Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keith moved through the chaos with an air of confidence, his sharp eyes tracking every detail as assistants bustled around Veronicah, ensuring everything was perfect. The faint hum of hairdryers, the clink of brushes, and the shuffle of fabric filled the room, but Keith’s voice cut through with calm authority.

“Coffee, as requested,” he said, placing the steaming cup into Veronica's hand as she sat poised in the makeup chair, her deep blue eyes glancing at him with a mix of gratitude and nerves.
“Thanks,” she murmured, blowing on the cup before taking a cautious sip.
Keith leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and gave her a reassuring smile. “You look fantastic. Don’t panic—you’ve done this a hundred times, and you’ve crushed it every single time.”

Veronica’s lips quirked into a small smile, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t completely ease. Despite being a seasoned pro—an actress since she was five years old—there was something about big nights like this that still managed to unnerve her.
As her stylists swarmed her, fussing over final touches to her gown and makeup, she glanced up at Keith. “Hold my hand, please,” she half-joked, though the nervous edge in her voice gave her away.
Keith chuckled softly, stepping closer and gripping her hand firmly. “Sure, but I charge extra for moral support.”

Her blue eyes met his, and for a moment, the flurry of activity around them seemed to fade. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Veronicah admitted, her voice quieter now.
“You’d still be amazing,” Keith replied with a smirk. “But I’ll take credit anyway.”
When the final touch—a pair of glittering earrings—was clipped into place, Keith handed her a small shot glass. “One for courage,” he said with a wink.
She laughed, the sound lighter this time, and threw back the drink before they headed to the waiting car. Keith walked beside her as they made their way out, helpers in tow, his steady presence grounding her amidst the whirlwind.

Veronicah was striking. Her deep olive skin seemed to glow under the soft backstage lights, a stunning contrast to her piercing blue eyes. Her thick, chestnut-brown hair was styled into cascading waves, and she carried herself with the effortless grace of someone who belonged on every screen she graced. She was the epitome of poise and elegance, yet she remained warm and approachable—qualities Keith deeply admired.
As an alpha, Veronicah exuded a subtle dominance, but it was never overbearing. Instead, it was balanced by her kindness and humor, which made her Keith’s favorite client .
Keith took genuine joy in being her manager. Seeing her thrive on nights like this, where her hard work and talent shone brightly, filled him with pride. “Let’s go steal the spotlight,” he said, his voice low and encouraging as they slid into the car.

She laughed again, looking over at him. “Always.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith had been working with Veronicah for years now, and he absolutely loved it. Their partnership had started when Veronicah decided to leave her mother’s management. She was at a crossroads in her career, wanting to pivot toward more adult roles without losing her authenticity or developing a raunchy image. When Keith was tasked with the role of managing her transition, he rose to the occasion in ways Veronicah had never imagined.
Veronica's career had humble beginnings. She started with small roles as a child, including a memorable part in a Christmas classic that became a holiday staple. Her talent and charm quickly earned her a spot-on Broadway, where she honed her skills. But her big break came when she and her twin brother, Lance, landed roles in the Disney cult classic Gravity Falls. Playing the live-action versions of Mabel and Dipper Pines at just 12 years old, the show became one of the most beloved series in Disney’s history, propelling the twins into unprecedented stardom.

When the show ended, Lance signed with Atlantic Records and launched a music career that redefined the pop landscape. His debut album broke records, and his subsequent world tours solidified his status as a global icon. Meanwhile, Veronicah dabbled in music and took on minor acting roles, but it wasn’t until she teamed up with Keith that her career truly skyrocketed. Under his management, Veronicah transitioned seamlessly into challenging adult roles, earning critical acclaim and cementing her place as an A-list actress.

Keith knew, however, knew that her success wasn’t solely due to his management. Veronica's family was one of the most influential dynasties in Hollywood. Her father, the family patriarch, was a legendary singer with multiple Grammys and a voice that had defined a generation. Her mother, a masterful "momager," leveraged Lance’s and Veronica's Disney success to open doors for their siblings. Their sister Lia became the world’s highest-paid model, gracing the covers of every major fashion magazine and walking for top designers. Their older brother, a charismatic actor, starred in blockbuster films, including a role in Marvel, which turned him into a household name.
The McClain’s family’s reach was immense. They dominated show business with their talent, work ethic. Brand deals, endorsements, and box office hits followed them like a shadow, and their influence extended far beyond Hollywood. Yet, despite their incredible success, they remained a close-knit family, supporting one another through every triumph and challenge.

Veronicah, or Ronnie as Keith liked to call her, was no exception. She was the epitome of grace under pressure, balancing her larger-than-life career with a genuine warmth that made her a joy to work with. Keith admired her drive, her resilience, and her unwavering dedication to her craft. Managing her wasn’t just a job for Keith—it was a privilege.
Keith found immense joy in working with Veronicah, not just because she was an incredible client, but because over the years, their relationship had blossomed into a genuine friendship. To Keith, Ronnie wasn’t just a name on his client list—she was someone he truly cared for, someone who made the job more than just work. Their camaraderie brought a warmth to his demanding role, and he found himself looking forward to their shared moments, whether it was debating over scripts or cracking jokes during late-night strategy meetings.

The perks of the job weren’t lost on Keith either. The salary was nothing short of stellar since he took home 20% of Ronnie’s gross income , and Ronnie’s level of fame meant that he got to travel the world. From the romantic streets of Paris to the bustling metropolis of Tokyo, Keith accompanied her to movie sets, endorsement shoots, and glitzy industry events. He soaked in the stunning scenery, immersed himself in different cultures, and used these opportunities to network with some of the most influential people in the entertainment world. For Keith, it was the perfect blend of adventure and ambition.

“You’re the best manager in the business, Keef,” Ronnie would often tease, flashing her trademark grin as they reviewed potential roles together. And honestly? Keith didn’t disagree.
Keith had always harbored creative ambitions himself. Once upon a time, he dreamed of being a songwriter. But the allure of financial stability had steered him toward management. The steady, hefty paychecks allowed him to indulge in his love for luxury. With Ronnie’s career thriving under his guidance, Keith had found the balance he craved: being immersed in the industry while keeping his private life, well, private.

One of Keith’s favorite aspects of working with Ronnie was their shared passion for storytelling. They would spend hours poring over scripts, dissecting plotlines, and debating the potential success of various projects. Keith had an uncanny knack for predicting what would be a hit and which brand would elevate Ronnie’s career further. “This one,” he’d say, sliding a script across the table, “is going to be huge. Trust me.” More often than not, he was right.

Ronnie’s mother had been so impressed with Keith’s unrelenting drive and strategic brilliance that she eventually entrusted him with managing Lia’s career as well. Lia, the youngest McClain sibling, had initially been a bit of a handful. Spoiled by a life of privilege, she occasionally tested Keith’s patience. But beneath her diva moments lay a solid work ethic, and Keith quickly learned how to channel her energy into her modeling career.
Keith had studied Lia’s trajectory meticulously before taking over her management, ensuring he knew every facet of her brand. He negotiated fiercely, leveraged the family’s extensive connections, and honed his ability to spin narratives that kept both Lia and Ronnie firmly in the public eye. Under his management, Lia became one of the most sought-after faces in the fashion industry.

Despite the challenges, working with both women had been an enriching experience for Keith. He had learned the art of negotiation, built a rolodex of invaluable connections, and mastered the delicate balance of being both assertive and approachable. More than anything, he took pride in seeing his clients succeed while knowing he had played a pivotal role in their journeys.
Although Keith worked closely with the McClain family, he had never really socialized with the brothers; he doubted they even knew he existed. Maria, handled their management with expert precision. But as age caught up with her, she’d recently fallen ill. Lance had just started the American leg of his tour, and Maria felt she couldn’t trust anyone but Keith to take the reins in her absence.

It was a fortunate coincidence. Veronica was filming a movie in the UK and didn’t require Keith’s immediate attention, while Lia had just wrapped up her rounds at fashion week. Keith wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to sink his claws in another McClain sibling, even if it was temporary.
Packing was a whirlwind. As Keith tossed essentials into his suitcase, he strategized with Maria’s P.A., Romelle, over the phone. Romelle was a blonde bombshell of a beta with piercing green eyes and a sharp mind. Keith had worked with her countless times before and trusted her judgment as much as Maria’s.

By the time his plane touched down in L.A., Keith had memorized Lance’s schedule. He knew Lance—from what he’d read—was a little spoiled, a notorious flirt, and carried an ego the size of a stadium. But like all the McClains, his work ethic was unmatched. Keith hadn’t met him yet but crossed his fingers, hoping Lance wouldn’t be too difficult. After all, Keith had dealt with demanding alphas before.
At the venue, Keith swiftly met Lance’s team, prepping the dressing room with precision. He double-checked with the venue manager to ensure everything was on point. There was no way he was going to disappoint Maria.
When Lance finally arrived, he was visibly upset, muttering complaints about his mother’s absence. Keith’s ears caught snippets of frustration about routines, schedules, and things going awry. Keith straightened his posture, smoothing his jacket as Lance made his way in.When Lance strode in, the room seemed to shift. His sharp blue eyes swept over the space before landing on Keith. For a moment, annoyance flickered into something else-

“Hello, Mr. McClain. I’m Keith, and I’ll be handling your management until your mom recovers,” Keith greeted warmly, rising smoothly from the chair he had been using to review notes. His movements were fluid, almost graceful, as he stepped aside to make space. Lance’s sharp blue eyes locked onto him, his irritation momentarily giving way to curiosity.
Keith’s voice was calm and steady as he gestured toward the plush chair by the vanity. “Please, have a seat.” Lance hesitated but complied, more out of curiosity than submission. Keith handed him the meal—steak with mashed potatoes, still warm and expertly plated—followed by a steaming mug of lemon, honey, and ginger tea. The calming music Keith had chosen played softly in the background, a soothing balm to the chaotic energy Lance had walked in with. On a nearby rack, Lance’s stage outfit hung, pressed and pristine.

“Your pre-show meal, tea for your throat, and your outfit’s ready for … visualization,” Keith listed smoothly, his tone professional yet warm. “The venue is secure, and I’ve gone over all the final checks with the sound team. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
Lance blinked at him, his annoyance dissolving into something softer as he took in the sight before him. Keith was stunning. His sharp cheekbones, amethyst eyes, and the way his dark hair framed his face were captivating, but it was more than that. Keith’s scent lingered faintly in the air—a delicate blend of warm cedar and lavender—subtle yet undeniably alluring, a telltale signature of his omega nature. His figure was lean but impeccably toned, his tailored blazer hinting at delicate shoulders and a lithe grace that seemed almost effortless. Lance found it hard to focus, his thoughts scattering as Keith’s professional demeanor only amplified the magnetic pull he exuded.
“You’re…” Lance started, his sharp blue eyes flicking over Keith once more, as though seeing him for the first time. He caught himself, shaking his head as if to dispel the thought.

He took a sip of the tea, savoring the perfectly balanced flavors. “You’re good at this,” he finished, the words laced with a hint of admiration despite the casual delivery. A small smile tugged at his lips, but his tone maintained the cool confidence he was known for.
Keith tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but polite. “It’s my job, Mr. McClain. I’m here to make sure everything runs smoothly for you.”
“Call me Lance,” he said, leaning back in the chair as a playful smirk replaced the smile. “No need for formalities.”
Keith’s lips twitched, but he didn’t break his professional demeanor. “Noted,” he replied simply, stepping back to give Lance some space.
Lance’s eyes followed him, admiration growing with each passing second. He couldn’t help but think that his mother sending Keith his way had been the best decision of the tour so far.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith didn’t want to admit it, but he had seen Lance countless times before. Lance was everywhere—on billboards, in commercials, and across every social media platform. But after years of working with celebrities, Keith had learned that the glossy perfection of campaigns was often smoke and mirrors. In real life, most of them didn’t even look that good.
Lance, though? Lance was the exception. In person, he was even more striking than in his photos. His sharp jawline, sun-kissed skin, and piercing blue eyes were impossible to ignore. And then there was his scent—an intoxicating mix of pine trees and ocean breeze, clean and refreshing, with just enough warmth to make it utterly unforgettable. It was the kind of Alpha scent that could make heads turn in a room.

Keith, however, wasn’t easily impressed. He’d met plenty of good-looking Alphas in the industry, and if he’d learned anything, it was that the better they looked, the worse their personalities tended to be. Lance might be different in his artistry, but Keith wasn’t about to assume that extended to who he was as a person. Respecting someone’s work was one thing; trusting them was another entirely. Lance wasn’t just a pretty face, and Keith could admit—privately—that his music was impactful. Lance was deeply involved in the creative process, writing lyrics that resonated and crafting melodies that lingered long after the song ended. But Keith reminded himself that he didn’t know who Lance was when the cameras were off, and he wasn’t about to get swept up by a polished image, no matter how compelling it seemed.

Keith was even a fan—a secret he guarded fiercely. Lance’s music wasn’t just good; it was exceptional. And unlike most male Alpha performers, Lance didn’t just stand around on stage looking cool. He danced. Keith had seen the clips: Lance’s performances were high-energy, demanding breath control, stamina, and precision. Every move was purposeful, every moment part of a larger story. His concerts were a spectacle—the kind you couldn’t look away from—and everyone agreed they were worth every penny of the sky-high ticket prices.
Tonight, Keith had the best seat in the house. As Lance’s temporary manager, he’d been given a VIP spot, and he wasn’t about to waste it. When the lights dimmed and the first notes of the opening song echoed through the venue, Keith felt a ripple of anticipation run through him. Then, Lance appeared on stage, and the crowd erupted.

Keith watched, excitement bubbling in his chest as Lance commanded the stage. His movements were smooth and powerful, each step perfectly timed to the beat. His voice soared effortlessly above the music, rich and steady even as he executed intricate choreography. Keith couldn’t help but be awed. This wasn’t just a performance; it was an experience. The production value was top-notch—stunning visuals, dynamic lighting, and seamless transitions between songs. But it was Lance who held it all together, the undeniable star at the center of it all.

As the set progressed, Keith found himself leaning forward, completely absorbed. Lance’s storytelling through music and movement was captivating. By the time the final song began, Keith realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a soft exhale, shaking his head slightly.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “He’s really something else.”

Chapter Text

Keith quickly came to terms with the fact that stealing Lance McClain from Maria’s managerial clutches was not in the cards for him. Lance was booked and busy—sound checks, dance practices, rearranging setlists with his band, coordinating visuals, and somehow still finding time to be the human embodiment of chaos. Yet even in the whirlwind of his packed schedule, Lance managed to be relentless in his pursuit of Keith, much to Keith’s exasperation.
It started innocently enough—an extra-long handshake here, a wink there. But Lance didn’t just flirt; he made it his part-time job. Sneaking up behind Keith to place an arm around his waist was a favorite tactic. “Hey, boss man,” he’d say with a smirk, his voice low and dripping with charm. “You know, you look really good when you’re stressed. Ever considered letting me help you relax?”

Keith’s response? A sharp glare and a firm, “Not happening, McClain. Why don’t you focus on your setlist instead.”
“What happened to Lance?” Lance replied with mock hurt. Keith simply glared back.
But Lance wasn’t deterred. Soon, there were pastries—an array of decadent treats Keith couldn’t resist. Chocolate éclairs, cream-filled doughnuts, and flaky croissants began to appear on Keith’s desk, accompanied by handwritten notes and bouquets of flowers. Keith had a sneaking suspicion Romelle had let it slip that he had a soft spot for sweets.

Keith stormed into Romelle’s office holding yet another box of cupcakes and a bouquet of blue roses. “I can’t believe you told him I’m a sweet tooth! This is the hundredth dozen cupcakes I’ve gotten this week. At this rate, I’m going to gain weight.”
Romelle barely stifled her laughter. “Hey, at least he’s creative! Did you see the note with this one?” She plucked the card from the bouquet and read it aloud. “‘For the man sweeter than all the frosting in the world. Yours, Lance.’ Honestly, it’s kind of cute.”

Keith groaned, snatching the card and tossing it into the trash. “Cute isn’t the word I’d use. Persistent? Annoying? Borderline unprofessional?” He gestured to the box of cupcakes. “And these? These are bribes.”
Romelle arched an eyebrow. “Bribes for what? To fall for him?”
Keith rolled his eyes and muttered, “As if. He’s got another thing coming.”
But Lance wasn’t just leaving baked goods; he was upping the ante. There was the time he slipped an extra microphone into Keith’s hands during soundcheck and grinned. “Sing with me, Keith. You’ve got that ‘brooding artist’ vibe. It’ll be a hit.”

Keith shoved the mic back at him, his cheeks faintly pink. “Stick to your job, McClain.”
Even during rehearsals, Lance found opportunities to tease. He’d catch Keith’s eye as he nailed a particularly challenging move, flashing a grin and mouthing, That one’s for you. Keith would roll his eyes but couldn’t deny the faint smile tugging at his lips.
Despite himself, Keith couldn’t stay annoyed for long. Lance’s energy was infectious, his charm undeniable even when it was laid on thicker than frosting on a cupcake. Still, Keith wasn’t about to let the pop star think he was winning him over. Not yet, not ever.

Keith had rules. Hard rules. One of them? Never play with fire, especially when the fire came wrapped in fame, chaos, and a paycheck. He never mixed business with pleasure—it was way too complicated, and complications led to one thing: disaster. And as much as Lance loved to flirt, Keith knew better than to entertain the idea of anything more.
Not when Maria was involved. The woman was terrifyingly protective of her son's. If she even suspected Keith was entertaining something inappropriate, she’d carve his head out with her bare hands—and probably use it as a paperweight. And let’s not even talk about how he’s Ronnie’s twin.

But even if those two weren’t in the picture, Lance was… well, Lance. He had a swarm of omegas thirsting over him, and Keith had no interest in getting gutted by a legion of crazy fans or, worse, a jealous ex. And Keith wasn’t blind.
While Lance’s flirting was mostly directed at him these days, it was clear the guy had a history with his dancers. The lingering looks, the tension-filled silence, the love-sick gazes—they told all the story Keith needed. He was fairly certain Lance had slept with most, if not all, of them.
It was the way the dancers acted when Lance wasn’t around that sealed the deal. Keith had witnessed one particularly memorable spat that left him both horrified and stifling laughter. It started innocently enough—two dancers, both omegas, arguing over who got to stand closer to Lance during the choreography.

“Oh, please, Bianca," one sneered, flipping her hair dramatically. "You couldn’t keep up with Lance’s footwork if your life depended on it."
Bianca shot back, "At least I don’t trip over air, Clara. Face it, Lance only keeps you around because he feels bad for you."
Keith, watching from the side, raised an eyebrow and tried to suppress a smirk. The choreographer stepped in quickly, clapping loudly to grab everyone’s attention. "Ladies, save the drama for the stage! We’ve got a show to run."
As the group settled, Keith leaned over to Romelle, muttering under his breath, "I feel like I just watched a live episode of Real Housewives: Omega Edition."

Romelle snorted, trying to hide her laughter behind her clipboard. "You’re not wrong. Too bad they’re fighting over someone who probably doesn’t even remember their names."
Keith couldn’t help but chuckle. The dancers kept it professional when Lance was around, but the second he walked out the door, it was like a battle royale behind the scenes. Keith was just glad he didn’t have to referee.
Keith, for his part, was just grateful he’d managed to keep things professional. And even if Lance somehow turned into the perfect gentleman overnight, Keith had to admit something else: the pop star wasn’t his type. Not even close. Keith liked his alphas stoic. Lance? Lance wasn’t.

Not that Lance was emotionally available either. Keith had him pegged after the first week. Lance wasn’t in love with Keith—he was in love with love. The flirting, the romance, the thrill of the chase. Lance was the kind of guy who adored the process, but when it came to commitment? Keith doubted Lance had the patience for it.
And Keith didn’t judge. Honestly, he wasn’t so different. He had no intention of being tied down either. He liked his freedom, and he enjoyed sampling the variety the world had to offer. Relationships weren’t for everyone, and Keith was perfectly happy keeping things that way. Now, if only Lance could get the memo.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance had officially stepped into uncharted territory. The man had ramped up his flirting game from roses—Keith’s trash can could attest to that—to literal jewelry and designer goods. He even went as far as custom-ordering a sapphire bracelet engraved with “To Keith: The most beautiful storm cloud I’ve ever seen.” Predictably, the bracelet was returned in its original box, with a sticky note attached that read, “I’m not a storm cloud. Stop wasting your money.”

“Storm cloud,” Lance muttered under his breath, staring at the rejected gift like it had personally betrayed him. “I thought it was poetic!”
Hunk ,his producer ,sat on the couch next to him a half-eaten sandwich in hand, giving him a pitying look. “Dude, it’s Keith. You could write him an epic sonnet, and he’d probably use it as a coaster.”
Lance flopped onto the couch. “What does he want from me, Hunk? I’ve tried flowers, jewelry, gourmet chocolates—he handed those out to the crew, by the way. I even offered to get his car detailed. Nothing!”

Hunk shrugged. “Maybe he wants you to leave him alone?”
Lance shot him a glare. “Not helpful.”
The truth was, Lance didn’t know what it was about Keith. He’d been with everyone—Alphas, Omegas, Betas. Male, female, it didn’t matter. He was most definitely bisexual, though he leaned toward women. At least, until Keith. Now, Lance was questioning everything. It wasn’t just Keith’s looks, although damn. The man was like if anime came to life—sharp jawline, intense violet eyes, hair that looked perfectly tousled no matter the time of day. But it was more than that. It was the way Keith carried himself: quiet, focused, like he was the eye of a hurricane while the rest of the world spun out of control.

And his scent. Oh, god, his scent. Lance had never smelled anything like it—fresh lavender mixed with the warm, buttery sweetness of a bakery. It was subtle, almost teasing, and it drove Lance insane. He wanted to bury his nose in Keith’s scent gland and just breathe him in forever. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud.
Keith, however, was not making this easy. No, Keith had to be colder than a Hoth winter. Professional to a fault, he kept their interactions strictly business, drawing a very clear line in the sand every time Lance so much as hinted at crossing it.

Case in point:
“Hey, Keith!” Lance sauntered into his office, holding up a sleek leather jacket from his personal collection. “Thought you might like this. It’s designer, limited edition—just like you.” He grinned, leaning casually against the doorframe.
Keith didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “No, thanks.”
“Keith, c’mon. You can’t just keep rejecting my gifts. It’s bad for my ego.”

“Your ego will survive,” Keith said flatly, flipping a page on his clipboard. “And for the record, I prefer practical gifts, like silence.”
Lance clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Keith. Right here.”
Keith finally looked up, arching an unimpressed brow. “If it’s that bad, maybe see a doctor.”

Lance grinned despite himself. Even when Keith was shutting him down, he was funny. But Lance wasn’t just chasing Keith for the challenge—although that was part of it. No, this was different. Keith had taken over his thoughts, his dreams, his entire existence.
It was infuriating. Usually, Omegas chased him, not the other way around. And yet here he was, throwing everything he had at Keith and still coming up empty-handed.

