you have five minutes left.”

Exhaling, Bryce glanced down to the floor, view obstructed slightly by his Glow. ‘I guess not,’ he mused. He closed his eyes and sank into the couch, and into the comfortable feeling of his Soulmate Glow.

Dylan drew back the curtain and entered the living area, watching Bryce bathed in the golden light of his Glow. Eye twitching, Dylan kicked Bryce in the shins, forcing Bryce to open his eyes. Dylan said, “Oi. You’re not falling in love with me because of some positive psychological association bullshit.”