But Lance wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not until Keith either gave him a clear “no” or finally—finally—let him in.
In the meantime, he’d just have to figure out how to buy Keith a practical gift that wasn’t silence. Maybe a scented candle. Lavender and vanilla, to match his scent.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance marched toward Romelle with the determination of a man on a mission—and a sparkly Tiffany jewelry set in hand. If anyone knew what Keith liked, it was Romelle. And if anyone could be bribed for that information, it was definitely Romelle.
He found her in her office, scrolling through her phone, oblivious to the masterpiece of persuasion he carried in his hands.
“Romelle,” Lance began, holding up the pristine blue box like it was the Holy Grail, “I come bearing gifts. Specifically, this gift. You’ve been dreaming about this jewelry set, haven’t you?”
Romelle’s eyes flicked to the box, widening in recognition. “No way. You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” Lance grinned, dangling it just out of reach. “And it’s all yours. But there’s a catch.”
Her excitement wavered. “A catch?”
“Just a tiny one.” Lance leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “All you have to do is tell me how I get Keith. That’s it.”
Romelle crossed her arms, her lips twitching as she tried to play it cool. “And if I refuse?”

Lance raised an eyebrow, pulling the box closer to his chest. “Then I walk away with this stunning jewelry, and you’re left to wallow in regret. Your choice.”
Her resolve crumbled faster than a cheap cookie. “Ugh, fine!” She reached for the box, but Lance yanked it back, grinning.
“Info first, Romelle. What does Keith like? How do I get him to stop looking at me like I ran over his cat every time we’re in the same room?”
Romelle rolled her eyes but gave the jewelry one last longing look before sighing dramatically. “Okay, listen up, because I’m only saying this once.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him. “First, Keith likes guys who are low-key. So, no offense, but tone it down. Like, way down. No more grand gestures or over-the-top flirting. He’s not into it.”
Lance frowned. “What? But my flirting is legendary.”
“Legendary in how quickly it gets rejected, maybe,” Romelle shot back.
Lance clutched his chest. “Ouch, Romelle. Right in the feels.”

“Second,” she continued, ignoring him, “Keith is not the jealous type. If he even suspects you’re entertaining other Omegas—or anyone else, for that matter—he’s out. So whatever’s going on with your dancers? Fix it.”
Lance blinked. “What’s wrong with my dancers?”
Romelle gave him a pointed look. “You mean besides the fact that you flirt with them like it’s a sport? Yeah, Keith’s not into that.”
“Noted,” Lance muttered, mentally adding ‘stop being charming around dancers’ to his to-do list.
“Third,” Romelle said, ticking it off on her fingers, “Keith likes acts of service. He’s not impressed by gifts—he makes his own money. If you want to show him you care, do something thoughtful. Actions, not presents.”
Lance glanced at the box in his hands. “So… this wasn’t the move?”

Romelle snatched the box out of his hands faster than he could react. “Nope. But thanks anyway.”
“Hey!”
“And finally,” she added, inspecting her new jewelry with a satisfied smirk, “Keith’s competitive. If you win, he’ll at least let you take him out.”
Lance’s face lit up. “hmmm… I can work with that.”
“That’s all I’ve got.” Romelle waved him off, already pulling the necklace out of the box to admire it. “Good luck, lover boy. You’re gonna need it.”

Lance smirked, determination flaring to life. “Luck? Please. I’ve got charm, looks, and now, insider info. Keith doesn’t stand a chance.”
Romelle snorted. “Sure. Let me know how that works out for you when you’re buying me another bribe.”

Lance paced his temporary dressing room, Romelle’s advice running through his mind on an endless loop. Low-key, no grand gestures. Handle the dancer situation. Acts of service. And, if all else fails, a bet.
“Low-key,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “How the hell do you be low-key about wanting to date someone.”
He sighed and glanced at his reflection. His usual swagger was still intact, but his confidence? Shaken. Keith was proving to be the most challenging person he’d ever met. Still, Lance wasn’t about to give up.
Step one: tone it down.

The next day, instead of bombarding Keith with his usual flirty one-liners and dazzling smiles, Lance played it cool. He greeted Keith with a simple “Hey,” kept his focus during rehearsals, and even resisted the urge to compliment Keith’s perfectly styled hair when they crossed paths backstage.
Keith, of course, noticed.

“You feeling okay?” Keith asked, narrowing his eyes as Lance silently handed him a revised setlist without so much as a cheeky comment.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Lance replied, keeping his tone casual.
Keith stared at him for a moment longer, then shrugged. “No reason.”

Lance turned away, grinning to himself. Progress.
Step two: handle the dancer situation.
After rehearsal, Lance pulled his lead dancers aside. “Alright, guys, new rule: no flirting during work hours.”
One of them raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who flirts with us.”

“Exactly,” Lance said, clapping his hands. “And it stops now. Strictly professional from here on out.”
They exchanged confused looks but nodded.
Step three: acts of service.

Over the next week, Lance found small ways to make Keith’s life easier. He brought Keith coffee every morning—more milk than coffee really with a bunch of sugar and cream just like he liked it. He stayed late after rehearsals to help clean up. He even fixed a squeaky wheel on Keith’s chair without being asked.
Keith acknowledged the gestures with polite nods and murmured “thank yous,” but his walls remained firmly intact.
Lance was starting to lose hope.

Finally, step four: a bet.
One evening, after a particularly grueling rehearsal, Lance found Keith alone in the studio, reviewing notes. He approached cautiously, holding two bottles of water.
“Long day?” Lance asked, handing one over.
Keith accepted it with a nod. “They usually are.”
Lance hesitated, then smirked. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask—how’s your rhythm?”

Keith frowned. “What?”
“Your rhythm,” Lance repeated, leaning against the wall. “You manage performers, but can you keep up with one?”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “Are you challenging me to a dance-off?”
“Only if you think you can handle it,” Lance shot back, his grin widening.
Keith snorted. “I don’t have time for—”

“Wait, hear me out,” Lance interrupted. “If I win, you let me take you out. Just one date. No strings attached. If you win, I’ll stop flirting. Completely.”
Keith stared at him. “You’ll stop flirting? ” Keith weighed his options if Lance stopped flirting perhaps he could still steal Lance off Maria.
“Scout’s honor.” Lance held up three fingers, though he’d never been a Scout.
Keith sighed, setting his clipboard aside. “Fine. One dance-off. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

What followed was a spectacle to say the least. Keith, to Lance’s surprise, could move. His footwork was sharp, his rhythm impeccable, and he moved in a sultry way that had Lance panting, but Keith wasn't a professional.
Lance wasn’t a global pop star for nothing. He poured his heart into his performance, incorporating dramatic flips, precise isolations, and just the right amount of flair to keep Keith on his toes.
By the end, they were both breathless, sweating, and laughing despite themselves.

“Alright,” Keith panted, hands on his hips. “Who’s judging this?”
“Romelle,” Lance called, gesturing to the door.
Romelle stepped inside; arms crossed. “Seriously? A dance-off?”
“Just pick a winner!” Lance begged.

She rolled her eyes but pointed at Lance. “Fine. Lance wins.”
“Yes!” Lance fist-pumped, turning to Keith with a triumphant grin. “I'll pick you up at 8. Be ready.”
Keith shook his head, though a faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Is that a yes?”

Keith sighed, grabbing his phone. “Fine. One date. Just don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t!” Lance beamed, practically skipping out of the studio.
Behind him, Romelle muttered to Keith, “You’re so going to regret this.”
Keith shrugged, hiding his amusement. “Probably.”

Chapter Text

Keith stepped out of the shower, steam curling around him as he toweled off his damp hair. His reflection in the bathroom mirror stared back, rosy from the heat and glowing with anticipation, despite his stubborn insistence that this was just a date.
“Play along,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
But it did, and he knew it. Lance McClain was infuriatingly charming, and Keith, for all his guardedness, couldn’t deny he was curious about what Lance had planned.

He turned his attention to the outfit laid out on his bed. The short red dress shimmered faintly in the light, hugging his curves in just the right way. It was bold, perhaps too bold, but Lance clearly had an eye for what would suit him. The strappy heels were surprisingly tasteful, and the jewelry—a delicate necklace with ruby accents and matching earrings—was understated enough to complement the ensemble without overwhelming it.
Keith slipped into the dress, smoothing it over his hips and noting how it flattered the slight curve of his waist and the delicate line of his shoulders.

“You’re ridiculous, McClain,” he muttered, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
When it came to makeup, Keith kept it minimal, opting for a flawless base with a hint of blush to highlight his high cheekbones. He lined his eyes with a soft flick of eyeliner, just enough to make his dark irises pop. The pièce de résistance, however, was his maroon lipstick—a dark, velvety hue that added an edge to his otherwise soft features. Keith stepped back to examine himself and couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that crept across his lips. Not bad.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When Lance arrived to pick him up, the knock on the door was as confident as ever. Keith opened it, and for a fleeting second, Lance just… stared. His signature smirk faltered, replaced by a look of genuine awe.
“Wow,” Lance said, his voice soft. “You look—” He stopped, shook his head, then grinned. “Stunning.”
Keith rolled his eyes, but the faint blush dusting his cheeks betrayed him. “Are you done?”
“Not even close.” Lance offered his arm with a playful bow. “Shall we?”

Keith took it, amused by Lance’s exaggerated gallantry as they made their way to the car. Lance had a super car and ever the gentlemen he held the door open for Keith. The drive was smooth, with Lance keeping the conversation light and easy, though he couldn’t resist throwing in the occasional flirtation. Keith, for his part, pretended not to notice the way Lance’s gaze lingered on him when he thought Keith wasn’t looking.
When they arrived, Keith raised an eyebrow at their destination. They stepped out onto the rooftop of a sleek, modern building. Fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over an intimate table for two. The city skyline stretched out around them, glittering against the night sky.

“Romantic much?” Keith teased, though his heart fluttered at the effort Lance had gone to.
“I don’t do things halfway,” Lance replied, pulling out Keith’s chair with a flourish. “Especially not for you.”
Keith sat, trying not to let the compliment go to his head. The table was set with fine china, and a soft melody played in the background, blending seamlessly with the hum of the city below.
As they ate, the conversation flowed naturally, with Lance switching between playful banter and moments of surprising vulnerability. Keith found himself relaxing, his usual defenses slipping away under Lance’s relentless charm.
“You know,” Keith said, swirling the wine in his glass, “I didn’t think you had it in you to plan something this thoughtful.”

Lance leaned back in his chair, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Oh, Keith, there’s so much you don’t know about me. But don’t worry—I’m definitely going to show you.”
Keith snorted, but there was no mistaking the warmth in his gaze. For the first time in a long while, he let himself enjoy the moment.
And if Lance’s hand brushed against his as they shared dessert, well… Keith didn’t pull away.
Keith couldn’t deny it: he was enjoying his time with Lance. But beneath the charm and dazzling smile, Keith wanted to see the man behind the glitz and glamour. He decided to test the waters.

“There’s this private nature reserve nearby,” Keith suggested as they exited the restaurant. “A friend owns it. It’s quiet, peaceful, and… well, I wanna take a walk.”
Lance arched an eyebrow, a smirk teasing his lips. “A nature reserve? I didn’t peg you as the hiking type, Keith.”
Keith rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “Trust me, you’ll survive. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to see if you’re more than just a pretty face.”
“Oh, I’m so much more,” Lance quipped, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder. “Lead the way.”

As they made their way to the reserve, their conversation flowed easily, filled with teasing remarks and laughter. Lance’s occasional sidelong glances didn’t go unnoticed by Keith, though the manager pretended not to notice. When they arrived, they passed through security without issue, and Keith guided Lance onto a path illuminated by delicate electric lanterns that cast a warm glow over the surrounding trees.
“Wow,” Lance said, looking around. “This is… actually kind of magical.”

“Told you,” Keith replied, his voice carrying a note of pride. He gestured to a nearby plant with purple, star-shaped flowers. “That’s a night-blooming cereus. It only blooms once a year, at night. Lucky timing.”
As they walked, Keith pointed out rare plants along the path, his eyes lighting up as he explained their unique features. Lance listened, captivated not so much by the plants but by the unguarded enthusiasm in Keith’s voice. He couldn’t resist commenting.

“You know, I never pegged you for a plant person. Especially after all those roses you threw out the other day.”
Keith laughed, the sound low and genuine. “Why would you take them out of the soil just to let them die in two weeks? Seems cruel.”
“So you’re an advocate for floral rights now?” Lance teased, earning a playful shove.

The night air grew cooler as they walked, and Keith rubbed his arms. Without hesitation, Lance shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Keith’s shoulders. Keith blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
“Chivalry isn’t dead after all,” Keith remarked dryly, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
“I’m full of surprises,” Lance replied, winking.
They continued along the path until Keith came to an abrupt stop, glancing down at his feet. He muttered something under his breath.

“What?” Lance asked.
“I forgot I was wearing heels,” Keith admitted sheepishly, starting to bend down to remove them. But before he could, Lance knelt in front of him.
“Let me,” Lance said, his voice soft. He carefully unbuckled Keith’s shoes, his fingers lingering just a moment too long against Keith’s skin.
Keith’s breath hitched, but he said nothing as Lance stood, now holding the heels in one hand. “There. Problem solved.”
“Thanks,” Keith murmured, his cheeks faintly pink in the lantern light.

They resumed walking, the silence between them comfortable until Keith broke it. “So, Lance, what do you really want from me? And don’t try the ‘relationship’ angle. I know your type.”
Lance stopped mid-step, turning to face Keith with a look of genuine shock. “What do you mean, ‘what do I actually want’? I want you. I like you. What on earth have I been doing these past few weeks?”
Keith crossed his arms, unconvinced. “Oh, come on, Lance. I’ve seen you in action. Don’t think I don’t know about your… extracurricular activities with your dancers.”
Lance’s cheeks reddened, but he didn’t back down. “Okay, fine. I’ve had my share of fun. But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of something real. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before, Keith. And I’m willing to prove it… if you’ll let me.”

Keith’s expression softened, though his walls remained firmly in place. “Honestly, Lance, I’m not looking to be tied down. It’s not just about you—I’m not the relationship type either.”
Lance’s disappointment was palpable, but he nodded. “Then can we just enjoy today? It’s the last leg of my tour before you go.”
Keith’s lips quirked into a small smile. “I can do that.”

When the night finally wound to a close, Lance walked Keith back to his hotel room. At the door, as they exchanged goodbyes, Keith leaned in and captured Lance’s lips in a heated kiss. It was fierce and consuming, their tongues tangling as Lance pulled Keith closer, savoring every second. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily.
Keith shot Lance a mischievous look. “Goodnight, Lance. Thanks for the date… and I’m keeping the gifts this time.”

Before Lance could respond, Keith disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut behind him. Lance stared at the closed door, his mind reeling from the kiss.
“How the hell am I supposed to move on from that?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair as he turned to leave.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith stole a piece of fruit from Ronnie’s plate, popping it into his mouth with an air of nonchalance as they chatted in her hotel suite.
“So, he actually took you on a date? My brother?” Ronnie’s laugh was so loud it echoed off the walls. She was still chuckling as the hotel staff entered with more platters of food.
“Thanks,” she said to them, before turning her attention back to Keith. Her grin was wicked. “Honestly, I could care less if you two were dating, but that would truly be a match made in hell.”
Keith smacked her shoulder lightly. “Why?” he demanded, his tone indignant.

Ronnie stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Are you kidding me, Keef?” She set her plate down with an exaggerated flourish and leaned back in her chair, ready to deliver her verdict. “You are the most emotionally unavailable omega I have ever met. I mean, seriously. I’ve never seen anyone chew up alphas and spit them out the way you do.”
Keith frowned, but Ronnie wasn’t done. She waved her fork in the air for emphasis. “And Lance? I love my twin, but let’s be real. He’ll sleep with anything that has two legs and a pulse.”
Keith couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, but that didn’t stop him from chucking a throw pillow at her. Ronnie dodged it, nearly spilling her champagne in the process, and dissolved into another round of hysterical laughter.
“I just wanted you to hear it from me,” Keith said, crossing his arms and trying to look dignified.

Ronnie grabbed the pillow off the floor, still grinning. “Honestly, Keith, it’s fine. I could care less. Just don’t give me details. The last thing I want to hear about is my twin’s sex life.”
“Don’t worry,” Keith shot back. “I made it clear it wasn’t happening. Besides, your mom would murder me.”
Ronnie raised an eyebrow, her expression suddenly sharp. “My mom? Are you kidding? She loves you. She’d be over the moon if you and Lance got together. Her biggest worry is gold diggers, and you—” she gestured at him with her champagne glass—“she would adore.”

Keith snorted. “I doubt that.” Then, with a sly grin, he added, “Speaking of your mom, how is she doing?”
Ronnie’s playful demeanor shifted, her tone growing serious. “She says she’s fine whenever we talk on the phone, but I don’t buy it. As soon as I’m done filming here, I’m heading home to see her. She’s been in the hospital way too long.”
Keith nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah, you should probably go see her. Just to be sure.”
Ronnie sighed, swirling the champagne in her glass. “Yeah. I will.”

The conversation hung in the air, but Keith’s mind had already drifted somewhere else—back to Lance, like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t deny it: Lance was temptation incarnate. The way he moved, the way his voice dipped when he flirted, the knowing smile that teased at something deeper—it was enough to drive anyone insane. And Keith wasn’t immune.

But he’d held back. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t sure how Ronnie would react if she found out he’d slept with her brother. She trusted him, and that trust meant something. Still, Keith couldn’t help but imagine what it would’ve been like to give in—just once. To let himself unravel in Lance’s arms, to taste that smug confidence and turn it into something breathless and raw.

Keith clenched his jaw, pushing the thought aside. Lance might’ve been the perfect snack, but Keith wasn’t about to ruin a working relationship—or risk making things more complicated than they already were. He didn’t want feelings, didn’t need them. What he wanted was simple: one night, no strings. Just a moment of indulgence. But with Lance, even that felt like a dangerous game.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance sat alone in his penthouse; his lean frame draped in nothing but a pair of satin pants. The expansive city skyline glittered beyond the glass walls, but he barely noticed. He was slowly losing his mind. He’d thought he could move on, thought he could shove his feelings for Keith into some dark corner of his heart and pretend they didn’t exist. But he had been sorely mistaken.

Lance had never struggled like this before. He’d always had his pick of omegas. A little sweet talk, a charming smile, and their resistance would melt like butter. But Keith? Keith was something else entirely. It wasn’t even about the sex—not that they’d gotten that far. It was the way Keith’s laugh bubbled up unexpectedly, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about plants, the quiet confidence in his voice when he explained something he loved. Keith was magnetic, and Lance couldn’t get him out of his head. His scent, his touch, the way his lips felt during their heated kiss—all of it lingered, driving Lance to the brink of madness.

He needed an outlet, a way to channel the storm brewing inside him. So, he did the one thing he knew how to do best: he turned to his piano. Sitting down on the cool leather bench, he let his fingers dance over the keys, searching for the right chords. Slowly, the music began to take shape, and the words followed, flowing out of him like a dam had burst.

Something's got a hold of me lately No, I don't know myself anymore Feels like the walls are all closin' in And the devil's knockin' at my door, whoa
Out of my mind, how many times Did I tell you I'm no good at bein' alone? Yeah, it's takin' a toll on me, tryin' my best to keep From tearin' the skin off my bones, don't you know
I lose control When you're not next to me I'm fallin' apart right in front of you, can't you see? I lose control When you're not next to me, mm-hm Yeah, you're breakin' my heart, baby You make a mess of me(The song is by- Teddy Swims- Loose control.)

The lyrics poured out, raw and unfiltered, as he let himself drown in the music. It was cathartic, an emotional exorcism that left him breathless. His fingers moved instinctively over the keys, weaving a melody that felt like his soul laid bare.
The shrill buzz of his phone jolted him out of his trance. Lance blinked, disoriented, before reaching for it. The caller ID read “Dad,” and a small smile tugged at his lips. He was close with his father and didn’t mind the interruption.

“Hey, Dad,” Lance greeted, his voice warm and cheerful. But the tone on the other end of the line wiped the smile from his face. His father’s voice was serious, almost urgent.
“Sure, Dad, don’t worry,” Lance replied after a moment, his tone steady despite the unease creeping into his chest. “I’ll be right there.”
Hanging up, Lance stood and grabbed a shirt, his mind already racing. Whatever was going on, it sounded serious. But even as he moved with purpose, the music he’d just played lingered in the air, a haunting echo of everything he couldn’t say.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance drove up the long, winding driveway to the McClain mansion. The sheer size of the home never failed to strike him, with its sprawling gardens that seemed to stretch endlessly under the late afternoon sun. It was a true show of opulence, the kind of place that screamed old money and timeless elegance. Pulling into the underground parking area, Lance shut off the engine and took a steadying breath before stepping into the elevator that would take him up to the main floor.

The elevator doors opened to the familiar warmth of the living room, where his family had already gathered. Ronnie was perched on the edge of a sofa, animatedly chatting with their older brother Luis and his wife, Melisa, the sharp-eyed attorney whose presence always carried a quiet authority. Their parents sat on the loveseat, as in love as ever, their hands intertwined like teenagers. Lance couldn’t help but notice how at ease they seemed, but something about the atmosphere felt… off. The nagging unease in his chest only grew as he stepped further into the room.

“Lance!” Ronnie called out, springing up to pull him into a tight hug. The others followed suit, exchanging hugs and quick greetings. Even Lia, rushing in fashionably late as usual, made her entrance with a dramatic flourish, earning a round of teasing jabs from her siblings. Despite the lighthearted banter, Lance felt a deep sense of gratitude seeing everyone together. It was rare for the entire McClain family to be in one place, and their presence momentarily distracted him from the thoughts of Keith that had been haunting him all day.

The laughter and chatter were cut short when Manuel, the great singer and patriarch of the family, stood and gently called for their attention. His commanding presence was undeniable, and as he glanced around the room, it was clear something serious was about to be said. He held his wife’s hand, his expression a mixture of strength and sorrow. Maria, their mother, took a deep, steadying breath before speaking, her warm smile doing little to mask the tension in her voice.

“My children, my babies,” Maria began, her gaze sweeping over them lovingly. “It’s so good to see all of you here.”
Lia, ever the impatient one, leaned forward, her worry evident in her furrowed brow. “Mom, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice edged with unease.
Maria looked down, her fingers tightening around Manuel’s as she summoned the courage to continue. “I might as well cut to the chase,” she said softly. “As you all know, I’ve been unwell for some time… and unfortunately…”

Her voice wavered as she looked to Manuel for support. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s cancer. Pancreatic cancer, to be precise. And it’s terminal. I’ve got about three months to a year to live.”
The room fell into a stunned silence. Ronnie sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands as sobs wracked her body. Lance stood frozen, the weight of her words crashing over him like a tidal wave. Luis and Melisa clung to each other, their expressions a mix of shock and devastation.

It was Lia who finally broke the silence, her voice trembling. “What treatment options are there? How… how can we…” Her words faltered, unable to complete the thought.
Maria’s voice was calm but firm as she answered, “I won’t be doing any treatments.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room, followed by an eruption of protests. “No, Mom,” Ronnie cried, her voice thick with anguish. “You can’t just—”
“This isn’t fair,” Luis said, his tone sharp with frustration. “There has to be something we can do.”

Manuel raised his hands to quiet the room, his voice steady but pained. “Your mother and I have been to every specialist on the planet. They all said the same thing: there is no cure.”
Maria cut in, her resolve unwavering. “I will not spend my last days sick from chemo, in and out of hospitals. I want to live my final days with the people I care for most, in my home, and on my terms. Please.” Her voice softened, her eyes misting as she looked at each of them in turn. “I need you all to understand.”
The room remained heavy with silence, broken only by the quiet sniffles of Ronnie and Lia. Lance’s chest tightened, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts but unable to voice a single one. This was his mother, the heart of their family. And now, they were being asked to let her go.

Chapter Text

Keith picked up on the third ring. It was the middle of the night, and Ronnie never called him this late unless it was serious. He sat up, blinking against the glow of his phone.
“Keith, can you come pick me up?” Her voice was soft, fragile, and he instantly knew she’d been crying. Anyone else might have missed the tremor in her tone, but Keith wasn’t just anyone. He was her best friend. He didn’t need to ask questions.
“I’ll be right there,” he said without hesitation.

Throwing on some sweatpants and a jacket, Keith grabbed his keys and slipped into his boots. The chill of the night bit at his face as he climbed into his jeep and sped toward the McClain mansion. His mind raced faster than his car. Ronnie had gone radio silent for days, and her sudden call felt like a flare in the dark. What could have happened?
When he pulled into the long driveway, he texted her: I’m here.
The front door opened moments later. Ronnie emerged, her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if she was trying to hold herself together. Under the pale glow of the porch light, she looked like a ghost. Her eyes were rimmed red, her face pale and drawn. Keith’s worry deepened.

She slipped into the passenger seat without a word and pulled the door shut. “Can we go to my place? Can you stay over? I… I don’t want to be alone,” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” Keith replied, his tone gentle but firm.
The drive back to her apartment was silent, heavy with unspoken words. Keith glanced at her from time to time but didn’t press. He knew Ronnie well enough to understand she’d speak when she was ready. Pushing her would only make her retreat further.

Instead, he focused on comforting her in the ways he knew how. Once they arrived, Keith made himself busy. While Ronnie showered, he ordered her favorite takeout—fried goodies and ice cream—and arranged it all on the coffee table. By the time she returned, dressed in oversized hoodie and sweatpants, the smell of food filled the room.
For the first time that night, she cracked a small smile. “You always know how to spoil me,” she murmured, sinking onto the couch.
Keith grinned faintly. “Food fixes most things. Not everything, but most.”

They ate in companionable silence at first. Ronnie nibbled on a mozzarella stick, her eyes distant, while Keith pretended not to notice how she was avoiding his gaze. Eventually, she set her plate down and sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.
“Mom has cancer,” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “Pancreatic cancer. It’s terminal.”
Keith froze, the piece of chicken in his hand forgotten. For a moment, all he could do was process her words. Then he slid off the couch and knelt in front of her, pulling her into a tight hug.
“Ronnie… I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

That was all it took for her to break. Her sobs came in heaving waves, her body trembling in his arms. Keith held her tighter, his hand stroking soothing circles on her back. He didn’t rush her, didn’t try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. He just let her cry.
When her sobs finally subsided into sniffles, Keith pulled back slightly, his hands resting on her shoulders. “What’s the treatment plan? I can clear your schedule, help you be there for her,” he offered.
Ronnie shook her head, her eyes brimming with fresh tears. “She’s not doing treatment. She… she doesn’t want to spend her last months hooked up to machines. She just wants to… live.”
Keith’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “But whatever you need, I’m here. Always.”

Ronnie nodded, her lips trembling as she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you, Keith. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He didn’t reply, just wrapped his arms around her again and held her close. Words weren’t enough for moments like this, but his presence was. And for Ronnie, that was everything.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance had barely said a word or really reacted when the cancer bomb had dropped. He had been there for Ronnie when she broke down later in her room, holding her as she cried. He had been there for his mom, sitting by her side, holding her hand, and promising that they would be with her until her very last breath.
He’d checked on his dad and Luis, making sure they were coping as best as they could. But underneath it all, Lance was upset—angry, even. Why did this have to happen to his mom? Why couldn’t she at least try to get treatment? But who was he to dictate her choices? What was the point of treatment if she’d already decided she didn’t want to fight?
Still, he couldn’t shake the disbelief. His mom, who had always fought tooth and nail for everything, was just… giving up? It didn’t feel real.

The McClain family rallied around their mother for about a week, spending every possible moment together. But eventually, she pushed them to return to their lives. “I don’t want you all hovering over me,” she’d said with a tired smile. “Go live your lives. That’s what I want.”
Unfortunately, living their lives meant going back to work. The McClains were a well-oiled machine, with teams of people depending on them. Lance had to return to set to film a music video and make various appearances he’d already committed to.

Ronnie, having just finished filming her own projects, took time off to stay with their mom. Keith, meanwhile, had been tasked with stepping in for Lance, while Romelle managed Luis’s schedule.
When Keith saw Lance again, he could tell something was off. Lance still had his signature wit and charm, but it felt muted, like he was performing rather than being himself. He still tried to flirt, but there was an emptiness to it, a hollowness that Keith couldn’t ignore. Whenever Keith gently brought up his mom or asked how he was doing, Lance would deflect or change the topic entirely.
As the weeks passed, Keith noticed something else.

Despite Keith’s efforts to free up Lance’s schedule so he could visit his mom, Lance never took the time off. Instead, he buried himself in work. If he wasn’t in the studio recording new music, he was with his choreographer, at the gym, or taking singing lessons. It was as if he was trying to outrun his exhaustion, his grief. And even when he was clearly spent, he’d just keep going.
Lance had thrown himself into work with a level of intensity that bordered on obsessive. The music video shoot was a prime example. The scene was perfect—even the director had said so—but Lance insisted on doing take after take. He scrutinized every detail, from the lighting to the angle of the camera to the way his backup dancers moved. Each time the director called cut, Lance would find something minuscule to tweak.
The air in the studio was thick with the scent of sweat and exhaustion. "One more," Lance barked, his voice a sharp, metallic edge against the late-night silence. "We can do better."

The weary glances exchanged by the crew mirrored the exhaustion etched on the dancers' faces. Their movements were now a pale shadow of their former vigor, the grace replaced by a desperate struggle against fatigue. Keith, watching from the sidelines, finally couldn't bear it anymore.
"Lance, it's nearly midnight," he interjected, his voice calm but firm. "The crew has been pushing themselves for hours. Maybe we should call it a night and regroup tomorrow?"
Lance, lost in the demanding perfection he craved, hadn't even noticed the toll it was taking. He looked around at the wilting figures, the drained faces, and finally conceded. "You're right. Sorry everyone. Let's wrap it up."
A wave of relief washed over the room as the crew, murmuring grateful thanks to Keith, began to pack up. Lance, alone in his dressing room, peeled off his shoes, revealing a gruesome spectacle: blistered, blood-red feet. He barely registered the pain, his mind already back on the music, replaying the missed notes, the imperfect transitions.

Keith knocked softly, his voice a gentle intrusion. "Hey, you alright?"
"Fine," Lance mumbled, barely glancing up from the sheet music scattered across his desk.
Keith entered , his gaze drawn to the horrific state of Lance's feet. "Lance, your feet! Oh my god!"
"I'm fine, Keith!" Lance snapped, the pent-up frustration finally erupting. "I don't need you to pretend to care. I know this is just a job for you."
Keith, taken aback by the unexpected outburst, retreated, leaving Lance alone with the gnawing guilt that quickly followed. He was gone for a while, and then, to Lance's surprise, he returned, bearing a first-aid kit and a pair of oversized slippers.

Lance's breath hitched as Keith knelt beside him, gently cleaning the wounds, applying soothing balm, and then carefully bandaging his feet. The guilt that had been simmering within him finally bubbled to the surface. "I'm sorry." he mumbled; his voice thick with regret. "I didn't mean to snap at you."
Keith smiled, a warm, genuine smile that seemed to banish the harshness from the room. "Wow," he chuckled, "those are some impressive feet. If this music thing doesn't work out, you could make a fortune selling pics of them."
Lance laughed, a genuine, unburdened laugh, the first in what felt like weeks. "You know," Keith said softly, breaking the comfortable silence "I grew up in foster care. No parents, no family, …..nothing really."
Lance listened intently; his earlier anger forgotten. He couldn't begin to imagine what it was like, to grow up without the anchor of family, the comforting presence of loved ones. "I can't even pretend to know what you’re going through" he said quietly. "But I know one thing: if I had a family like yours, I'd want them to know how much I loved them."

Keith looked up, his violet eyes holding Lance's gaze. Lance felt a strange pull towards him, a dizzying sense of falling.
"Go see your mom, Lance," Keith urged gently, his voice a soft whisper.
The words, simple yet profound, chipped away at Lance's resolve. He had no fight left in him. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice barely a whisper.
Keith smiled, a radiant smile that lit up his face. Lance vowed, in that moment, to do everything in his power to see that smile again and again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The scent of lilies, heavy and cloying, hung heavy in the air as Keith followed Lance down the hallway. He peeked through the doorway, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "Look who I brought," he announced, his voice light.
Maria, her face thinner, paler, still held a spark of her usual vivaciousness. "Keith, darling! How are you? Lance hasn’t been too much of a handful, I hope?"
She pulled Lance into a warm embrace, her touch surprisingly strong. He settled beside her on the chaise longue, accepting the cool drink the butler silently offered.
A shadow fell over her face, the smile fading. "Keith, I'm sure you've heard. Things aren't... good. I may be needing you more permanently."

Keith's hand instinctively reached for hers, his heart aching. "I'm so sorry, Maria. Please, don't hesitate to call on me for anything."
A wave of guilt washed over him. He'd been so focused on landing Lance as a client, his ambition almost eclipsing his genuine concern for Maria. She'd trusted him with Ronnie and Lia, his career had flourished under her guidance, and he owed his success, in no small part, to her mentorship.
"Don't get all sentimental on me," Maria scoffed, a flicker of her fire returning. "I’m not dead yet."
"Mom," Lance chided, his voice laced with worry. "Don't say that."

"Honey, I'm still here," she reassured him, her voice gentle. "And besides," she added with a mischievous glint in her eye, "you're a grown man with a thriving career. You don't need your mommy anymore."
Lance chuckled; the sound tinged with a sadness that mirrored his own. "I'll always need you, Mom."
Ronnie burst into the room; a platter of sliced fruit clutched in her hand. "Ah, the prodigal son returns!" She surveyed the scene, her gaze lingering on Keith with a playful glint. "Oh, I see how it is. Keith dragged you here, didn't he?"

The room erupted in laughter, the sound a welcome counterpoint to the somber undercurrent. As they caught up, sharing stories and laughter, Keith felt a pang of regret. He should have been here sooner, should have spent more time with her.
A phone call pulled him away. "I’ve gotta go, Maria," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Please, take care."
He said his goodbyes as he headed out into his jeep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith navigated through the bustling restaurant, the air thick with the aroma of sizzling dishes and the hum of animated conversations. He informed the host of his reservation and was swiftly escorted to the private VIP section, where Shiro was already seated, exuding an air of effortless authority.

Shiro, a well-built alpha in his 50s, was the epitome of aging like a fine wine. Those legendary Asian genes certainly didn’t hurt, and neither did the jet-black hair dye that made him look like he’d just stepped out of a GQ photoshoot. Keith often joked that Shiro’s billionaire status was the real fountain of youth, but deep down, he knew the man just had that *je ne sais quoi* that made time itself hesitate to leave a mark.

Shiro wasn’t just any alpha; he was a titan of industry, the kind of man who made Elon Musk look like a small-time player. His empire spanned real estate, investments, and management companies, including the one Keith worked for. Oh, and let’s not forget the nature reserve Keith and Lance had visited earlier—yeah, that was Shiro’s too. The man practically owned half the world, and yet, somehow, he still found time to be one of Keith’s closest friends. Go figure.

“Word on the street is you were spotted on a date with the one and only Lance McClain,” Shiro said, his tone dripping with playful mischief as Keith took his seat.

Keith rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn’t get stuck. “It’s not like that. I lost a bet, okay? I had to take him out. You know I don’t sleep with clients.”

Shiro arched a brow, his smirk widening. “Is that why you two spent *hours* in there? Just… talking?”

Keith shoved him lightly, though a faint blush betrayed him. They ordered their food, the conversation shifting seamlessly from teasing to catching up on life. But as the plates arrived, Keith’s tone grew serious. “Anyway… Maria has cancer.”

Shiro choked on his drink, his playful demeanor vanishing in an instant. “What? That’s horrible.”

Keith sighed, pushing his food around his plate. “Yeah, it’s terminal. Pancreatic. And she’s not going for any treatment either.”

Shiro slumped back in his chair, the weight of the news visibly hitting him. “Of course, she wouldn’t. Maria’s always been one to go out on her own terms… How’s Ronnie holding up? Is she okay?”

“She was a mess when she told me,” Keith admitted, his voice softening. “But I think she’s starting to accept it. She’s taking time off to be with her.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, the gravity of the situation settling over them like a heavy blanket. Shiro, ever the alpha, broke the tension with a small, wry smile. “Well, if anyone can face this head-on, it’s Maria. And if Ronnie needs anything, you know I’m here.”

Keith nodded, grateful for Shiro’s unwavering support. Despite the man’s larger-than-life persona, he had a way of grounding even the most chaotic moments. And in the unpredictable world, that was a rare and priceless gift.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Lance seemed almost back to his normal self after finally going home to see his mom. Keith had made sure his schedule allowed him to visit her every other week, and Lance had taken full advantage of it this time. He was back to his usual antics, too—slipping Keith expensive chocolates, bringing him coffee, and even making sure he had water during their busiest days. Lance was preparing for a new show, and even when everyone else had gone home, he stayed behind, practicing late into the night.

In the months they’d been working together, Keith had come to learn that Lance wasn’t just a natural talent—he was a relentless worker. His dancing was phenomenal now, but Lance had let it slip once that it had taken years of grueling classes to get him to this level. He didn’t just want to be a singer; he wanted to be a true performer, and he’d honed his skills and stamina until he’d earned that title.

One late night, as Keith swung by to check on Lance, he heard the sound of scolding—harsh, biting words that made him pause. Lance was berating himself, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Ugh, you’re embarrassing yourself!” Lance muttered, his voice dripping with frustration. “What’s wrong with you? You’re supposed to be better than this!”

Keith knocked on the side of the wall to announce his presence, raising an eyebrow. “Hey, since I’m the one who took care of those feet, I’d appreciate it if you gave them a break. They’ve been through enough.”

Lance froze, his face flushing as he realized he wasn’t alone. “Keith! I didn’t think anyone was still here,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, I just… I need to get this step right.”

Keith walked over and sat cross-legged on the floor, gesturing for Lance to join him. “You know no one’s perfect, right?” he said, his tone softer now.

Lance sighed and sat down, his shoulders slumping. “I know… I just… I want my mom to know she didn’t waste her time getting me here.”

Keith blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty in Lance’s voice. “What are you talking about? You’re incredible, Lance. Whether your mom was your manager or not, you would’ve been a success. You’ve got talent, drive, and—okay, fine, a ridiculously charming personality. You were destined for this.”

Lance scoffed, clearly not buying it. “Yeah, right. If I’m so incredible, why won’t you give me a chance?” he said, his tone teasing but with a hint of vulnerability.

Keith’s cheeks turned a deep shade of red, and he groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “That’s only because you’re my client! Ugh, don’t make me say it again!”

Lance leaned in, his grin widening. “Say what? That you’re secretly into me? That you’ve been resisting my charms this whole time?”

Keith groaned louder, his embarrassment palpable. “You know what? Fine. I was a huge fan of yours, okay? I had a poster of you above my bed. Happy now?”

Lance’s eyes lit up with mischief. “A poster? Oh, this I *have* to see. Please tell me there’s proof.”

Keith groaned again but pulled out his phone, scrolling through old photos until he found it. There it was—teenage Keith, standing in front of a life-sized poster of Lance, puckering up for a kiss. Lance burst out laughing, clutching his stomach as Keith buried his face in his hands.

“Oh my god, Keith! This is gold! You were *kissing* it?!” Lance wheezed between laughs.

“I was a teenager!” Keith protested, his voice muffled. “And you were… you know… dreamy or whatever. Don’t make it weird!”

Lance finally caught his breath, wiping tears from his eyes. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. But seriously, Keith, this is the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

Keith peeked out from behind his hands, his face still red. “Anyway… my point is, I told you I’m a fan. So stop being so hard on yourself, okay? You’re amazing, and your mom knows it. Now, let me get you home before you destroy what’s left of my dignity.”

Lance grinned, standing up and offering Keith a hand. “Fine, but only if you promise to show me more embarrassing photos later.”

Keith groaned again, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips as he took Lance’s hand. “Don’t push your luck, McClain.”

As they walked out together, Lance couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. Keith’s awkward confession had not only broken the tension but also reminded him that he wasn’t alone in this. And maybe, just maybe, Keith’s walls were starting to crack, too.

Chapter Text

The past few months had been a whirlwind of stolen glances, lingering touches, and quiet moments that spoke louder than words. Lance, had somehow mastered the art of subtlety—a feat Keith hadn’t thought possible.
It was in the way Lance would casually slide a cup of coffee across the table, or how he’d drape his jacket over Keith’s shoulders when the studio air conditioning was too cold. Small, thoughtful gestures that Keith couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.

Keith, the self-proclaimed lone wolf , found his walls slowly cracking under Lance’s persistent warmth. It wasn’t just his actions—it was the way Lance’s hand would brush against his when passing a music script, or how his scent seemed to linger in the air long after he’d walked away. Keith hated how much he noticed. Hated how much he *liked* it.
Lance would walk into the studio, flashing that megawatt smile, and Keith would suddenly remember he had a “very important email” to send. He’d duck out of the room, muttering something about deadlines, only to return five minutes later with a stack of papers he didn’t actually need.

One afternoon, Lance cornered him in the break room, holding out a perfectly wrapped sandwich. “Thought you might be hungry. You skipped lunch again.”

Keith froze, his eyes darting to the door like a trapped animal. “Uh, thanks. But I’m good. I, uh, already ate.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Really? Because I’ve been here all day, and the only thing I’ve seen you eat is a stale granola bar.”

Keith grabbed the sandwich, his cheeks flushing. “Okay, fine. But I’m taking this to my office. I have… stuff to do.”

Lance smirked, leaning against the counter. “Stuff, huh? Like avoiding me?”

Keith choked on air. “What? No. I’m not—I don’t—ugh.” He grabbed his coffee and bolted, leaving Lance chuckling behind him.

The next day, Lance caught him again, this time in the hallway. “Hey, Keith! I was thinking we could—”

“Sorry, Lance, can’t talk. Urgent call,” Keith interrupted, holding up his phone like a shield. He didn’t even wait for Lance to respond before speed-walking in the opposite direction.

Lance called after him, his voice dripping with amusement. “Your phone’s upside down, Keith!”

Keith glanced down, cursed under his breath, and flipped it over without breaking stride. “It’s on silent!” he shouted back, earning a laugh from Lance.

By the end of the week, Keith’s avoidance tactics had reached new heights. When Lance showed up at his office door with a box of pastries, Keith immediately stood up, clutching his laptop. “Oh, wow, look at the time. I have a… meeting. In another building. Across town.”

Lance leaned against the doorframe, his grin widening. “At 7 p.m. on a Friday?”

Keith nodded; his expression deadly serious. “Very important meeting. Can’t miss it.”

Lance stepped aside, gesturing dramatically toward the door. “By all means, don’t let me keep you.”

Keith hurried past him, muttering, “Thanks. See you Monday.”

As he power-walked down the hallway, Lance called after him, “You know, running away only makes me more determined!”

Keith groaned, his face burning. “I’m not running!” he shouted back, even as he practically sprinted to the elevator.

It was a dance, and Keith was determined to lead. But Lance was proving to be an annoyingly good partner, always one step ahead. And no matter how hard Keith tried to avoid him, he couldn’t shake the warmth that spread through his chest every time Lance smiled at him—or the sinking feeling that his walls were starting to crumble, one thoughtful gesture at a time.
That was, until they found themselves in an exotic location for Lance’s latest music video shoot. The set was a sprawling jungle oasis, complete with waterfalls, lush greenery, and a sky that had just decided to unleash a torrential downpour. The crew, ever the professionals, had packed up their equipment and retreated to the safety of their base camp miles away, leaving Lance and Keith stranded in Lance’s rover.

Keith had been trying to avoid Lance all day, of course. He’d spent the morning hiding behind clipboards, pretending to be engrossed in scheduling conflicts, and even faked a phone call with his “friend” to avoid being alone with him. But Lance, ever the opportunist, had other plans.

“Keith!” Lance called out, jogging toward him as the first drops of rain began to fall. “We need to get out of here before the roads flood. Hop in!”

Keith hesitated, glancing around for any other options. “I’ll just ride with the crew. They’ve got space in the van.”

Lance shook his head, his grin widening. “Nope. They already left. It’s just you and me, boss.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “Convenient.”

“Very,” Lance said, popping the door open for him. “Now get in before you drown.”

Keith sighed, muttering under his breath as he climbed into the passenger seat. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Says the guy who’s about to be soaked to the bone,” Lance shot back, sliding into the driver’s seat. He turned the key, and the engine roared to life just as the rain intensified, pounding against the roof like a drumline.

Keith crossed his arms, staring out the window as Lance navigated the muddy path. “You know, this feels suspiciously like a setup.”

Lance gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Me? Set this up? Keith, I’m hurt. Do you really think I’d manipulate the weather just to get you alone?”

Keith shot him a deadpan look. “Yes.”

Lance laughed, the sound warm and infectious. “Okay, fair. But I promise, this is all Mother Nature’s doing. I’m just… enjoying the moment.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof created a cocoon of intimacy, and the world outside seemed to fade away. It was just the two of them, the sound of the rain, and the faint hum of the jeep’s heater.

After a few minutes of silence, Lance glanced over at Keith, his tone softening. “You know, you can’t avoid me forever.”

Keith stiffened; his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window. “I’m not avoiding you. I’m just… busy.”

“Busy,” Lance repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Right. Because you’re always too busy to eat the lunches I bring you or answer the texts I send you or—”

“Okay, fine,” Keith interrupted, turning to face him. “Maybe I’ve been avoiding you. But it’s for your own good.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “My own good? Please, enlighten me.”

Keith groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Look, Lance, you’re my client. This—whatever this is—it’s complicated. I don’t do complicated.”

Lance’s smirk softened into a smile, and he reached over, brushing a strand of hair out of Keith’s face. His fingers and breath ghosting over Keith’s neck. He smelled like sin. “You keep saying that, but I don’t think you mean it.”

Keith’s breath hitched, he could feel a wetness forming between his thighs as he leaned back, trying to put some distance between them. “Lance…”

“Keith,” Lance said, his voice low and steady his gaze heated. “You can keep running if you want. But I’m not going anywhere.”

The rain continued to pour outside, the sound filling the silence between them. Keith stared at Lance, his defenses crumbling under the weight of Lance’s unwavering gaze. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Lance grinned, his hand dropping to rest on the gearshift as he parked the car outside their hotel. “So I’ve been told. But you like me anyway.”

Keith groaned, but there was no real heat behind it. “Don’t push your luck, McClain.”

Lance’s grin widened, and he leaned in closer, his voice a whisper. “Too late.”

The space between them disappeared as Lance closed the gap, his lips brushing against Keith’s in a kiss that was anything but soft, Lance devouring Keith’s lips like a starving man. Keith hesitated for a moment before giving in, his hand reaching up to cradle Lance’s face as he matched Lance’s energy deepening the kiss, rain pouring outside.

When they finally pulled apart, Lance rested his forehead against Keith’s, his breath warm against Keith’s skin. “See? Not so complicated.”
Keith let out a breathy laugh, his heart still pounding in his chest. "You're going to be the death of me," he said, half-jokingly.
But Keith was done playing games. He grabbed Lance's face and pulled him into a deeper, more passionate kiss. Their tongues tangled together, savoring the taste and feel of each other. Lance could feel himself getting hard as Keith’s tongue pushed past his teeth.

Without breaking their kiss, Lance quickly unbuckled both of their seatbelts and leaned over to Keith, his hands exploring Keith’s body. The sound of rain outside drowned out any concerns they had, making it feel like they were the only two people in the world.
Keith slid onto Lance's lap, straddling him as they continued to make out his trousers tightening around his cock as it twitched to life. Keith could smell Lance’s arousal as he kept at it. Lance's hands slipping under Keith's shirt, feeling his soft skin beneath his fingertips. He teased and played with Keith's nipples, eliciting sweet moans and whimpers from him.
"God, Keith," Lance growled as he briefly broke their kiss his hands still playing with Keith’s tits.

Lance took one of Keith's nipples into his mouth as he fondled the other one, Keith taking in a sharp breath as he looked to the ceiling losing himself in the pleasure. Lance slicked Keith’s tits with his tongue as he ran his hands through soft dark locks Keith whimpering in response. He was loving the attention his scent getting heavier and needier.
Keith gently moved prying Lance’s mouth off him, his expression smoldering as he gestured towards his belt buckle maintaining eye contact as he spoke.
"Show me how bad you want me."

Lance hadn't planned for their first time together to be like this, but he couldn't resist Keith at this point his instincts were screaming at him to take him. Without hesitation, he pulled Keith back in for another heated kiss as he expertly removed Keith's belt and trousers, underwear included.
Keith’s cock was gorgeous as it sprang free, it was a lighter shade than the rest of Keith and had a lovely pink tip as his precum dripped form it. Lance’s breath hitched as he took him in. *Damn he’s pretty everywhere. *

Keith mirrored Lance’s desire he rutted against him as he unzipped Lance’s trousers’ feeling his cock in his hands as it sprang free, he was already rock hard his scent dizzying Keith. Lance was well endowed to Keith’s pleasure, his cock thick and just the right length for Keith. As Lance explored Keith's body with his hands and lips, he couldn’t believe his luck at having this gorgeous creature in his arms. He couldn't resist peppering kisses and sucking hickeys all over Keith’s neck and shoulders.

Keith lapped at Lance’s fingers bringing them to his mouth and slicking them with his saliva before he dragged them down his chest down past his navel and right into his pussy. “You’re so wet Keith.” Lance breathed it out as his fingers pushed past Keith’s wet folds as he began to finger him.
Lance couldn’t put into words how deliciously Keith tightened around his fingers as he opened him up Keith whimpering and trembling with pleasure. Keith’s lavender scent hit Lance’s nose with an intensity he wasn’t prepared for and Lance’s heady musky scent enveloped them, it would be a cold day in hell before he let anyone else smell Keith. The sound of Keith’s wet folds filled the tiny space as Lance added another finger in as Keith grinded down on his fingers.

"Lance, Ahhh," Keith whimpered.
Lance pulled his fingers out lapping at his lips as he tasted Keith's sweet slick before pulling down his pants further his cock springing out as he slid his pants down to his ankles. He gave Keith a heated kiss as he asked "Can I have you?" Keith didn’t need to be asked twice he nodded keeping eye contact as Lance positioned himself at the entrance of Keith’s pussy.
Lance slowly bottomed out making sure not to hurt Keith in the process. Nothing Lance experienced ever felt like this; he wasn’t sure where he ended and Keith began, and he let out a long moan matching the whimper that filled his ears. His eyes half closed as the sensation almost overwhelmed him. “Holy…” He pressed his fingers carefully into Keith’s hips as he settled inside him.

Keith groaned watching Lance’s face, his usual countenance melting away to a primal flush. With shallow thrusts, Lance fucked into Keith’s pussy his wet folds tightening around him like a slice of heaven as he fucked him open, Keith whimpering and bouncing on Lance’s cock as the pleasure rocked both their bodies. His arms shook with the control he was trying to exert over himself , Keith’s body still so tight around him as he took him.
Lance locked lips with Keith as he fucked him passionately kissing him as he sped up his pace. One hand on the driver's seat and the other on the window, Keith held on tight as Lance's relentless thrusts brought him closer to the edge. Keith didn’t last long as he bounced on Lance’s cock cuming hard trailing cum all over Lance’s shirt as he rode out his orgasm.

Keith tightened deliciously around Lance’s cock as he came and it was game over for Lance at that point. “Keith!” Lance’s hips bucked as his orgasm came over him, practically blinding him with pleasure.
“So…good!... Aaha!” An aftershock of pleasure wracked through Keith. Then another and another. The quakes bringing a climactic peak with their passing. In the helplessness of his euphoria Keith tilted his head, exposing his neck, mindless of the offer he was giving.
As they both rode out their orgasms, Lance leaned over him to memorize his pleasure-drunk expression. His own chest heaved, and he gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from Keith’s neck, sliding down to kiss there, "That was …the best sex I’ve ever had. You’re coming with me."

Chapter Text

Keith dug his hands into Lance’s brown locks as he laid on the bed, Lance was currently devouring his pussy as he writhed and whimpered. He was in utter bliss lost in the pleasure as Lance went to work.
Lance had pulled on their clothes and led Keith to his hotel room out in the pouring rain. Lance had tried his best to shield Keith from the rain and as soon as they had made it to his room Lance had plopped Keith on his bed wet body and clothes be damned and continued what they had begun in the car.

Keith gently pried Lance off him as he spoke.
“I want you inside me again.” Lance didn’t need to be told twice. Lance rolled on top of him as he pushed inside with his face held into the crook of Keith’s neck, giving Keith a view of the muscle on his back. Keith blinked, gasping with a thrust as he clutched Lance closer. He drove Keith crazy with long purposely thrusts as he bottomed out.
In the car it was all heat and desire but Lance wanted to make love to Keith this time, kiss him all over, leave him begging for more.

From Keith’s angle, he saw the wave of flexing muscle, every tensing fiber designed to drive Keith further into his growing euphoric madness. He glided his hands over Lance’s back his head tilting back as he felt along the skin, moaning Lance’s name until they came together.
They arched in unison, rode out the pleasure together, and basked in the last light as darkness took over. As their breathing evened out, Keith felt sleep weigh down on him, he curled around his lover and let Lance’s breathing escort him off to sleep. Lance suppressed a shiver when Keith pressed closer to him like that. It wasn’t anything sexual, but the simplest nuzzle sent a waft of Keith’s too-alluring scent right at Lance.
Lance kissed Keith’s temple as he drifted off to sleep before he settled even more around Keith and let sleepover take him too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith woke up the next day with the kind of daze that only comes from a night that blurs the line between reckless and unforgettable. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, and his thoughts were scrambling to catch up with reality. He reached instinctively for his phone, patting the empty space on the bedside table. Nothing. He squinted in the dim light filtering through the curtains, the room unfamiliar and disorienting. *Where the hell am I?* he thought, his heart rate picking up.

Then he felt it—a warm body next to him, breathing softly. His hand froze mid-air as the events of the previous night came crashing back like a poorly timed avalanche. The car. The hotel. *Lance.*

Keith’s eyes widened in panic, and he jerked backward, tumbling off the bed with a loud *thud*. The sound startled Lance awake, who bolted upright, his hair sticking up in every direction like a startled porcupine.

“Keith! Are you okay?” Lance’s voice was laced with concern as he leaned over the edge of the bed, his sleep-softened face now etched with worry.

Keith, wrapped in a sheet like a flustered burrito, scrambled to his feet, his face burning hotter than a desert sun. He couldn’t even bring himself to look Lance in the eye. *How could I let this happen?* he thought, his mind racing. *The car was bad enough, but then I let him bring me up to his hotel room? What is wrong with me?*

“I need to go!” Keith blurted out, his voice an octave higher than usual. He began darting around the room like a man on a mission, scooping up his clothes from where they’d been haphazardly discarded the night before.

Lance, now fully awake, shot out of bed like a rocket. “No! You are *not* leaving!” he declared, his voice firm but tinged with desperation. He intercepted Keith mid-step, grabbing his arm with a grip that was firm but not painful. “The shoot ended yesterday. We have a free day today. There’s literally *nothing* you need to do!”

Keith tried to pry Lance’s fingers off his arm, but Lance’s grip was unyielding. “I’ve got work to do!” Keith insisted, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Keith, just stop running away from me!” Lance exclaimed, his tone equal parts exasperation and affection. He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Oh wait, it’s not me you’re running from—it’s your Fucking feelings!”

Keith stopped struggling at that, his amethyst eyes widening as if Lance had just uncovered a secret he’d buried deep. “That’s the problem!” Keith shouted back, his voice cracking. “I shouldn’t like anyone! Not like this… God, I can’t even…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into a frustrated groan.

Lance’s expression softened as the pieces clicked into place. He realized that Keith’s walls weren’t just high—they were fortified with years of self-reliance and the kind of emotional armor that comes from being abandoned. Keith had spent his life fending for himself, and the idea of relying on someone else, of *loving* someone else, probably felt like handing over the keys to his own destruction.

“Hey,” Lance said gently, pulling Keith into a hug. His voice was soothing, his scent turning comforting. “I like you a lot too, you know. And yeah, it scares me. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

Keith hesitated, then let himself be pulled closer, his head resting against Lance’s chest. He could feel Lance’s heartbeat, rapid but steady, like a drumline marching to its own rhythm.

“Give me a chance,” Lance whispered, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken promises.

Keith looked up at him, his eyes searching Lance’s face for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he leaned in and kissed him, a slow, tender kiss that spoke volumes more than words ever could. When they finally broke apart, Lance chuckled, his breath warm against Keith’s skin.

“Come back to bed,” Lance said, his tone playful but sincere. “I wanna cuddle you. And maybe steal the sheet this time—you’ve been hogging it.”

Keith rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. “Fine,” he muttered, letting Lance lead him back to the bed. As they settled in, Keith couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, letting someone in wasn’t the end of the world after all.

And if Lance’s arms around him felt like home, well, that was a secret Keith would keep for now.
The next day was a blur of warmth, laughter, and a kind of intimacy Keith had never allowed himself to imagine. Lance, true to his word, was determined to spoil Keith rotten, and Keith, though initially hesitant, found himself giving in to Lance’s relentless charm.
Lance woke Keith up later with a tray of breakfast—croissants, bacon, sausages, fresh fruit, and an array of teas and coffee’s “Room service,” Lance announced with a grin, setting the tray on the bed. Keith blinked up at him, still half-asleep, his hair a messy halo of black.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Keith mumbled, though the small smile on his lips betrayed his gratitude.

“Of course I did,” Lance said, plopping down beside him. “I’m spoiling you is basically my job.”

Lance shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though his cheeks were tinged pink. “I mean, unless you’re planning to run away again. In which case, I’ll just chase you. I’ve got stamina, you know.”

Keith rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he took a bite of a croissant and muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Lance shot back, leaning in to steal a kiss.

Later that day, Lance dragged Keith to a private beach nearby, a secluded stretch of sand that felt like their own little world. The sun was warm, the ocean breeze salty and refreshing, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore was almost hypnotic. Keith, who had been tense and guarded at first, slowly began to relax as Lance’s playful antics wore him down.

They swam in the ocean, Lance splashing Keith relentlessly until Keith retaliated by dunking him underwater. They built a sandcastle—well, Lance built a sandcastle while Keith sat nearby, offering sarcastic commentary. (“That tower looks like it’s about to collapse.” “Keith, I swear to God, if you don’t stop criticizing my architectural skills—”) And when the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Lance spread out a blanket and pulled Keith down beside him wine in hand.

“You’re too tense,” Lance said, trailing kitten licks up Keith’s shoulders. “Let me fix that.”

Before Keith could protest, Lance’s fingers were kneading the knots in his muscles, his touch firm but gentle. Keith let out a low groan, his body melting under Lance’s hands. “How are you even good at this?” Keith muttered; his voice muffled by the blanket.

“I have many hidden talents,” Lance replied, his tone smug.

Keith snorted but didn’t argue. He was too busy enjoying the way Lance’s hands seemed to erase every ounce of tension in his body.

That night, back in the hotel room, their connection deepened in a way that felt both inevitable and exhilarating. They made love slowly, tenderly, their movements speaking volumes more than words ever could. Lance’s hands traced every inch of Keith’s skin as if memorizing him, he kissed him all over too and Keith, for once, let himself be vulnerable, let himself feel everything without holding back.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, Keith’s head resting on Lance’s chest. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, and for a while, neither of them spoke. But Keith, ever the overthinker, couldn’t stay silent for long.

“Lance,” he began, his voice hesitant.

Lance’s fingers stilled where they’d been tracing patterns on Keith’s back he answered, his tone gentle but cautious. “What’s up?”

Keith sat up, pulling the sheet around himself as if it could shield him from the weight of his own words. “I… I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never let myself get this close to someone. And it’s… it’s terrifying.”

Lance sat up too, his expression serious now. “I know,” he said softly. “And I get it. You’ve spent your whole life protecting yourself, and now you’re letting someone in. That’s scary as hell.”

Keith nodded; his throat tight. “But… I don’t want to run away anymore,” he said with a chuckle, his voice gaining strength. “I want to try this. With you. But I need to know that you’re serious. That this isn’t just… some fling for you.”

Lance reached out, cupping Keith’s face in his hands. His eyes were earnest, his gaze unwavering. “Keith, I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. You’re not a fling to me. You’re… you’re everything.”

Keith’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Lance’s. “Okay,” he whispered. “Then let’s do this. Let’s… let’s be together. For real.”

Lance’s smile was so bright it could’ve lit up the room. “For real,” he agreed, sealing the promise with a kiss.

As they lay in bed that night, Keith turned to Lance, a small, dorky smile creeping onto his face “So… does this mean we’re officially dating? Like, do I get to update my Instagram, or…?”

Lance grinned, pulling Keith closer with the confidence of someone who’d just won the lottery but was trying to play it cool. “Oh, we’re way past dating, my dude. We’re, like, soulmates or something.”

Keith rolled his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. “Soulmates? Really?”

But deep down, Keith couldn’t fight the warmth spreading through his chest. For the first time in his life, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be—wrapped in Lance’s arms, listening to him ramble about destiny.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Getting back to work and navigating their new normal was, well, *interesting*. Keith was trying to balance keeping things low-key with the overwhelming urge to stamp his mark on Lance’s forehead like a certified "Property of Keith" label. He’d never felt this possessive about anyone before, but Lance had a way of making everyone feel like they were the center of the universe. It was just who he was—charming, magnetic, and effortlessly kind. Keith didn’t want to stifle that, but damn if it didn’t make his stomach twist every time Lance flashed that million-watt smile at someone else.

But Lance had made it crystal clear: he only wanted Keith. He’d even gone as far as changing all his backup dancers a few months back to keep things professional with his new team. Keith hadn’t asked him to do it—Lance had just done it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t want any distractions,” Lance had said with a shrug, as if rearranging his entire career around Keith was no big deal. Keith had tried to play it cool, but inside, he was a puddle of goo.

Still, seeing Lance laugh with someone or even just *exist* in the same room as another human being could get Keith a little… heated. He kept it together, though. Somehow, against all odds, he trusted Lance. Completely. And that trust was rewarded in the sweetest ways. Lance had dialed back the grand, over-the-top romantic gestures. Instead, he’d leave little bags of pastries on Keith’s desk with sticky notes that said things like, *“For my grumpy space cowboy <3.”* Or he’d surprise Keith with small potted plants for his office, claiming, “You need more life in here, babe. And no, I don’t count.”

It helped that Lance was pretty much done touring and doing active press. He was deep into writing music for his next album, holed up in the studio with his producer for hours. Fewer prying eyes meant more freedom, and Keith was grateful for it. With Ronnie and Lance both off duty for now, Keith’s workload had lightened too, leaving him with more time to actually *be* with Lance.

They’d go on dates—real, normal-people dates. Dinner at cozy little private restaurants, late-night walks where Lance would grab Keith’s hand and swing it between them like a kid, or movie nights that always ended with them tangled up on the couch, Lance stealing kisses during the boring parts.

And then there were the mornings. Keith would wake up to texts from Lance that ranged from *“Good morning, beautiful <3”* to *“I had a dream you were a dragon and I was your knight. Thoughts?”* If they couldn’t be together, they’d spend hours on the phone, talking about everything and nothing. Lance would ramble about his new song lyrics, and Keith would listen, interjecting with sarcastic comments that only made Lance laugh harder. And when they *were* together, it was like the rest of the world faded away. They’d talk for hours, or they’d fall into bed, their connection so electric it felt like the universe had conspired to bring them together.

Lance had seamlessly integrated himself into Keith’s life, like he’d always been there. Keith’s apartment was now littered with Lance’s things—a hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, a toothbrush in the bathroom, a half-empty bag of chips on the counter that Lance swore he’d finish “later.” (He never did.) Keith’s mornings started with Lance’s texts and ended with his voice, soft and sleepy, murmuring “I love you” before they drifted off.

They hadn’t officially told anyone they were dating, but it wasn’t exactly a secret. Shiro had noticed almost immediately. “You’re smiling more,” he’d said one day, giving Keith a knowing look. “You seem… lighter. Happier.” Keith had shrugged it off, but he couldn’t deny it. Lance had this way of filling up the empty spaces in his life, like sunlight spilling through cracks in a wall.

And then there were the stolen moments—the little things that made Keith’s heart race. Like when Lance would sneak up behind him in the kitchen, wrap his arms around Keith’s waist, and press a kiss to the back of his neck. Or when they’d be out in public, and Lance would casually brush his fingers against Keith’s, sending a jolt of warmth through him. Once, during a meeting, Lance had “accidentally” dropped his pen under the table and crawled after it, only to pop up with a mischievous grin and a quick peck on Keith’s cheek. Keith had turned bright red, but Lance just winked like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Falling deeper in love with Lance was like discovering a new part of himself he hadn’t known was missing. It was messy and chaotic and perfect. And Keith wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter Text

Keith knocked nervously on Ronnie’s door, his heart pounding. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clutching a bag of gifts in one hand and his dignity in the other. The last time they’d talked about Lance, he’d made it *very* clear that nothing was happening between them. Now, he had to tell her not only were they sleeping together, but they were officially dating. *Great. No pressure. *

Ronnie swung the door open, her face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Keith! Oh my God, it’s been forever—” She stopped mid-sentence, her nose wrinkling as she took a step closer. Her eyes narrowed, and then widened in shock. “You *slept* with Lance!” she blurted, her voice hitting an octave Keith didn’t know humans could reach.

Keith froze, his brain short-circuiting. Lance had *promised* he hadn’t told her yet. They’d agreed Keith would be the one to break the news. “How did you—?” he stammered, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.

Ronnie stared at him like he’d just grown a second head. “Are you kidding me? You *reek* of him. Like, seriously, Keith, you smell like you rolled around in a vat of Lance’s scent. Any alpha within a ten-mile radius could probably smell it. My God, he’s marked you like a damn territory.” She stepped aside, ushering him into her house with a dramatic wave of her hand.

Keith shuffled in, setting down the gifts he’d brought as Ronnie continued her interrogation. “Wow. Possessive much? That’s new for him.” She flashed him a wicked grin, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “I guess you two are getting *serious* serious, huh? No wonder I could barely get ahold of you. You’re blowing me off for my *brother*? Really, Keith? Of all people?”

Keith groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not blowing you off, Ronnie. We’ve just been… busy. And, you know, figuring things out. Plus, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Ronnie rolled her eyes but gestured for him to sit down. They settled onto her couch, and Keith braced himself for the conversation he’d been dreading. He took a deep breath, deciding to just rip the Band-Aid off. “So, yeah. Lance and I are… dating now. And, uh…” He trailed off, his cheeks burning so hot he was surprised they hadn’t caught fire. “I really like him, okay? So… do I have your blessing?”

Ronnie’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and she leaned back, clearly savoring the moment. “Oh, Keith. You’re asking for my *blessing*? How adorably old-fashioned of you.” She paused, pretending to think it over, then grinned. “Yes, you have my blessing. You and Lance are literally my two favorite people, so I’m kind of thrilled about this. But—” She held up a finger, her tone turning mock-serious. “Don’t expect me to pick sides if things go south. I love you both, but I’m not getting in the middle of your drama.”

Keith let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks, Ronnie. That… means a lot.”

She smirked, leaning forward to punch him lightly on the arm. “Just don’t break his heart, okay? Or I’ll break *you*. And trust me, I know where you sleep.”

Keith laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. But, uh, for the record? I think he’s the one who’s got *me* wrapped around his finger.”

Ronnie snorted. “Oh, please. You’re both disasters. It’s perfect.” She grabbed the bag of gifts Keith had brought and peeked inside. “Ooh, snacks! Okay, you’re officially forgiven for ghosting me. Now, spill. Tell me *everything*.”

And so, Keith did. They spent the next hour catching up, Keith being surprisingly honest about everything—from the way Lance made him laugh to the way he’d somehow become the proud owner of three houseplants thanks to Lance’s random acts of affection. By the time he left, Keith felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. And as he walked out the door, Ronnie called after him, “Hey, Keith! Tell Lance he owes me dinner for stealing my best friend!”

Keith chuckled, shaking his head. “Will do.”

As he drove home, he couldn’t help but smile. For all the chaos and uncertainty, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be—and he had Ronnie’s blessing to prove it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Keith pulled up to Lance’s sleek, modern home in the private gated community, the kind of place that screamed “rising pop star” with its floor-to-ceiling windows, manicured lawn, and a pool that glimmered under the afternoon sun. He parked his car, grabbed the bag of snacks he’d picked up on the way (because Lance was always hungry, and Hunk deserved a reward for putting up with Lance’s creative chaos), and headed inside. Keith let himself in—because apparently, they were at that level now.The keypad beeped as he punched in the code, and the door clicked open.

The house was quiet except for the faint thump of bass coming from the basement. Keith followed the sound, descending the stairs to Lance’s home studio—a soundproofed haven filled with state-of-the-art equipment, guitars hanging on the walls, and a couch that had seen one too many late-night writing sessions. Lance was perched on a stool, headphones on, nodding his head to a beat while Hunk fiddled with a synth, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Keith leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and waited for them to notice him. It didn’t take long. Lance’s eyes flicked up, and his face lit up like a kid spotting an ice cream truck. “Keith!” he exclaimed, pulling off his headphones and nearly knocking over the mic in the process. “You’re here! And you brought snacks? You’re a saint.”

Hunk turned, his face breaking into a warm smile. “Hey, Keith. Nice to see you. And thank God for the snacks—Lance has been running me ragged with this new track.”

Keith tossed the bag of snacks onto the couch and walked over to Lance, who was already reaching for him. But instead of the usual hug, Keith playfully smacked him on the arm. “Ow! What was that for?” Lance yelped, rubbing his arm dramatically.

“That,” Keith said, narrowing his eyes, “is for covering me in your pheromones and outing us to Ronnie before I even had a chance to say anything. Do you know how awkward that was? She took one whiff of me and *knew*.”

Lance blinked, then burst out laughing. “Oh my God, she did *not*.”

“She did,” Keith said, crossing his arms. “She said I smelled like I’d been marinating in your scent. Thanks for that, by the way. Really subtle.”

Hunk snorted, trying to hide his laughter behind a hand. “Sorry, Keith, but that’s kind of hilarious. Lance hasn’t always been… uh, *enthusiastic* about marking his territory.”

Lance shot Hunk a mock glare. “Traitor.” Then he turned back to Keith, his expression softening. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to out you like that. I just… got carried away.”

Keith sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Yeah, I know. You’re ridiculous. But, uh… Ronnie gave us her blessing, so I guess it’s fine.”

Lance’s eyes widened, and he grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “She did? That’s amazing! I mean, not that I needed her permission, but still. It’s nice to have her approval.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get too cocky,” Keith said, poking him in the chest. “She also said she’s not picking sides if we break up, so… no pressure.”

Lance gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “Break up? Keith, we’re *soulmates*. There is no breaking up. Only happily ever after.”

Hunk groaned, tossing a crumpled-up piece of paper at Lance. “Can you two save the rom-com dialogue for later? We’ve got work to do.”

Keith laughed, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you get back to it. I’ll just… hang out on the couch or something.”

But Lance had other plans. He grabbed Keith’s hand, pulling him closer. “No way. You’re not getting off that easy. You’re here now, which means you’re officially part of the creative process. Sit.” He gestured to the stool next to him.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Uh, I don’t know the first thing about writing music, Lance.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lance said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ve got good instincts. And besides, I want your input. You’re my muse, remember?”

Keith groaned, but he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork,” Lance corrected, grinning.

Hunk rolled his eyes. “If you two are done being disgustingly cute, can we get back to work?”

Keith reluctantly sat down, and Lance handed him a notebook filled with scribbled lyrics and half-formed ideas. As Lance and Hunk dove back into the music, Keith found himself drawn into the process. At first, he just listened, offering the occasional comment or suggestion. But as the hours passed, he started to get more involved, scribbling down lines and ideas of his own.

At one point, Lance glanced over at Keith’s notebook and froze. “Wait. Did you just write that?” he asked, pointing to a line Keith had jotted down.

Keith looked up, confused. “Uh, yeah? Why? Is it bad?”

“Bad? Keith, this is *brilliant*,” Lance said, his eyes wide with excitement. He grabbed the notebook and read the line aloud. “‘We’re constellations in the dark, trying to find our way back to the start.’ That’s… wow. That’s really good.”

Keith shrugged, his cheeks turning pink. “It’s just something that came to me. I don’t know if it fits.”

“It fits perfectly,” Lance said, grinning. “Hunk, listen to this.” He read the line again, and Hunk nodded in approval.

“Yeah, that’s solid. Keith, you’ve got a knack for this.”

Keith blinked, surprised. “Really? I mean, I just… I don’t know. It’s not a big deal.”

“It *is* a big deal,” Lance said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re full of surprises, Kogane. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the warmth spreading through his chest. As the night wore on, he found himself getting more and more into the creative process, bouncing ideas off Lance and Hunk and even suggesting a melody at one point. By the time they called it a night, they had the skeleton of a new song—one that felt raw, honest, and deeply personal.

As Hunk packed up his things and headed out, Lance pulled Keith into a hug. “Thanks for staying,” he murmured, his voice soft. “I know this isn’t exactly your thing, but… it means a lot that you tried.”

Keith smiled, resting his head against Lance’s shoulder. “Yeah, well… I guess I don’t hate it. And it’s kind of fun seeing you in your element.”

Lance pulled back, grinning. “Oh, I’m always in my element. But seriously, you’re amazing. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but his heart swelled with affection as he kissed him. “You’re such a sap.”

“Your sap,” Lance corrected, leaning in to kiss him.

As they stood there in the quiet of the studio, Keith realized just how far they’d come.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The week had been a whirlwind for both Lance and Keith. Lance was knee-deep in preparations for an industry event—a glitzy awards after-party where he was expected to schmooze with producers and fellow artists. Meanwhile, Keith was juggling Lia’s packed modeling schedule and Ronnie’s last-minute requests, leaving him little time to breathe, let alone spend quality time with Lance. They’d been texting sporadically, but the distance was starting to wear on both of them.

The night of the event, Keith finally had a rare moment to himself. He collapsed onto the couch in Lance’s living room, scrolling through his phone while absentmindedly nibbling on a slice of cold pizza. He’d been too busy to be on social media. He opened Instagram and immediately regretted it.

There, at the top of his feed, was a photo of Lance. He looked effortlessly handsome in a tailored navy suit, his smile bright as he posed with… *her*. Keith’s stomach dropped. It was *her*—Lance’s ex, the one he’d mentioned in passing once or twice. She was stunning, of course, with her cascading curls and a dress that looked like it cost more than Keith’s car. The caption underneath the photo read: *“Reunited and it feels so good! Love running into this guy 💕 #ThrowbackVibes #IndustryNight.”*

Keith’s jaw tightened as he stared at the photo. Lance’s arm was casually draped around her shoulders, and they looked… cozy. Too cozy. He knew Lance was just being polite—he had to be—but the knot in his chest refused to loosen. He tossed his phone onto the couch and ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

Just then, Lance walked through the door, his tie loosened and his cheeks slightly flushed from the night’s festivities. “Keith! You’re still up?” he called out, his voice cheerful but tinged with exhaustion. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you passed out.”

Keith didn’t respond. He just sat there, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Lance paused, sensing the tension in the room. “Uh… everything okay?” he asked, setting his keys on the counter and walking over to the couch.

Keith finally looked up, his eyes sharp. “You tell me.”

Lance blinked, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Keith grabbed his phone and thrust it toward Lance, the photo glaring on the screen. “Care to explain this?”

Lance took the phone, his brow furrowing as he studied the picture. “Oh, this? It’s just a photo with my ex. We ran into each other at the event. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Keith repeated, his voice rising. “You’re all over her, Lance! And the caption? ‘Reunited and it feels so good’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Lance’s eyes widened. “Keith, come on. You know how these things are. It’s just for show. She posted that, not me. I was just being polite.”

“Polite?” Keith shot back, standing up. “You looked a little *too* polite, Lance. Do you even realize how this looks? You’re out there looking like you’re on a date with your ex!”

Lance’s expression hardened. “That’s not fair, Keith. You know I wouldn’t do that to you. I’ve been nothing but honest with you from the start. If you don’t trust me, that’s on you.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” Keith snapped. “Maybe if you weren’t so damn friendly with everyone, I wouldn’t have to wonder if you’re just ‘being polite’ or if there’s something more going on!”

Lance threw his hands up in frustration. “I can’t win with you, can I? If I’m not paying enough attention, you’re upset. If I’m too friendly, you’re upset. What do you want from me, Keith?”

“I want you to think about how your actions affect me!” Keith shouted, his voice echoing through the room. “I’m not just some guy you’re casually dating, Lance. This is supposed to be serious, but sometimes it feels like you’re still playing the field!”

Lance stared at him, hurt flashing in his eyes. “That’s not true, and you know it. I’ve done nothing but show you how much you mean to me. But if you’re going to throw my past in my face every time I breathe wrong, then maybe we need to rethink this.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, heavy and suffocating. Keith felt his chest tighten, but he refused to back down. “Maybe we do,” he said coldly, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

“Keith, wait—” Lance started, but Keith was already out the door, slamming it behind him.

Lance stood there, stunned, the weight of the argument settling over him. He sank onto the couch, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the photo on Keith’s phone. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

Meanwhile, Keith stormed out to his car, his mind racing. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t stay there—not with the image of Lance and his ex burned into his brain. As he drove off into the night, one thought consumed him: *What if this is the beginning of the end?*

Chapter Text

Keith’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The engine hummed faintly, but his mind was a roaring storm. He had been driving for what felt like hours, circling the city with no destination in mind. The streets blurred together, but the anger and humiliation burning in his chest refused to fade. *This is exactly why I don’t date,* he thought bitterly, his jaw clenched. He had let his emotions get the better of him—again. Jealousy had clawed its way into his heart, and before he could think, he’d stormed out of Lance’s apartment like a petulant child, leaving his phone behind in the process.

“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, slamming his palm against the wheel. The sharp *thud* echoed in the quiet car, but it did nothing to ease the frustration boiling inside him. He hated feeling this way—out of control, vulnerable. And now he’d have to face Lance again, not just to retrieve his phone, but to confront the mess he’d made.

The car rolled to a stop at a viewpoint overlooking the city. The gated community perched on the hill offered a breathtaking panorama of glittering lights and sprawling streets below, but Keith barely noticed. He killed the engine and stepped out, the cool night air hitting his face like a slap. He leaned against the hood of his car, arms crossed, staring out at the city as if it held the answers he was searching for.

*What was Lance supposed to do?* he asked himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. They had agreed to keep their relationship private—Keith’s idea, of course. He valued his privacy above all else, and Lance had respected that. But now, sitting alone in the dark, he couldn’t help but wonder if that secrecy had only made things worse. Had Lance really meant what he’d said? Or had Keith overreacted?

The sound of tires crunching on gravel pulled him from his thoughts. He turned sharply, his heart skipping a beat as Lance’s familiar car pulled up beside his. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating Keith’s tense expression. For a moment, neither of them moved. Lance stepped out of the car, his silhouette framed by the city lights behind him. He looked calm, but Keith could see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his hands lingered on the car door as if bracing himself.

“Keith,” Lance said, his voice steady but laced with something unreadable. “You left your phone.”

Keith swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice quieter than he intended. He shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly unsure of what to do with them. “I… didn’t mean to storm out like that.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to? You practically blew the door off its hinges.”

Keith winced, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I know. I just… I didn’t know what else to do. I felt like an idiot. I’m sorry.”

Lance sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You *are* an idiot,” he said, but there was no malice in his tone—only exhaustion. “You could’ve just talked to me, Keith. Instead of assuming the worst and running off.”

Keith’s chest tightened. “I didn’t want to assume anything,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But when I saw you with her, I just… I don’t know. I panicked.”

Lance’s expression softened, and he took another step closer, closing the distance between them. “There’s nothing going on, Keith. You know that. You *know* me.”

Keith’s eyes flicked up, meeting Lance’s gaze. The vulnerability in Lance’s eyes was almost too much to bear. “I do know you,” he said quietly. “But sometimes… I don’t know if I’m enough for you. If this—” he gestured between them, “—is enough.”
Lance’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city below. Then, without warning, Lance reached out, his hand brushing against Keith’s. “You’re enough,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “You’ve always been enough. But you’ve got to stop running away every time things get hard.”

Keith’s chest ached, and he felt the weight of his own insecurities pressing down on him. “I’m trying,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. How to be this person for you.”

Lance’s hand tightened around his, grounding him. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” he said softly. “Just… stay. Talk to me. Don’t shut me out.”

Keith nodded, his throat too tight to speak. The city lights blurred in his vision, and he realized with a start that his eyes were wet. He blinked rapidly, trying to regain his composure, but Lance was already pulling him into a hug.

“You’re such a mess,” Lance murmured, his voice fond despite the words.

Keith let out a shaky laugh, burying his face in Lance’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, you knew what you were signing up for.”

Lance chuckled, his arms tightening around Keith. “Yeah, I did. And I’d do it all over again.”

For the first time that night, Keith felt the storm inside him begin to settle. The city lights sparkled below, but all he could focus on was the warmth of Lance’s embrace and the quiet promise in his words. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to stop running.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance and Keith had talked about their fight some more, really peeling back the layers of their feelings. Lance had assured Keith he’d be more mindful about how he interacted with his exes, promising not to be so… unnecessarily touchy. And Keith, in turn, had vowed to stop bolting at the first sign of discomfort and actually use his words like a functional adult. Disagreements were inevitable—it was just part of being human—but what mattered was how they handled them. And for now? They had made it through their first real fight, and Keith was back in bliss.

They were at Lance’s house, the holy trifecta of chaos: Keith, Lance, and Ronnie. At this point, they were like the three musketeers—if the musketeers bickered constantly, made fun of each other at every opportunity, and occasionally held impromptu dance battles in the living room. Hunk would sometimes join their little gatherings, but more often than not, it was just the three of them, with Lance roping Keith and Ronnie into helping him write music under the false pretense of “just hanging out.”

Keith had initially scoffed at the idea of being involved in music. Him? In the studio? Laughable. And yet, somehow, here he was, scribbling lyrics onto a notepad, brow furrowed in concentration as he actually—God forbid—enjoyed it.
“Keith, my brooding dark prince,” Lance said dramatically, draping himself over Keith’s back. “You were supposed to be my hot, silent support system, not my songwriting rival. Get your own career.”
Keith elbowed him off. “It’s not my fault you refuse to rhyme ‘heart’ with ‘start’ like a normal pop star.”
“Because it’s basic, Keith. I have standards.”

“Since when?” Ronnie chimed in, flopped upside-down on the couch with her legs draped over the backrest. “You literally wrote a song called ‘Baby, Let’s Groove’ last year.”
“That was a different era of me,” Lance sniffed, wounded. “We don’t talk about the ‘Groove’ era.”
Hunk, who had been tasked with providing snacks, peeked into the room. “Are we at the ‘Lance throws a diva fit’ part of the process? Because I have things to do.”
“No one asked you, Hunk,” Lance huffed before flopping onto Keith’s lap. “Anyway, continue, my muse.”

Keith groaned but didn’t push him off. Somehow, without realizing it, his life had become so tangled up with Lance’s. He spent more time at Lance’s place than his own now, had a drawer of his clothes there, knew Lance’s coffee order by heart, and somehow picked up enough amateur guitar skills just to help get his lyrics out.
And Lance? Lance adored working with Keith. It was kind of insane how naturally writing came to him. He had a way of cutting through the fluff and getting to the real emotions, making Lance’s songs feel even more personal.
Ronnie, however, was an utter disaster when it came to songwriting. “I don’t get how you two do this,” she said, tossing Lance’s notebook aside. “Like, I can act my ass off, but rhyming? Wordplay? Metaphors? Nope. My creative talents stop at pretending to be a different person.”

“That’s fine, you contribute in other ways,” Keith said dryly. “Like insulting us. Constantly.”
“I do what I can,” Ronnie said, beaming.
The thing was, Keith never thought he’d be here—so deeply involved in their world, so comfortable, so… happy. His life had become a whirlwind of music, inside jokes, and late-night brainstorming sessions, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. And Lance? Lance looked at him like he was the best thing to ever happen to him, like Keith had carved out his own place in his life, and there was no way he was letting him go.
And yeah, maybe Keith was falling stupidly, ridiculously hard.

Keith’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen, and immediately felt his stomach drop. A notification from his cycle tracking app glowed back at him, a subtle but undeniable reminder: Your heat is approaching in seven days.

He locked the screen quickly, but not before Ronnie’s sharp eyes caught his reaction. “What’s that face?” she asked, sitting up properly. “You look like you just found out you have to pay taxes.”

“Nothing,” Keith said too quickly, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

Ronnie narrowed her eyes, but before she could pry further, Hunk stretched and let out a dramatic yawn. “Welp, I gotta head out before you two rope me into an all-night session again. Some of us have actual responsibilities.”

“Oh, you mean cooking?” Lance teased. “Making the world’s best empanadas? Feeding us when we forget to eat? Truly a burden.”

“You mock, but you’re going to be begging for my food by tomorrow,” Hunk said smugly, grabbing his things. “I’m out.”

Ronnie stood as well, still eyeing Keith with suspicion. “I’ll take the hint and go too. Besides, I have an early shoot tomorrow.”

She and Hunk left, and as soon as the door closed behind them, Keith exhaled slowly. He turned to Lance, who was watching him with a raised brow.

“Okay, what’s up?” Lance said, shifting to sit cross-legged on the couch.

Keith hesitated. This was still new territory for them, but if they were going to make this work, honesty had to be part of the deal. He took a deep breath. “My heat’s coming up,” he admitted, his voice steady but careful. “In a week.”

Lance blinked. “Oh.” Then his brain seemed to catch up. “Oh.”

Keith nodded. “I just… I wanted to bring it up now so we could talk about some ground rules. I don’t want to spring anything on you last minute.”

Lance softened at that, reaching out to squeeze Keith’s hand. “Yeah, okay. Let’s talk about it.”

Keith had never spent his heat with an alpha. Ever. That was practically unheard of for an omega. The hormones alone were enough to drive someone insane, and the need to touch and be touched usually became unbearable. There were even mates-for-hire services specifically designed for omegas and alphas who needed company during their cycles. So yeah, he knew this was probably going to shock Lance.

The thing was, Keith had always enjoyed his pick of alphas when he wanted them, but spending a heat with someone he didn’t love? Someone who didn’t love him back? It had always felt… wrong. His inner omega was raw and unfiltered during his heat, emotions spilling out in ways he normally kept locked down. He needed more, craved warmth, security, affection—and it made him vulnerable in a way he hated.

He got sensitive. Really sensitive. Not just in a touch-starved way, but in an everything-is-personal way. If someone so much as joked with him wrong, he’d take it to heart and sulk for hours. The idea of letting an alpha see him like that? Absolutely not. He had never had an emotional connection with any of his past partners, so when his heat rolled around, he did everything in his power to bypass it. Birth control when possible, and when that wasn’t an option? He’d barricade himself in his apartment, suffer through the fevered haze, and count down the days until it was over.

But Lance… Lance was different.

Keith knew Lance cared. Not just in a yeah, we’re dating way, but in a genuine, over-the-top, I’ll-do-anything-for-you way. He knew that if he spent his heat with Lance, he’d be spoiled rotten, pampered within an inch of his life. That thought alone was almost more terrifying than the alternative.

So he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and told him.

“So…” Keith started, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. “As crazy as this might sound to you, I’ve never… uh… shared a heat with anyone.”

Lance’s eyes bulged so hard they might have rolled out of his head. He made a strangled noise that was somewhere between shock and an aborted laugh.

Keith’s face flamed, and he immediately smacked a hand over Lance’s mouth. “Don’t look at me like that,” he groaned. “It’s just—there’s never been anyone I felt… comfortable enough with to share it with, okay?”

Lance swallowed back the million jokes trying to claw their way out of his throat because—yeah. Not the time. He gently peeled Keith’s hand away and laced their fingers together instead, squeezing lightly.

“I get it,” Lance said, voice softer now, more serious. “I’ve never just spent my ruts with just anyone either. And if you want to spend yours with me, then I’m honored.” His thumb brushed over Keith’s knuckles. “I’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

Keith ducked his head, the tips of his ears practically glowing red.

Lance knew how most alphas treated heats—like a free-for-all, a way to get a sex-crazed omega to sleep with them without any strings attached. But he also knew that heats were important, that they were supposed to be special. And if Keith was trusting him with this?

Then Lance was going to make damn sure that Keith felt loved, cherished, and safe.

No pressure or anything. Except, you know, all the pressure. Because what if he messed this up? What if Keith regretted it? What if Lance wasn’t enough? His heart did an anxious little tap dance in his chest, but he shoved the nerves down, focusing instead on the way Keith’s fingers curled into his like he was choosing him. And yeah, okay. He could do this. He would do this right.

Chapter Text

Keith was currently glued to Lance’s back as Lance worked on making them some steak, arms wrapped around his waist like a human koala. It had only been a couple of days since their talk, and Keith had been honest about how sensitive he got during his heat—how Lance would need to be extra gentle with him for the week.
Lance had nodded seriously at the time, like a responsible, understanding boyfriend, but now? Now he was dying.

It wasn’t just that Keith had gotten clingier—though oh boy had he gotten clingier. It was the way his entire demeanor had softened. Keith, the same Keith who used to glare at people for breathing too close to him, was now curling into Lance like a touch-starved cat, nosing at his shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the nape of his neck. He was giving his affection so freely now, without hesitation, without walls—and Lance was living for it.
But also, he was suffering.
Because Keith’s scent!!
Utter. Freaking. Sin.

It had always been nice, of course. Tempting, even. But now? It was like someone had cranked up the intensity by a hundred. It was thick in the air, something warm and rich and inviting, wrapping around Lance and making his brain feel fuzzy in the worst (best?) way. And this was just pre-heat. Just the build-up to what was coming. Every day, it got worse—stronger, sweeter, more intoxicating. It was driving Lance up the wall.
“You okay there, babe?” Keith murmured; voice still rough with sleep as he nuzzled into Lance’s back.
“Nope,” Lance wheezed, gripping the stove handle for dear life. “Pretty sure you’re trying to kill me. Respectfully.”
Keith huffed a quiet laugh against his shoulder, but his grip around Lance’s waist tightened, as if to say tough luck, you’re stuck with me. "Babe," Lance groaned as Keith pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his shoulder. "I’m trying to cook here."

Keith mumbled against his back. "You’re warm. Smell good."

Lance clenched his jaw, gripping the spatula like it had personally wronged him. "Yeah, well, so do you and it’s very distracting. I almost just flipped this steak onto the floor."

Keith chuckled, clearly unbothered. "Five-second rule."

"Keith!"

Keith just smirked and tightened his grip around Lance’s waist, pressing his face into his back again. "Mine," he murmured, and oh no, that was definitely Keith’s omega side starting to take over.

Lance exhaled sharply, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that he was about to be stuck in an apartment with an increasingly clingy, increasingly needy Keith while being bombarded by the most addicting scent known to man.

Lance was also navigating the uncharted waters of being at Keith’s place. They mostly spent time at his house, but since Keith needed the comfort of his nest for his heat, Lance had basically moved in for the week.
Keith’s apartment was a sleek, well-kept three-bedroom—clean but lived in, with little touches that screamed Keith everywhere. His shelves were filled with books on everything from astrophysics to old martial arts manuals, and there was a small collection of antique knives displayed in a glass case—because of course Keith collected knives. His couch was a deep navy, soft and overstuffed, clearly well-loved, and the apartment smelled like a mixture of fresh linen, sandalwood, and something distinctly Keith. Cozy. Comforting.

Lance had, of course, shown up like he was moving in permanently.
He had arrived with not one, but two absolutely massive suitcases, rolling them in like he was preparing for an extended overseas trip rather than a week spent practically naked.
Keith had stared at the absurd amount of luggage, deadpan. "Why do you need that much stuff? We are literally going to be—" he gestured vaguely at the bedroom, his face warming. "—occupied for most of this week."

Lance had waved him off dramatically. "Keith, babe, love of my life, this is a crucial survival mission. I need supplies. I need options. I need—" He popped open one of the suitcases and began rifling through. "—four different kinds of lotion, so many snacks, three different sets of pajamas, extra pillows, a weighted blanket—oh, and I definitely brought those fluffy socks you like."
Keith blinked. "…Fluffy socks?"

Lance smirked, pulling out a pair of thick, ridiculously soft-looking socks and wiggling them in Keith’s face. "Only the best for my omega."
Keith groaned, snatching them away before Lance could tease him further. "Fine," he muttered, but he was already pulling them on, his toes curling at the sheer comfort of them.
Lance beamed triumphantly, then continued unpacking his emergency preparedness kit. He had already made sure Keith’s nest was perfect—extra blankets, pillows arranged just the way Keith liked them, a stash of Keith’s favorite protein bars and energy drinks on the bedside table. There was even a humidifier going he was going to make sure Keith enjoyed this.

Keith wiggled his toes inside the socks Lance had given him, a small smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed his feet together. They were warm, impossibly soft, and smelled faintly like Lance—clean linen with a hint of something citrusy. It was grounding, a reminder that he was safe, and more importantly, loved.

Lance was watching him, lips twitching, looking like he was holding back some wisecrack. Keith shot him a warning glance, but Lance just grinned wider. "What? I just love seeing you all snuggly. You're, like, five minutes away from curling up into a little ball and purring."

Keith rolled his eyes. "I don’t purr."

"Sure you don't."

The comfortable silence stretched for a moment before Lance exhaled, expression turning serious. He tapped his fingers against the couch, hesitating, and Keith knew him well enough to recognize when he was working up to something.

"So," Lance started, clearing his throat. "About, uh… you know. Taking your first knot."

Keith's cheeks flared red, but he nodded, meeting Lance’s gaze. "Yeah?"

Lance shifted, looking almost sheepish. "I did some research. But, uh… Keith, are you sure? Because, like, not to scare you, but it’s… it’s not like regular—" He gestured vaguely. "It’s different. Bigger. And you might—well, you might bleed a little."

Keith’s blush deepened. "I know. I… I looked into it too."

Lance blinked, looking both impressed and a little scandalized. "Oh my God, were we both sitting in separate rooms Googling the same thing? That’s disgusting. I love it."

Keith huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Point is, I know what to expect. And I still want to. With you."

Lance's teasing softened into something warm, something reverent. "I just… I really need you to be sure. Because once we start, and especially once your heat really kicks in, it's going to be—intense. I don’t want you waking up after and regretting it."

Keith reached out, linking their fingers together. "Lance. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

For a moment, Lance just looked at him, eyes tracing over Keith’s face like he was memorizing every detail. Then, slowly, he nodded, squeezing Keith’s hand. "Okay."

It wasn’t long before Keith started feeling it—the slow, creeping warmth unfurling in his stomach, spreading through his limbs like syrup. His breath hitched, fingers tightening around Lance’s. "I think it’s starting."

Lance inhaled sharply, posture shifting, his entire focus zeroing in on Keith. "Yeah? You feel—?"

"Warm. Floaty. And you smell—God, Lance, you smell so good." Keith leaned in, nosing against Lance’s throat, inhaling deeply. It was intoxicating, the scent of salt and sun-drenched skin, with something darker now, richer—like deep ocean waves crashing against hot sand.

Lance swallowed hard, his free hand finding Keith’s waist. "Okay, c’mon" He stood, tugging Keith up with him, their bodies pressing together in a way that sent a shiver down Keith’s spine. "Let’s get you comfortable."

Keith barely registered them making it to their room, the door clicking shut behind them. All he knew was Lance—his hands, his voice, the steady, grounding presence of him. And as the heat overtook him, as the world blurred into nothing but sensation, Keith knew one thing for certain.He was exactly where he needed to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance did his best to control himself as Keith spoke up “Alpha,” Keith whined, gripping the sheet and trilling at the pleasure Lance was working from his dick. He was hardly jerking it, just soothing the ache.
“It’s okay baby,” Lance cooed, spreading the slick from Keith’s tip in tight little circles around the soft head. “So beautiful, so perfect, my love.”
Keith whimpered, covering his face with both hands as he flushed and his cock leaked again. Lance wanted to smother him in comfort, kill him with kindness, drown him with all the affection he felt inside of him. He never wanted Keith to doubt how deeply he felt for him.

Lance ducked his head down and took Keith’s cock into his mouth. Keith screeched and pushed up from his heels to meet the pleasure and another squirt of slick filled Lance’s mouth. Lance wasn’t satisfied, sucking hard on the member and making Keith scream, he was so sensitive. Lance backed off, rolling it against his tongue as it hardened again, then he dove into Keith’s pussy.
“Alpha, please, Lance, Lance-” Keith was mindless, orgasms hitting him faster than he could respond to.

Keith’s hands fisted in Lance’s hair as he came from his pussy, slick spurting lewdly down Lance’s working chin.
Keith was panting, flushed, and dazed when Lance moved up and looked at him. Keith warbled a needy noise and dragged Lance closer by his hair and took him into a deep kiss, tasting his own slick on Lance’s tongue and snarling possessively against him.
Keith pulled himself up onto his knees on the bed, met Lance’s eyes with a pointed look and turned.

Lance nearly ascended from his body as Keith lowered his chest flat to the bed and spread his legs. His perfect slick pink pussy on display for Lance.
Keith was presenting. He wiggled his hips, slick running in long strings from his slit down his hard cock. Keith turned his head to watch Lance, eyes lidded, black hair falling around him. He was everything Lance had dreamed of. A perfect, beautiful mate and the trust he was giving Lance meant the world.

Lance groaned, tried to praise Keith and only moaned again. His cock was oozing precome, more aroused than he had ever been in his life. Lightheaded, Lance moved behind Keith and savored the moment. Committing to memory his perky little ass held up in the air, his warm bedroom eyes watching as he approached.
Lance’s cock nudged against the soft wetness for the first time and he nearly came then and there. Keith purred; a low rumbling Lance had never heard from him before. *I knew he could purr* He thought to himself as he reached down, fingertips in the spreading slick before he took his length in hand. He wanted to be inside Keith. He wanted to feel him so badly.

He rubbed his cockhead up and down through Keith’s folds, drinking up every aroused noise Keith made. Lance bent down low, covering Keith’s small body with his mass. Keith tightened his pose, making himself smaller under him, grinding his ass backward against Lance’s erection. All his previous trepidations about taking Lance’s sheer size seemed long gone.

Lance nuzzled against the back of his head, seeking his scent, his free hand holding his hip. Keith trilled again, encouraging. Lance was surrounded by Keith, his contented, aroused scent. The burning up under it, something spicy and foreign.
Lance groaned and pushed against Keith’s entrance. Keith whined as Lance’s cockhead shallowly breached him, just the tip, the smallest part of Lance, viced in Keith’s tight wetness.

Lance had been responding to Keith’s heat for some time now , and now his cock already painfully swollen larger than usual and his knot had already pooped eager to stuff Keith full. He was sure he would open up, between natural biology and his heat, he would. Lance just had to be gentle he had to be-
Lance paused, a chill running through him. He pulled back and let his hard cock simply rest its length against Keith.
Keith turned and looked at him curiously, wriggling his hips needily to coax something from him.
“Keith,” Lance whispered, kissing his ear. “Roll over.”

“Huh?” Keith’s scent bent sideways and Lance stroked him up and down to reassure him.
“Roll over,” Lance commanded again, easing off Keith so he could.
Keith flattened to the bed slowly, and watching Lance uneasily as he rolled onto his back beneath him.
“I want to see your face,” Lance admitted, holding Keith’s cheek in hand as he guided his legs open. “I want you to hold onto me.”
Keith’s eyebrows pitched; his eyes soft as he obeyed. He draped his legs around Lance lightly, following his guiding hands to spread and lift his knees.

Lance looked down to see Keith’s ready cunt spread out for him, glistening. He guided his cock against it and rubbed through the folds and slick again, bringing it up to nudge suggestively at Keith’s, hard cock.
“You’re so beautiful,” Lance whispered as he pushed his cock down with his thumb. It nudged up at the vice of Keith’s entrance again and Keith gasped softly. Lance met his eyes, eager to see the look on his face as he entered him. “You ready?”

Keith gasped in surprise and nodded and Lance eased his cock in. Keith was tighter than usual because of the heat but drenched. Perfectly soft and warm and welcoming. Lance’s tip nudged up against that first barrier, holding himself back from snapping his hips forward, he wanted to break in Keith’s first heat carefully and gently. He rocked his cock in place, the tip coaxing at the hole’s grip until-
Keith cried out and Lance’s cock pushed in deep just half way. He growled low. His cock viced by the incredible tightness of his omega stretching around him. He flicked his eyes down and saw the thinnest string of blood and huffed an aroused breath.

Keith was flushed, sweating, his eyes clouded with so much lust Lance didn’t even know if he was present, “Keith.”

“Alpha,” Keith echoed, his arms gripped Lance tighter and Lance began to fuck him.

Softly at first, he had no choice. Keith’s pussy was clenched around him, what little of his cock he had coaxed inside, and there was still a long way to go. It gripped Lance so he could barely pull back, stretching deliciously as he pushed forward. Keith panted with every thrust, his cock drooling on his stomach as Lance rolled his hips to ease himself deeper and deeper and deeper.

Every new threshold had Keith moaning and whining and clawing into Lance’s back. Spasming off with small, micro orgasms and relaxing again. The further Lance thrust into the wet warmth between his omega’s thighs the more it opened to him. Welcoming, urging him deeper inside.

“Fuck,” Keith hissed, he bent close to Lance’s scent gland, “It’s so much.”

Lance rumbled low, moving his hips faster, eager to fully seat his cock inside of Keith. To stretch him nice and open. He wanted their hips to meet, to feel Keith’s cock empty while it was pressed against his abdomen, his knot thick inside of him.
Lance shifted Keith’s hips up and began to pound in earnest, chasing his pleasure, seeking the hot core deep inside of Keith. His balls slapped loudly against Keith’s slick-covered ass, the squelching wetness of his pussy loud in his ears. He kept looking down to marvel at how Keith opened up for him, at his cock moving in and out of his omega. He was nearly to his knot and Keith was moaning and drooling and becoming boneless around him.
Keith’s hands fell back, his small soft tits bounced in time to Lance’s thrusts into him, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Keith muttered between breaths, crying out as another orgasm ripped through him. This one clenched hard on Lance’s cock, stopping it dead in its grip, releasing with a wave of slick as if Lance had come.
“Fuck ,” Lance agreed, growling through clenched teeth and he took Keith’s hips in his hands and pulled him into his thrusts. He was mindless, in a rut, drooling and all that mattered was getting his knot inside.
“Ah, ow, Lance-!” Keith’s hands met his on his narrow hips and Lance relented, coming back to himself. He didn’t want this to hurt. He only wanted to give Keith pleasure and fulfillment. He let go and rolled back down to Keith, meeting his mouth and kissing him deeply as he rolled his hips steady and slow.

“Are you sure about taking my knot?” Lance growled as he turned against Keith’s neck, nipping at his scent gland. Keith whimpered urgently, his hands gripped Lance, “I want it, Lance, fuck.”
Keith met Lance’s thrusts with his own, his cock caught between them. Every thrust hit Keith’s pussy with Lance’s raging knot, every time Lance groaned and thrust harder.
It felt like it was too big. Keith’s pussy was already almost too tight for his cock despite the slick and the heat. Lance was the first to reach inside him this deeply, the first to press his knot inside.
“ Take it ,” Lance growled against Keith, his thrusts slowing to be purposeful. His knot pressed hard, receding only to press again demanding to be let inside.

Keith was a whimpering mess. Burning hot in Lance’s arms, mouth drooling lax around Lance’s scent gland, ankles hooked around his back. Lance was sure the demanding stretch hurt. He knew it did. All the advice columns had strict rules on aftercare specifically for the pain of taking a first knot.
But Lance was determined to go easy on him, to make this as positive and pleasurable as possible for Keith.
“Put it in,” Keith warbled around Lance’s neck, “I want to feel it.”

Lance groaned and wrapped an arm around him, holding him firmly in place and he pushed hard against his entrance. Keith whimpered and whined in pleasure, wriggling his hips deliciously against Lance’s knot. It was demanding out of both of them, Lance struggling to push it in and Keith struggling to open for it.
“Relax, baby,” Lance kissed Keith’s scent gland and held him tighter as Keith sobbed in mindless need. “Relax and let me in.”
Keith breathed Lance in deeply, whining softly as Lance pushed and forced his thickness against him. He rocked his hips again, shallow and determined, Keith rolled back against it and adjusted the angle until-
The knot popped inside of him.

Keith screeched, his hands scrambling and clawing against Lance in shock. Lance flattened, heavy, moaning low in his chest as his knot finally, finally, received the tight wet welcome of Keith’s hole. Euphoria blossomed inside of him and his balls immediately tightened.
Keith was panting under him, caught between deep desire and a slight fright. Lance rumbled and nuzzled softly against him, offering his scent and gently lapping at Keith’s scent gland. Keith softened under the warmth and pressure of Lance’s body, hiccupping little gasps as his hole adjusted to the massive intrusion stretching him open.

“That’s it,” Lance cooed to him, “You’re doing so good, just relax.”

“Lance,” Keith whined, nuzzling as if he could get closer to Lance than he already was.

“Relax, baby,” Lance kissed his scent gland and held him tight, “You don’t have to do anything else, my knot’s inside you. You’re knotted, my love.”

Keith whined brokenly and Lance felt Keith’s cock twitch and squirt against his belly. Lance hummed appreciation and rocked his hips. His knot stayed put, firmly viced and huge inside of Keith, but the gentle rock pulled the last bastions of pleasure from Lance. He grunted low and came.
Keith cried out as Lance’s cum flooded into him. Lance could feel Keith tighten and release in turn, his heat-led orgasms milking and encouraging Lance’s cock to empty all he had. Lance was glad to provide, warm and full of softness, holding Keith close as his balls delivered load after load after load into Keith’s pussy.

“I love you, Keith.” Lance nuzzled at Keith and pulled him into a deep kiss. He pushed his tongue deep into his wet mouth, wanting to knot up and plug every wet hole on his body. Keith kissed back, accepting the intrusion, his pussy gushing and tightening around him.
Their bond was growing. Keith had taken Lance’s knot and was now, presently, being pumped full of his cum. Lance was euphoric, filled with love and protective instincts. He had never been happier in his entire life. He couldn’t be deep enough inside of Keith, couldn’t be close enough to him,
“I love you too,” Keith gasped, eyes roving to look down at himself, “Fuck.”

Lance backed up onto his palms to look Keith over. There was a slight swell in his abdomen where Lance’s knot was swollen and solid inside of him. Lance groaned and pressed down on the spot and he could feel the pressure against his knot as Keith squeaked and whined.
“Absolutely gorgeous.” Lance cooed, running his hand up and down Keith’s spread out body. He looked even more beautiful when his cock was emptying buckets inside of him.
Keith wasn’t looking down, he was looking up at Lance, the same love and desire mirrored in his eyes.

Lance rumbled and pulled him up into his lap, his knot still firmly planted inside him, and held him close as the last rolling bursts of come filled up his belly. His knot felt tighter at this angle, Keith moaning low and deep as everything inside of him shifted. Keith was warm, salivating and hard again. His heat was in full effect.

“Jerk off for me,” Lance cooed and Keith groaned, his thin fingers wrapping around his length between them and furiously jerking it with an urgency and roughness that made Lance laugh.
Clear slick burst from Keith and he fell slack into Lance’s arms with a long, winded sigh. Lance was finished filling Keith and with the way Keith was sitting up upon it Lance could swear he could feel the weight of his cum pressing down and encasing his softening cock.

“Here, baby,” Lance, still knotted inside of Keith, laid him down on top of him. Fully knotted, filled with cum and laying sprawled and exhausted against Lance’s front. “Knot’s gotta stay inside a little longer, it’ll slip out with time.”
“Oh,” Keith said groggily, wiping his wet face against Lance’s chest before settling.
“You did great babe,” Lance covered him in kisses. All across his face and his neck and his scent gland. Heaping comfort and scent and love onto him, his omega. Keith was sleepy, blinking slowly at him with a contentment and warmth Lance had never seen from him then he spoke. “Your eyes are so pretty I could get lost in them.”
Keith smiled, pure joy in his eyes. Lance loved it.

“oh, baby, I’ve got you wrapped around my finger” Lance commented , “You’re gonna want to go again soon.”
Keith closed his eyes and hummed again, a higher pitch that could either be excitement or annoyance.
Lance pressed another kiss to Keith’s face, moaning softly as Keith caught his lips and kissed him lazily.
He was sleeping within seconds. Contented, warm in Lance’s arms.

Lance took the time to savor the moment. To feel the rise and fall of Keith’s chest on his, the warm clutch of his pussy with his cock locked deep inside of him, Keith was his omega. In all senses of the word. Lance had done it, he had won Keith over and met him with affection and adoration and he could cry he was so happy.

Chapter Text

Keith lay on his side, resolutely staring at the wall like it was the only thing keeping him from dying of embarrassment. His face burned, his body ached, and worst of all—

Lance was still here.

Keith knew he was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like he hadn’t just spent the last several hours tangled up with Lance, taking his knot, gasping his name into the sheets. But that was then. This was now, and now he was hyper-aware of the soreness between his legs, the mess he was lying in, and the fact that Lance—stupid, smug, perfect Lance—was watching him like he knew.

“C’mon, babe,” Lance drawled, amusement clear in his voice. “I get that you wanna pretend last night didn’t happen, but I can literally see you clenching your jaw like you’re about to start a fight with the air.”

Keith huffed, burying his face into the pillow. Maybe he would start a fight. With himself. Or with the universe for making him go into heat while Lance was around to witness it.

The bed shifted beside him, and then—click.

Keith peeked over his shoulder just in time to see Lance popping open a small container. The scent of something herbal and cooling drifted toward him, and Keith had a really bad feeling about where this was going.

“I got some ointment for you,” Lance said, holding up the jar with a too-pleased expression. “It’ll help with the swelling.”

Keith’s ears went hot. “I don’t need that.”

Lance arched a brow. “Oh? So you just plan to waddle around like a baby deer all day? ‘Cause I saw you trying to sit up earlier, and babe, it was tragic.”

Keith groaned, pressing his face deeper into the pillow. “Just—just give it to me. I’ll do it myself.”

A warm hand landed on his hip. “Keith,” Lance said, voice softer now. “I got you, okay? Let me take care of you.”

Keith clenched his fists. He wanted to refuse, to tell Lance to back off, but heat was still curling low in his belly, and his body was way too eager for any touch. After a long pause, he exhaled sharply. “Fine. But don’t—don’t say anything.”

Lance made a zipping motion over his lips, but the second Keith shifted, parting his legs slightly, Lance immediately broke his promise.

“Oh my God.”

Keith’s entire body locked up. “What?”

“You’re so swollen. Babe, did I do this?”

Keith barely had time to process his mortification before Lance’s fingers smoothed over his inner thighs, spreading the ointment over heated skin. The touch sent a shudder down Keith’s spine, and then—

Flashbacks.

The way Lance had pinned his hips down, his voice rough with praise, the stretch of taking his knot for the first time—

Keith turned scarlet.

And then he caught it—Lance’s sharp inhale, the slight flare of his nostrils.

Oh no.

“Ohhh, babe,” Lance said, voice downright sinful. “Are you getting turned on?”

Keith wanted to die.

“No,” he snapped, even as his scent betrayed him, sweetening with renewed heat.

Lance chuckled, his free hand smoothing slow, lazy circles over Keith’s hip. “Mmm, liar,” he teased. “I can smell you.”

Keith squeezed his eyes shut, debating whether he could just will himself into the void. “Lance, shut up.”

Lance laughed, but there was a warmth to it, a fondness that made Keith’s stomach flip. “Hey, no shame, babe. It’s kinda hot, actually.” His fingers brushed a little too close, and Keith shuddered. “You’re so sensitive right now.”

Keith swallowed hard. “Just—hurry up.”

Lance smirked, but for once, he didn’t push. Instead, he pressed a lingering kiss to Keith’s lower back, rubbing the last of the ointment in with steady, careful hands.

“There we go,” he murmured. “Better?”

Keith managed a stiff nod, still avoiding eye contact.

Lance stretched out beside him, lazily draping an arm over his waist. “So… should I rub your feet too, or would that be too much?”

Keith groaned into the pillow, but this time, the mortification was mixed with something dangerously close to affection.
*~*~*~*~*
Lance woke to soft touches and kisses. Hands were upon him, caressing him, a misma of lust heavy upon him and something wet and slick running its length over his hard cock.

He reached his hands out and gripped, stilling immediately around thin wrists as Keith squeaked in pleasure at waking his alpha. His wide, amethyst eyes were fixed on him, his mouth open in a pant as he leaned in towards Lance’s scent gland.

“Lance,” Keith whispered, trying out his name on his lips again. Their desire mirrored in each other and by the sensation of Keith’s slick pussy slowly rubbing up and down Lance’s length.

Keith reeked of heat now. The scent of his cunt thick in the air. His eyes locked with Lance’s.

“Keith,” Lance settled back, his hands finding Keith’s thighs where they straddled over his hips. His cock was throbbing, seeking the wet warmth Keith was teasing it with, “Go on, baby,”

Lance filled his mind, full with the pure adoration and arousal he had for his sweet omega.

Lance let Keith take the lead for their second round. Laying back and watching with overwhelming fondness as his omega straddled him, and attempted to take all of him in again. Keith kept eye contact this time, and he wasn’t shy about grasping his hard cock and guiding it to his wet entrance.

Keith opened up easier for him this time. Lance didn’t know if it was due to the first knot or the strengthening heat, but he didn’t care, simply groaned as his omega eased himself onto his cock. His pussy embraced him, wet and hot around him. Keith warbled in surprise at the angle, the intensity, his hands falling onto Lance’s chest. He wriggled on Lance’s cock, bracing himself carefully as he gently began to work his hips against it.

“That’s it,” Lace encouraged, stroking Keith’s thighs where they flexed and worked on either side of him. Keith’s hard cock bounced in time with him, leaking droplets of his come over Lance’s stomach already. He was wet and tight and warm, clenching and easing and working Lance as if Keith had been doing this for years. Lance felt spoiled . “Just like that, nice and easy.”

Keith growled and slammed himself down on Lance’s knot, taking it in one powerful buck. Damn . Lance gripped his hips and fucked up into him, flipping from lazy to frenzied in a blink, forcing Keith down onto him hard and fast. Keith cried out but didn’t resist or submit. He slammed himself down in time, meeting Lance’s intensity, working himself enough that Lance’s knot managed to pop in and out.
Keith’s hands were like claws scratching deep into Lance as they both came. Lance’s knot plugging him up and filling him with a flood of cum.
“Fuck, Keith,” Lance groaned, reaching to squeeze at one of his small tits.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The days blurred together in a fever dream of heat and touch, of whispered names and tangled limbs. Keith had been insatiable, pulling Lance back in every time he tried to catch his breath, every time he thought Keith had finally exhausted himself.
Lance wasn’t complaining—at least, not exactly. He lived for the way Keith clung to him, for the way his body trembled with need, for the desperate sounds that fell from his lips. But after three days of near-constant activity, Lance was pretty sure he had discovered his limit. His muscles ached, his throat was hoarse from whispering reassurances, and his everything was sore. By the time Keith’s heat finally ebbed away, Lance was a boneless mess sprawled across the bed, barely able to function.
“Are you alive?” Keith murmured, curled up next to him. His voice was still raw, his body warm but no longer burning with need. He looked sated, which was a miracle in itself.
“Not really,” Lance groaned, cracking one eye open. “I think you killed me. I think I’m dead.”

Keith snorted, shifting so his head rested against Lance’s shoulder. “You’re dramatic.”
Lance tilted his chin down, pressing a lazy kiss to Keith’s temple. “And you’re a menace.”
Keith hummed again, this time suspiciously pleased. “You love it.”
Lance groaned, rolling onto his back. “I love you. But babe, I’m like, one step away from needing a wheelchair. I think you melted my spine.”
Keith snorted, shoving him lightly. “You’re super dramatic.”

Lance turned his head, quirking a brow. “Says the guy who nearly cried when I ran out of ointment.”
Keith’s ears turned red. “That was your fault.”
Lance just grinned. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
Keith huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he forced himself to sit up, stretching his arms over his head. “Come on, we need to shower.”
Lance made a noise of protest. “Too tired. Leave me for dead.”

Keith rolled his eyes and, with a surprising burst of strength, grabbed Lance’s wrist and dragged him out of bed. “Nope. You made this mess, you’re helping clean it up.”
Lance whined, but he followed Keith into the bathroom, leaning heavily against him as they stepped under the warm spray of water. There was something undeniably intimate about it—Keith rubbing shampoo into Lance’s hair, Lance tracing lazy circles over Keith’s shoulders, both of them moving in easy tandem.
By the time they stepped out, toweling off and slipping into clean clothes, Keith already had a plan. He wasn’t spending another second in that mess of a bed.
“You strip the bed, I’ll get fresh sheets,” Lance said, already moving toward the closet.
Keith nodded, already yanking the used sheets off. “Deal. We’re never speaking of the state these were in.”
Lance chuckled. “Agreed.”

Once the room was fresh and the evidence of their heat-induced chaos was washed away, they collapsed onto the bed, breathing in the clean scent of detergent. It felt…good. Domestic. A quiet kind of peace settled over them, one that whispered of something deeper, something real.
Real life was waiting.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance had known for a while that he wanted to tell his mom about Keith—about them. Not just in passing, not just a casual yeah, we’re together, but really tell her. Their family was loud, affectionate, overwhelming, but they were also everything to him. He wanted Keith to be a part of that, to be woven into the chaos and love of his home.
And Keith… Keith didn’t talk much about his past, but he had been clear about one thing: Shiro and Adam were his only family. The only people he trusted, the only ones who had been there for him when no one else had.
“I want you to meet them,” Keith said in the evening, his voice unusually soft as they lay tangled together on the couch. “Shiro and Adam.”
Lance blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Yeah?”

Keith nodded, playing with the hem of Lance’s shirt. “They’re important to me.”
Lance smiled, nudging Keith’s cheek with his nose. “Then let’s do it. I’ve been wanting to tell my mom about us, officially.” Keith hesitated, something flickering in his eyes, but it was gone before Lance could place it. "Yeah. That sounds good. I hope she won’t murder me."

Lance snorted. "I mean, she *did* hire you to manage her children’s careers, so technically, she already *owns* you. The murder part would just be her tying up loose ends."

Keith rolled his eyes. "Great. Very reassuring."

Later, as they lay sprawled across the couch, Keith gave Lance a brief rundown on Shiro and Adam.

"Shiro's... well, *the* Shiro," Keith said, running a hand through his hair. "As in, billionaire CEO of Kogane Enterprises, philanthropist, occasional pain in my ass. Adam is his Alpha partner. He’s—calm, put-together. Keeps Shiro from doing stupid things."

Lance raised a brow. "So, basically, Adam is the Keith to Shiro’s Lance?"

Keith huffed, but a small smirk tugged at his lips. "More like the *actual* adult in the relationship."

Lance grinned, nudging him. "So you *do* admit I’m the fun one."

"I never said that," Keith shot back immediately, but Lance caught the tiny twitch of amusement in his expression.

Keith kept it short, focusing more on *who* they were rather than *how* they came into his life. He spoke about Shiro’s unwavering presence, about how Adam was the steady foundation that balanced everything. He didn’t dwell on the past—on the details of how they found him when he had no one, how they became his family when the world had already written him off.

And Lance, caught up in the easy flow of conversation, didn’t press for more. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned back with a satisfied hum. "Alright, so what I’m hearing is—Shiro’s rich, Adam’s the responsible one, and if I charm them, I get infinite boyfriend points?"

Keith groaned. "Just—*please* don’t embarrass me."

Lance gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "Me? Embarrass you? Baby, I would *never*."

Keith gave him a flat look. "You would absolutely."

Lance beamed. "Yeah, but you love me anyway."

Keith sighed, letting his head drop onto Lance’s shoulder. "Unfortunately."

Lance just laughed, pressing a kiss to Keith’s hair. "You’re doomed, babe."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dinner with Shiro and Adam was—
Interesting.
“You’re that Shiro? As in, billionaire tech genius, CEO of Kogane Enterprises—my manager’s boss?”
Shiro chuckled. “That would be me.”
Lance turned to Keith, scandalized. “You work for your brother?”
Keith shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “He gave me my first job.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. Something about that answer felt… off. But before he could press, Adam spoke up.
“So you’re the Lance,” he mused, smiling warmly. “Keith talks about you.”
Keith made a strangled noise, but Lance grinned, leaning into his chair. “Oh yeah? And what does he say?”
“Nothing,” Keith muttered.
Adam smirked. “Just that you’re annoying.”

Lance gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Babe! I thought we were past this slander!”
Keith just rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched.
By the end of the night, Lance had charmed Adam, gotten Shiro to admit he was happy for them, and successfully flustered Keith at least three times.
Not bad for a first meeting.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The McClain household was as warm and chaotic as ever. The moment they stepped through the door, Lance’s mother, Maria, lit up like the sun and pulled Keith into a hug before he could even react.
"Mijo," she said, voice rich with warmth. "You finally made it official, huh? About time."
Keith blinked, stunned. "Uh—"
Lance groaned. "Mom!"
Maria pulled back just enough to cup Keith’s face, smiling knowingly. "Oh, don’t act surprised. I’ve been playing matchmaker since the day I hired him. You think I let just anyone manage my babies?"

Keith’s ears turned bright red. Lance buried his face in his hands.
Meanwhile, the rest of the McClains were staring in open shock.
"Wait, what?" Veronica blurted. "You what?"
"Since when?" Lia asked, mouth dropping open. "I thought you hired Keith because he was, y’know, competent?"
Lance’s brother, frowned. "I thought it was because he had a good track record?"
Maria just smiled serenely. "That too. But mostly, I saw how he handled you all, and I knew."

Keith made a strangled noise, while Lance groaned louder. "I hate everything."
"I cannot believe this," Veronica said, shaking her head in disbelief. "You knew before we did? And you didn’t say anything?"
Maria patted her hand. "You would’ve fought me on it."
Lia snorted. "Yeah, that’s fair."

Lance’s brother still looked baffled. "But Keith and Lance ?"
Lance groaned again, dramatically flopping onto Keith. "We are never coming here again."
Keith sighed, patted his back, and muttered, "Yes, we are."
Maria just laughed, guiding them both toward the living room. "Come, sit! Your father’s making his famous arroz con pollo."
Lance glanced at his mother as she moved. She was still the powerhouse he’d always known, but there was a fragility to her now, something thinner in the way she carried herself. The way her smile was just a little too bright, as if she was holding everything together by sheer will.

His heart squeezed. He’d known the cancer was progressing, but seeing it—feeling it—was different.
Keith must have sensed the shift because he gently squeezed Lance’s hand. Just a quick, grounding touch. Lance took a breath and squeezed back.
A loud clatter from the kitchen broke the moment. Lance’s father, Manuel, came in, wiping his hands on a towel. "So, you two finally stopped dancing around each other, huh? About damn time!"
Lance rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, we all get it. You all knew before we did."
"No," Veronica said flatly. "Apparently only they knew before you did."
Maria beamed. "Mothers know best."

Manuel chuckled, clapping a hand on Keith’s shoulder. "Well, welcome to the family officially, son."
Keith blinked, surprised, then gave a small, genuine smile. "Thanks."
Before the moment could settle, Lance’s oldest brother, stood up, clearing his throat. His wife, Sofia, was next to him, beaming. "Actually, since we’re celebrating good news..." Luis glanced at Sofia, who nodded excitedly. "We’re expecting."
The room exploded into cheers. Maria gasped, pulling Sofia into a hug, while Manuel clapped Luis on the back, grinning ear to ear. Veronica and Lia squealed, already talking about baby names, and Lance found himself swept into the excitement.

He turned to Keith, who looked a little overwhelmed but undeniably touched by the warmth surrounding him.
Lance nudged him. "See? Told you everything would be fine."
Keith huffed, but his eyes were soft. "Yeah. I see that."
Lance grinned. "Welcome to the madness, babe."
Keith had never been this happy.

It was a quiet kind of happiness, the kind that settled deep in his chest and warmed him from the inside out. He wasn’t used to this—to waking up to soft kisses pressed to his neck, to hearing Lance hum under his breath as he made breakfast, to the simple joy of just being with someone who made everything feel lighter.
And Lance?
Lance was shining.

His new album was shaping up to be a masterpiece, and tonight was a huge moment—he was debuting a new song. Keith had heard him working on it, humming bits of the melody under his breath, scribbling lyrics at odd hours of the night. But when Keith had asked what it was about, Lance had just smirked and said, “You’ll see.”
Now, standing backstage, Keith watched as the lights dimmed and the crowd roared.
Then, he stepped out.
Lance looked radiant under the stage lights, all effortless confidence and charm. The opening chords of the song played, and then—
"Never had much faith in love or miracles…"

Keith’s breath caught.
"Never wanna put my heart on the line…"
The way Lance sang, his voice rich with emotion, had Keith’s stomach twisting in knots. And then—Lance’s gaze flickered to him, just for a second, a knowing smile curling at his lips before he continued.
"But swimming in your world is something spiritual… I'm born again every time you spend the night…”
Keith’s heart slammed against his ribs.
This song—this song was about him.

The audience had no idea. They screamed and danced, lost in the music, but Keith knew. Every word, every note, was meant for him.
By the time the song ended, Keith was done for. He barely registered the cheers as Lance took his final bow and jogged offstage, grinning like he hadn’t just ruined Keith’s life in the best way possible.
“You wrote that for me,” Keith accused, crossing his arms.
Lance laughed, looping an arm around Keith’s waist and pulling him in. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”
Keith rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the way his lips twitched up. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” Lance said smugly.

Keith opened his mouth to argue, but then—Lance kissed him.
It was brief, just a soft press of lips, but it was so them—easy, teasing, like they had all the time in the world. When they pulled apart, Keith was flushed, and Lance was looking at him like he hung the damn moon.
It should have been a private moment.
But the cameras had caught everything.
The next morning, the internet exploded.
Lance McClain. Keith Kogane. Kissing backstage.

The headlines were insane.
“Lance and Keith: More Than Manager and Singer? Fans Are Losing It!"
"Backstage Romance? Lance McClain and Keith Kogane Spark Dating Rumors!"
"From Manager to Moonlight: Keith Kogane Steals Lance McClain's Heart!"
Keith nearly had a heart attack when he saw the trending topics, but Lance? Lance just laughed, tossed his phone aside, and grabbed Keith’s hand.
Meanwhile, netizens were losing their collective minds.

Twitter was a war zone:
@KeithsEyeliner: "Keith’s face in that photo is me every time Lance breathes. I get it, Keith. I get it."
@NotARomantic: "Plot twist: Lance was just whispering the lyrics to his new song into Keith’s mouth. Nothing to see here, folks."

Reddit threads were popping off:
"Lance and Keith: A Timeline of Their Relationship "
"Keith’s Reaction to the Kiss Photo is All of Us"
Top comment: "Keith’s face is literally 🥺. Someone protect this man."

_______
“So, we’re doing this, huh?” Keith muttered as they stepped out of their apartment.
Lance squeezed his fingers. “Damn right, we are.”
They didn’t make a statement. They didn’t confirm or deny anything. They just… lived.
Holding hands. Going on dates. Letting the world see them without hiding.
And for the first time, Keith thought—maybe this could really work.

Keith woke up to the soft hum of the coffee machine and the faint scent of hazelnut wafting through the apartment. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. He stretched lazily, the sheets pooling around his waist, and glanced over at Lance, who was already up and humming some new melody under his breath as he shuffled around the kitchen.

Lance was wearing one of Keith’s old band tees, the fabric hanging loosely off his frame, and his hair was a messy nest of bedhead. He looked unfairly good for someone who had stayed up until 3 a.m. tweaking lyrics. Keith couldn’t help but smile. This was their routine—domestic, quiet, and perfect.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Lance called over his shoulder, flipping a pancake with way too much flair for this early in the day. “I made coffee. And by ‘made coffee,’ I mean I pressed a button, but still. You’re welcome.”

Keith rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. “You’re a real hero, Lance.”

“I know,” Lance said, plating the pancakes and sliding them onto the table. He leaned down to press a quick kiss to Keith’s forehead. “Eat up. Big day today. Interviews, rehearsals, and, if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll even let you manage me.”

Keith snorted, stabbing a piece of pancake with his fork. “Wow, what an honor. I’ll try not to screw it up.”

They fell into their usual rhythm—Lance rambling about some new idea for a music video, Keith nodding along and interjecting with the occasional sarcastic comment. It was easy. Comfortable. The kind of morning that made Keith forget about the chaos of their lives, even if just for a moment.

But then his phone buzzed on the table.

Keith glanced at it, expecting a reminder about their schedule or maybe a text from one of Lance’s bandmates. Instead, it was a message from an unknown number.

**“Lance McClain and Manager Keith Kogane: Are They More Than Just Colleagues?”**

He didn't know why but his stomach twisted. He clicked on the link, and there it was—a photo of them backstage that night, Lance’s lips pressed softly against his, Keith’s face flushed and his hands tangled in Lance’s jacket.

Keith’s heart skipped a beat. He scanned the article quickly, his chest tightening with every word as he read the message below the link. *Why would some rando send this everyone already knew* He thought to himself.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Keith opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his phone buzzed again. Another text from an unknown number.

His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he opened it.

The message was short, but it hit him like a punch to the gut.

*“I wonder how your boyfriend would feel about you if he knew the real you.”*

Keith’s blood ran cold. His hands trembled as he stared at the screen, the words blurring in front of his eyes. The room felt like it was spinning, the warmth of the morning replaced by a chilling dread that seeped into his bones.

Chapter Text

Keith had gotten used to it. The waiting. The absence. The silence that stretched too long, filling the spaces where warmth should have been.

But it hadn't always been like that.

He would never forget the last morning with his father. Keith had been seven, sitting at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs as his dad packed his school bag. Their family had always been a little different. His alpha dad had been the one who stayed home, the one who made the best pancakes, who kissed Keith’s scraped knees and never minded when he climbed into bed with them after a nightmare.

His mother—an omega—wasn’t the nurturing type. She loved him, at least, Keith had thought so in the beginning. But she thrived in high-powered courtrooms, in negotiations, in late nights spent at her law firm rather than at home. She was always working, always busy, but when she was home, things felt whole.

“Dad, please!” Keith had begged that morning, clutching onto his father’s sleeve. His dad was zipping up his backpack, laughing as he tousled Keith’s hair. “Ice cream! You *promised!*”

His dad chuckled, kneeling in front of him. “I did, didn’t I? Alright, champ. You finish all your lunch today, and I’ll bring you your favorite.”

Keith had cheered, wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of home. He had no idea that would be the last time.

That afternoon, he had sat on the front steps of his school, waiting. Excited. Salivating at the thought of that ice cream. His classmates had all gone home one by one, but Keith didn’t mind. His dad was always a little late—traffic, he would say—but he *always* came.

Except he didn’t.

The sky dimmed, and his teacher began making frantic calls. Keith sat still, gripping the straps of his bag as her worried voice buzzed in the background. His father’s phone went to voicemail again. And again.

Then, his mother arrived.

She had never picked him up before. That was the first thing Keith noticed. The second was the way she moved—too fast, too stiff, her heels clicking against the pavement like she didn’t trust herself to stop. Her hands were shaking when she crouched down, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“We’re going home,” she murmured against his hair. Keith froze at the unfamiliar tremor in her voice.

His tiny hands fisted in the fabric of her coat. “Where’s Dad?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t say anything as she helped him into the car, fastening his seatbelt with trembling fingers. Keith stared up at her, his stomach twisting. She wasn’t looking at him. She wasn’t looking at anything.

“Mom?” His voice was smaller now. “Where’s Dad?”

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Her knuckles turned white. “We’ll talk at home.”

Keith didn’t understand then, but he knew—*something* was wrong. He didn’t ask again. He just sat in silence, staring out of the window as the car moved through the city, further and further away from the ice cream shop.

Further away from the last promise his father had ever made him. At home, his mother sat him down on the couch. She knelt before him, still in her sharp suit, her hair perfectly in place—but her face was different. There was something hollow in her eyes, something that made Keith’s chest feel tight.
She took his hands in hers, but they were cold.
“Keith,” she started, then stopped, pressing her lips together like she wasn’t sure how to continue. “Something… happened to Dad today.”
Keith’s heart thudded in his chest. “Where is he?”
She swallowed hard. “He’s… he’s not coming home.”
Keith shook his head. “But he promised.” His voice cracked. “He promised me ice cream.”

His mother sucked in a breath, closing her eyes for a moment before she tried again. “Sweetheart, there was an accident.”
Keith’s hands curled into fists. “But—he’s okay, right?”
She hesitated. And that was when he knew. Something cold and ugly twisted inside him. He jerked his hands away from hers. “No. No, you’re lying.”
“I’m not, baby,” she whispered. “He—he’s gone.”
Keith barely heard the rest. Something about a car crash. Something about how his father had been on his way to pick him up, just like he’d promised. Something about how he didn’t make it.
None of it made sense. One moment, his dad had been there, warm and laughing and promising him ice cream. And now… now he was just gone?

Keith’s small body shook as he scrambled off the couch. He ran to the front door, yanking it open before his mother caught him by the wrist. “Keith, stop—”
“He’s coming back!” Keith sobbed. “He promised!”
His mother’s grip tightened. “Keith—he’s not coming back.”
The finality in her voice shattered something inside him. His legs gave out, and he collapsed into her arms, his tiny frame wracked with silent, gasping sobs. His mother held him, but it wasn’t comforting. It was desperate—like she was trying to keep herself together just as much as she was trying to hold him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
At first, Keith’s mother tried. He could tell. She tried to be there, tried to fill in the space his father left behind. She stocked the kitchen with his favorite snacks, took a few days off work to stay home with him, and even attempted to read bedtime stories despite her clear discomfort.
But Keith was grieving, and grief made him difficult.
He cried for his dad, refused to eat, threw tantrums when she tried to dress him in clothes his father hadn't picked out. He had nightmares, waking up screaming for the man who would never come back.
At first, his mother comforted him. Held him. Whispered, “I know, baby, I know.”

But then she had to go back to work. She had cases to win, deadlines to meet. She couldn’t be late because Keith was having another breakdown. And so the softness faded. The patience wore thin. And one night, when Keith had screamed and thrown his dinner plate on the floor, she snapped.
“Can’t you just make this easier for me?” she hissed, eyes bloodshot and tired. “Do you think I want to do this alone? You’re not the only one who lost him, Keith.”
Keith stilled, tiny fingers curling against the table. Something cold spread through his chest, and he stared at her, realizing, I’m making things harder for her.
So he stopped.

He ate his food without complaint. He dressed himself without fuss. He didn’t cry, didn’t ask for stories, didn’t wake her when he had nightmares. He kept his room clean, his grades high, his voice quiet. He was perfect—because if he was perfect, maybe she wouldn’t hate him. Maybe she would love him again.
But it was never enough.
She worked longer hours. When she came home, she was impatient, snapping at the smallest things. She barely looked at him anymore. The exhaustion deepened, her frustration simmering under the surface. Then, the drinking started.

Keith didn’t notice at first. She hid it well—pouring wine into coffee mugs, breathing mints masking the scent. But then, the bottles started piling up. And with them, her patience disappeared entirely.
The first time she hit him, he had been ten.
He had forgotten to take out the trash. She had come home late, tired, drunk, and found the overflowing bin. The slap had come before he could even understand what he had done wrong.
“You never listen,” she had spat, gripping his tiny wrist too tightly. “You just—God, you’re just like him.”

Keith had swallowed back his tears. “Like Dad?”
Her expression twisted. “No. If you were like your father, he’d still be here.”
The words stung worse than the slap. They clung to him, a permanent brand burned into his mind.
It was his fault.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith’s fingers clenched around his phone, his breath catching in his throat as the message burned into his vision. The world around him blurred at the edges, and he barely noticed Lance’s voice until his boyfriend reached for the phone.
“Babe? What is it?” Lance’s brow furrowed as he moved closer. "Hey, if it’s bad news, let me—"
Keith yanked the phone back instinctively, shaking his head. "It’s nothing. Just—work stuff. Veronica’s agent sent over a contract issue, and she wants my take on it."

Lance’s expression didn’t ease. "That made you look like you saw a ghost? Keith, come on."
Keith forced a small, tired chuckle, rubbing his temple. "It caught me off guard, that’s all. I just need to handle it real quick."
Lance still looked skeptical but sighed, leaning back. "Fine. But don’t let Veronica stress you out too much. You deserve to enjoy breakfast without work ruining it."
Keith smiled—tight, fleeting. "I won’t. I just need to step out for a bit, clear my head while I sort it out."

Lance’s eyes flicked to his phone again before settling back on him, searching. But then he sighed, picking up his fork. "Alright. Just don’t let her boss you around too much."
Keith pressed a quick kiss to Lance’s cheek, his stomach twisting with guilt as he stood. "I just need some air."
He walked out the door, exhaling sharply the moment he was alone. His grip tightened around his phone as he opened his messages again.
He needed to see an old friend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith had always been hard to read. Even now, sitting across from him at the studio, Lance could tell something was off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Keith wasn’t tense exactly, but there was something... withdrawn about him. He was eating like normal, responding to conversation, even smirking at Lance’s bad jokes—but his eyes weren’t quite here. He kept glancing at his phone, expression unreadable, fingers tightening around the device before relaxing again.
Lance rested his chin on his palm, watching him between bites of snacks. Keith must have felt the weight of his stare because he finally sighed and looked up. “What?”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “I dunno, you tell me.”
Keith frowned. “Tell you what?”
“That’s what I’m asking.” Lance set his energy bar down and leaned forward, studying Keith closely. “You’re distracted. Something’s bugging you. And don’t say ‘it’s nothing’ because you’re a terrible liar.”
Keith exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. “It’s nothing serious. Just something I need to check on.”
Lance didn’t buy that for a second, but he also knew Keith. If he pushed too hard, Keith would only shut down completely.

So he took a different route. “Okay,” he said simply.
Keith blinked, clearly expecting more resistance. “Okay?”
Lance shrugged. “Okay. If you say it’s nothing serious, I trust you. But whatever it is, I’m here, yeah? You don’t have to deal with it alone.”
Keith’s grip on his phone tightened for just a second before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re annoying.”
Lance grinned. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

Keith’s expression softened, just for a heartbeat. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”
Lance let that sit between them for a moment before clapping his hands together. “Alright then. Since you’re being all secretive and broody, I’ll just go ahead and plan our whole evening without your input.”
Keith snorted. “Should I be worried?”
“Absolutely,” Lance said, taking a dramatic sip of his juice. “But you’ll survive. Probably.”
Keith shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes before he glanced at his phone again. That shadow passed over his face once more, and Lance hated it.

He wouldn’t push. Not now. But he’d be here—whatever this was, whenever Keith was ready.
Keith stood, grabbing his jacket. “I gotta run an errand. I won’t be long.”
Lance watched him, something uneasy settling in his gut. “Alright. Be safe.”
Keith nodded and slipped out the door.
Lance stared after him for a long moment before sighing and picking up his phone. He had half a mind to call Shiro, just to check in—just in case.
Something wasn’t right.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Keith walked into Robert’s office like a man on a mission. He didn’t even spare his old friend a greeting as he strode in, pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket, and slapped it down on the desk.
"I need to know who this number belongs to, where they are, and what they want."
Robert, a tall, broad-shouldered alpha with sharp blue eyes and golden blond hair that always looked artfully tousled, leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk stretching across his face. His scent—earthy, with a hint of cedar and something rich, like aged whiskey—filled the space between them. He was dressed impeccably as always, a deep green button-down that clung just right to his frame, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms.
"Keith, sweetheart, at least say hello first. Goodness, where are your manners?" Robert drawled, fingers tapping against his glass desk as he eyed Keith with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Keith barely suppressed an eye roll. "I don’t have time for your games, Rob. I need this information ASAP. I’ll pay in advance."

Robert arched a perfectly sculpted brow, picking up the paper with delicate fingers. "My, my. So urgent. And here I thought you only came to me when you needed a little... extra stress relief." His smirk deepened, and his eyes flicked up to meet Keith’s with a knowing glint. "What’s got you so worked up, kitten? I thought your boyfriend took good care of you."
Keith’s jaw tensed, but Robert wasn’t done. He leaned forward, his scent wrapping around Keith, rich and warm, teasing. "Tell me, why him? Was I not handsome enough? Didn’t I satisfy you?" He placed a hand over his heart in mock devastation. "You wound me, truly."

Keith crossed his arms, exhaling sharply. "You’re insufferable. And also the best at what you do, which is the only reason I’m here. Can you get me the information or not?"
Robert hummed, twirling the paper between his fingers. "Oh, I can. But where’s the fun if I don’t make you sweat a little first?"
Keith leveled him with a glare. "I swear to god, if you don’t—"
Robert chuckled, standing up and rounding the desk, placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder, fingers just barely brushing over the skin of his neck—light enough to send a shiver down Keith’s spine. "Relax, kitten. I’ll take care of it. I always do. But maybe next time, start with ‘hello.’"

Keith huffed, stepping back, trying to ignore the way his skin still tingled where Robert had touched him. "Just let me know when you have something. And don’t take your sweet time."
Robert grinned, sliding the paper into his pocket. "For you? Never. Now go before I make you regret leaving my bed."
Keith shot him a glare over his shoulder as he walked out. "Not happening."
Robert only chuckled, his laughter following Keith out the door.

Keith exhaled as he stepped out of Robert’s office, the tension in his shoulders still lingering. The cool breeze did little to soothe his nerves, but he forced himself to shake it off. He pulled out his phone and, after a brief hesitation, called Lance.
The line barely rang twice before Lance picked up. “Well, well, look who finally remembers he has a boyfriend.”
Keith huffed a quiet laugh. “Very funny. I wasn’t gone that long.”
“You disappeared before I could convince you that tonight’s dinner should be something fancy,” Lance teased. “I was thinking maybe that new seafood place—unless, of course, you’re planning on surprising me with something even better?”

Keith smiled, his grip on his phone loosening as the tension eased slightly. “Seafood, huh? You in the mood to get your hands dirty with some crab legs?”
“You know me, babe. I’m an experience kind of guy. Messy food, fancy cocktails, and you all dressed up across from me? Sounds like a perfect evening.”
Keith hummed, making his way toward his car. “I’ll make a reservation.”
“See, this is why I keep you around,” Lance said, voice warm. “Oh, and we should go out after. A little fun, just the two of us. It’s been a while.”
Keith reached his car, resting a hand on the roof. He wanted to say yes—to let himself have a night where he wasn’t thinking about cryptic messages, old ghosts, or the past creeping up on him. “Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “That sounds nice.”

Lance chuckled. “Good. I’ll hold you to it. Love you.”
Keith hesitated for only a fraction of a second before replying, “Love you too.” He hung up, exhaling as he pocketed his phone.
Across the street, hidden in the shadow of a parked car, a figure lowered their phone, tapping the screen. The faint sound of a camera shutter clicked before they disappeared into the shifting crowd.
Keith never noticed. But maybe—just maybe—he should have.

Chapter Text

Keith eased his car into the driveway, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The house stood before him, untouched by time, yet every brick, every window, held ghosts that threatened to pull him under. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to move, each step up the path heavier than the last.
The door swung open before he could knock. Cate, the caregiver, beamed at him, her warmth at odds with the ice lodged in his chest.
"Keith! I’m so glad you’ve come around to visit. She’ll be happy to see you," she said, stepping aside to let him in.

Keith managed a tight smile and nodded, murmuring a polite greeting as he stepped inside. The air was thick with a scent he couldn't quite place—something sterile, mixed with a hint of old wood and faded memories. He lowered himself onto the couch, his hands restless in his lap as Cate filled the silence with small talk. He barely registered her words, his mind already bracing for what came next.
"I’ll go get her," Cate finally said, offering him one last reassuring smile before disappearing down the hallway.
The quiet that followed was suffocating. Keith ran his palm over his face, inhaling deeply, willing himself to be unaffected. But then the faint sound of shuffling footsteps reached him, slow and unsteady, each one echoing like a hammer against his ribs.
And then she was there.

She moved with effort, her frame frail, her skin a shade too pale. Keith swallowed hard, his throat tight as she crossed the room, her gaze locked onto him.
She studied him—no words, no greeting, just eyes that roved over his face as if she were trying to memorize every detail, as if she couldn't believe he was real. Keith said nothing, gripping the edge of his seat as she lowered herself into the chair across from him, her breath shallow, her fingers trembling against the armrest.
A long, strained silence stretched between them before she finally spoke.
"Wow... you haven't come around in years." Her voice was weaker than he remembered, but there was something sharp beneath it, something knowing. She tilted her head slightly, eyes never leaving his. "So what brings you home, Keith?"

The words sent a chill down his spine.
Keith held her gaze, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He'd told himself he was ready for this, that he had steeled himself enough to face her. But as he sat there, staring into the same haunted eyes that had filled his nightmares for years, he realized one thing—
Nothing could have prepared him for seeing his mother again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith was thirteen the first time he realized love could taste like blood. His mother’s slap sent him reeling into the kitchen counter, the edge jamming into his ribs. The broken glass at his feet glittered like the tears in her eyes. Keith crouched on the kitchen floor, carefully picking up the shards of broken glass, his fingers trembling as his mother raged behind him. She had come home drunk again, her words slurred and venomous, blaming him for everything—this time, for losing her case.
"Look at what you made me do!" she shrieked, stumbling forward. "You useless little—" The slap came before he could brace for it, the sting blooming across his cheek. He didn’t flinch. He had learned not to.
Keith kept his head down, his jaw clenched, enduring every insult, every blow, as she screamed and lashed out. He knew it was pointless to fight back, to argue, to hope. It hadn’t always been this way, though. That was the worst part.

When she was sober, she was someone else. Someone who saw the bruises she left and cried, whispering apologies that rang hollow. She would press damp cloths to his skin, swearing it would never happen again. "I promise, Keith," she'd say, her voice breaking. "I won’t drink anymore. I swear, baby. I love you."
He used to believe her.
He thought if he behaved, if he did everything right, she would get better. That one day, she would stop. But she never did. It only got worse.
By the time Keith was a teenager, she had abandoned even the pretense of remorse. He had grown taller, stronger, beyond her reach. So when she came home stumbling and screaming, he would lock himself in his room and wait for the storm to pass.

She would pound on his door, slurring accusations through the wood, her rage relentless.
"You ruined my life! My career! My freedom!"
"Your father was everything to me, and you took him away—for some goddamn ice cream!"
"It’s your fault I lost that case! If I didn’t have to take care of you, I would’ve won!"
The nights always ended the same way. She would break whatever she could get her hands on, cursing him until she passed out, a crumpled heap of regret and resentment. Only then would Keith emerge, stepping over shattered glass and discarded bottles, trying to salvage some semblance of normalcy in his life.

He learned to hide his bruises. He kept his grades up, knowing school was his only escape. He got a part-time job as a server, using what little he earned to buy food and essentials, because his mother’s paycheck went straight to the liquor store.
He wondered how she even kept her job, but he didn’t care enough to find out. He had stopped making meals for both of them long ago. On most days, he didn’t even want to see her.
She had stopped pretending she cared, and Keith had stopped pretending he didn’t hate her. Now, all that mattered was counting down the days until he turned eighteen—until he had saved enough to leave and never look back.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Yes. Keith’s mother was alive and well. Annoyingly well, actually. The fact that he had told everyone she was dead gnawed at him, but not enough to make him regret it. He hated her. He didn’t want anything to do with her, and he sure as hell didn’t want anyone in his life to ever meet her.
Lance was out doing press and podcasts for his upcoming album, meaning Keith had a rare free day without prying questions. He had told Lance he’d be checking on one of his investment properties, but instead, he found himself here—standing in front of a house he wished would just disappear from existence.
He wasn’t here for pleasantries. He was here to find out if she was the one blackmailing him.
Keith didn’t waste time. He pulled out his phone, flipping the screen toward her. "Did you send this?"

His mother barely glanced at the message before a flash of hurt flickered across her face—gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced with quiet resignation.
She exhaled a long, weary sigh. "I may be a shit mom, but even I wouldn’t stoop so low as to blackmail my own child."
Keith believed her. It wasn’t some deep, sentimental instinct—it was practicality. They looked too much alike. He had spent years studying her expressions, learning every tick and tell, because growing up, knowing when she was lying had been a matter of survival.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his pants. "Well, then. Guess this was a waste of my time."
He had already turned toward the door when Cate returned, balancing a tray of tea and pastries with a hopeful smile. Keith sidestepped her like she was an obstacle course and kept walking. The house felt suffocating, like it was trying to pull him back into a past he had spent years clawing his way out of.
Outside, he let out a slow breath, but the unease didn’t leave him. Robert hadn’t managed to trace the blackmailer’s number, but the fact that they hadn’t escalated yet made him even more unsettled. Whoever it was, they were patient. That was worse.

Cate trailed after him, trying to convince him to stay a little longer, but he was already at his car, throwing out a half-hearted excuse as he climbed inside. He knew she probably thought he was heartless. Maybe he was. But he wasn’t about to start playing the good son just because it made someone else feel better.
He tightened his grip on the wheel and forced himself to breathe. He needed to calm down before he got home.
He was lucky Lance was busy today. He didn’t think he had the energy to hide just how hard this had been .

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By the time Keith pulled up to Lance’s house, he had his mask firmly in place. The tension from earlier had been shoved into a mental box labeled ‘deal with later (or never).’ He plastered on a lazy smirk as he walked in, tossing his keys onto the counter like he didn’t have a single care in the world.
“Babe, I’m here,” he called in a sing-song voice, knowing full well Lance was in the living room.
Lance looked up from his phone and immediately grinned. “Keithy! My beautiful, loving, incredibly devoted partner who has absolutely not been up to anything suspicious today.”
Keith rolled his eyes. “You act like I’m some criminal mastermind.”

“You did steal my heart.”
Keith pointed at him. “Allegedly.”
Lance cackled. “So mysterious. So—wait, are you cooking?” He leaned over the back of the couch, watching as Keith moved to the kitchen. “Who are you and what have you done with my feral little raccoon?”
Keith ignored him, grabbing ingredients from the fridge. “I figured you’d be too tired to cook after doing interviews all day. And I wanted something to eat, so it’s a win-win.”
Lance dramatically placed a hand over his heart. “You’re making me food? Barefoot in my kitchen? Looking all domestic?” He gasped. “Are you nesting? Oh my God, are you pregnant?”
Keith nearly dropped the pan. “Lance!”

“I mean, you’re glowing,” Lance teased, watching him chop vegetables. “Craving weird foods? Emotional outbursts? Sneaking off for mysterious errands? It’s all adding up.”
Keith gave him a flat look. “Do you want to eat tonight?”
Lance grinned but backed off, settling at the counter to watch. “Okay, okay. But I gotta say, seeing you like this is kinda hot. Maybe I should put a baby in you.”
Keith huffed a laugh, shaking his head. But the joke, ridiculous as it was, struck something deep. A thought he hadn’t wanted to entertain. His hands slowed as he stirred the pan.
Lance noticed immediately. “Hey,” he said, voice softer now. “What’s up?”

Keith hesitated. “...Do you think we’d be good parents?”
Lance blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “I mean—yeah. Obviously.”
Keith kept his eyes on the pan. “I wouldn’t.”
Lance frowned. “What?”
“I wouldn’t be a good parent,” Keith clarified, voice quieter now. “I didn’t exactly have the best examples growing up. I didn’t have parents. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What if I screw them up?”
Lance was silent for a beat, then stood, coming up behind Keith and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Okay, first of all, every parent screws up their kid a little. That’s, like, tradition.”
Keith snorted despite himself.

Lance rested his chin on Keith’s shoulder. “But you? You’d be an amazing mom. And you know why?”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“Because you care. You care enough to worry about screwing up. You care enough to be here, cooking for me, making sure I eat after a long day. You care enough to show up for the people you love, even when you don’t know how.” Lance squeezed him gently. “That’s what a good parent does.”
Keith swallowed hard. “You really think so?”

Lance turned him slightly so he could see his face. “I know so.”
Keith searched his expression, looking for doubt, for hesitation—but there was none. Just unwavering confidence in him. Like there always was.
Lance smiled. “Now, hurry up and finish cooking, papi.”
Keith groaned. “You just ruined the moment.”
Lance waggled his eyebrows. “That’s my specialty, babe.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith had been on his own for exactly one month when he realized just how unprepared he was for life outside his mother’s house.
Eighteen, broke, and with nothing but a duffel bag stuffed with a few clothes, he learned quickly that people didn’t take kindly to aimless, exhausted teenagers loitering around. Some nights, he tried sleeping at a bus stations, but the guards kicked him out. Some nights, he found abandoned buildings that smelled like piss and regret, and other nights, he would curl up behind a 24-hour convenience store, shivering under a thin jacket as he pretended not to hear the cashier muttering about “another street rat” outside.

Keith had never been picky about food, but that was before he had to eat a half-eaten sandwich he fished out of a trash can behind a diner. Hunger had a way of stripping away pride, and by day four, Keith was willing to work any job that would take him. Unfortunately, no one was looking to hire a teenage drifter who looked like he hadn’t showered in days.
Enter Pidge.
Keith met her at a rundown internet café after he managed to scrape together enough money to buy a cup of coffee just to have somewhere warm to sit. She was hunched over a laptop, typing at an unholy speed, her green hoodie pulled low over her face, making her look like some kind of gremlin hacker. The first thing Keith noticed was that she smelled like an unholy mix of motor oil, old books, and whatever brand of shampoo she used once a week at best. The second thing he noticed was that she was staring directly at him.

“You’re staring,” Keith muttered, stirring his coffee.
“You look homeless,” she said bluntly.
Keith scowled. “Wow. Thanks.”
She shrugged. “Am I wrong?”
Keith considered lying, but he was too exhausted to bother. He just sighed. “No.”
“Thought so. You smell like sadness.”
Keith had no idea why that made him snort, but it did. And maybe that’s why he didn’t immediately snap at her when she suddenly shoved a half-eaten bagel across the table at him.
“You’re not gonna poison me, are you?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “Dude, I literally just bit into it. If I was gonna kill you, I’d do it the old-fashioned way.”
Keith wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or amused, but hunger won over paranoia, and he ate the damn bagel.
That was how their friendship started.

It turned out Pidge was an omega like him, but unlike Keith, she was utterly feral. She had been on the streets for years, bouncing from squat to squat, never staying anywhere too long. She didn’t have a legal job, but she had money—real money. When Keith finally asked her how she made it, she just smirked and said, “I know things. And people are dumb.”
Pidge, as it turned out, was a genius. Socially awkward to the point of making people deeply uncomfortable, but sharp as a knife when it came to technology, scams, and loopholes in the system. Keith wasn’t sure why she took him in, but after their third meeting, she handed him a spare key to her tiny apartment and said, “You can crash on the couch. But if you steal my stuff, I will find you, and I will end you.”
Keith, who had nothing left to steal and nowhere else to go, just nodded and accepted.

Living with Pidge was an experience. The girl had zero house training. If she wasn’t working on some scam, she was tinkering with a circuit board, leaving random electronic guts all over the coffee table. She barely ate anything that wasn’t in a package, and Keith quickly realized that if he didn’t cook, they’d both end up living off of energy drinks and stale crackers.
The first time he made an actual meal, Pidge had stared at her plate like it was some kind of alien artifact.
“What is this?” she asked, poking at the food with suspicion.

“It’s spaghetti.”
“And you… made it?”
“Yes, Pidge, I cooked it. It’s not poison. Eat it.”
She had taken a bite and made a noise so obscene that Keith nearly walked out of the apartment. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my life.”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “You’ve eaten before, right?”
“Not like this.”

And just like that, Keith became the unofficial cook and cleaner of the household. Pidge, for all her brilliance, had zero instincts for taking care of herself in a normal way. She would forget to eat, wear the same hoodie for three days straight, and once, Keith walked into the bathroom to find her using a wrench to fix the showerhead… while the water was still running. She was chaos incarnate, and somehow, she was the best friend he’d ever had.
It wasn’t until months later, when Pidge trusted him enough to show him how she really made her money, that Keith realized just how deep she was in the underworld.
She was a scammer. A damn good one. Credit card fraud, identity theft, phishing schemes—Pidge had her hands in all of it. And she was making more money than Keith had ever seen in his life.
“You in?” she asked one night, sprawled out on the couch, laptop balanced on her stomach. “You don’t have to, but I figured… you’re smart. You could help.”
Keith didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I’m in.”

At first, it was just small stuff—helping her run fake phone calls and setting up dummy accounts. But eventually, it escalated. Keith started running drugs for some of Pidge’s contacts, working the streets while she stayed home, pulling the strings. It was dangerous. It was illegal. But for the first time in his life, Keith felt like he had some control.
He and Pidge had each other’s backs. That was all that mattered.
Keith was jolted out of his memory as Lance ambushed him at the door just as he was unlocking it. Keith had spent the entire day wrangling Ronnie’s schedule, making sure her interviews and rehearsals didn’t clash, and by the time they were done, they’d decided to grab dinner together. It had been a long day, but the moment Keith stepped inside, Lance was on him like an over enthusiastic golden retriever.
"Hellouu, my love," Lance sing-songed, wrapping his arms around Keith’s waist. "How was your day? Did you miss me terribly? Were you lost without me?"

Keith chuckled, pressing a warm kiss to Lance’s lips as he stepped further inside. "You’re ridiculous. And yes, my day was awful without you. You must never leave me alone again."
Lance gasped dramatically. "I knew it! My presence is vital to your well-being!" He paused, glancing at Keith. "You eat yet?"
"Yeah, with Ronnie."
"Good. Because I had plans for dessert." He waggled his eyebrows, and Keith rolled his eyes but didn't protest as Lance dragged him toward the bedroom.
Afterwards, tangled in the sheets, Lance trailed lazy kisses down Keith’s bare skin, his voice turning soft and syrupy. "So... I was thinking."
Keith, half-asleep, hummed in response. "That’s dangerous."

Lance ignored him and continued. "Instead of having some of your clothes here… you could have all your clothes here. And all your stuff here. And then you could park your car outside… and, I don’t know, maybe you could stay here. Like permanently."
Keith froze. His eyes snapped open, and he turned his head to look at Lance. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"
Lance scooted closer, pressing their foreheads together and holding him tighter. "Yes. I’m super tired of not having you around every day."
Keith could feel the smile spreading across his face before he even realized he was smiling. He cupped Lance’s cheek, leaning in to kiss him tenderly. Then he pulled back and, with the most serious expression he could muster, said, "Absolutely not."

Lance jerked back like he’d been electrocuted. His mouth opened and closed, resembling a fish gasping for air. He looked like Keith had just punted a puppy across the room.
Before Lance could combust, Keith reached out and pressed a finger to his lips. "Breathe."
Lance glared at him, eyes wide with betrayal.
Keith chuckled. "I’d love to live with you. But not in your bachelor pad. If we’re doing this, I want us to get a new place together. Our home. Not just me moving into yours."
Lance visibly deflated before his entire body relaxed, his lips quirking up in a sheepish grin. "Oh. That actually makes sense."
Keith smirked. "I do that sometimes."

Lance kissed Keith’s fingers, grinning. “As long as you’re living with me, we can do exactly as you want, my love.”
Keith felt his chest warm at the words, at the sheer tenderness in Lance’s voice. He was about to say something—something equally soft, equally intimate—when Lance’s phone began to vibrate loudly on the nightstand. Lance groaned, making a half-hearted move to ignore it, but before he could, Keith’s phone started ringing too.
They exchanged a look. That was never a good sign.
Lance sighed, snatching his phone. “Ugh, it’s Hunk. What are the odds this is something that can wait?”

Keith glanced at his screen—Romelle. His stomach twisted.
“Pretty low,” he muttered before answering.
The moment he picked up, Romelle’s voice exploded through the speaker, her usual dramatic flair tinged with something almost frantic. “OH MY GOD, KEITH. IT’S EVERYWHERE.”
Keith sat up straighter. “What’s everywhere?”
There was a brief pause, and then she hesitated. “Oh… you haven’t seen it yet, have you?”
His pulse spiked. “Romelle,” he said sharply.
“I’ll send you a link,” she rushed out. “Just… we’re trying to take it down.”

She hung up before he could ask anything else.
Keith’s phone buzzed with the incoming message just as he heard Lance’s baffled voice from beside him. “Hunk, what the hell are you talking about? Slow down, I can’t understand a word—”
Keith’s fingers felt oddly stiff as he clicked on the link. His breath caught in his throat the moment the headline loaded.
"LANCE’S STEAMY NIGHT – EXCLUSIVE FOOTAGE OF GLOBAL SUPERSTAR’S HOTEL HOOKUP LEAKED"
Keith’s blood ran cold.

His thumb hovered over the screen before he forced himself to press play.
The video started grainy, distorted at first—but then it cleared. And there they were. Him and Lance. Their first night together in that hotel room. Every touch, every kiss, every intimate moment exposed for the world to see.
Keith’s stomach twisted painfully.

Beside him, Lance was still talking to Hunk, but then his voice faltered. “What do you mean—what video?”
Keith swallowed, his throat dry as he turned the phone towards him.
Lance’s eyes flickered to the screen.
Everything stopped.

Chapter Text

Keith was frozen. His entire body felt like it had been plunged into ice water, but on the outside, he remained composed—silent, still. The weight of guilt settled deep in Keith’s chest, a leaden knot that tightened with every passing second. He clenched his fists under the table, nails biting into his palms as he watched Lance pace the length of their apartment, his brow furrowed in frustration.

"I just don’t get it," Lance muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I’ve gone through every interaction, every event—who the hell would do this?" His voice was strained, the usual playful lilt replaced by something sharper, angrier.

Keith swallowed hard, forcing his expression to remain neutral. "We’ll figure it out," he said, though the words tasted like ash. He didn’t deserve Lance’s trust—not when he was hiding this, not when every reassuring lie made the pit in his stomach grow deeper.

The internet, of course, had erupted the moment the video surfaced.

Public Reaction:
The majority of fans were outraged on their behalf—"This is such a violation, who the hell leaks private moments like this?"—but as always, the darker corners of social media slithered with toxicity.

Supportive Comments:
"Lance and Keith are literal couple goals, whoever leaked this is disgusting."
"The way Keith looks at him though?? My heart can’t take this."
"Consent is key, people. This isn’t okay."
“Damn, didn’t know Lance was packing like that. Lucky bastard.”

Toxic Comments:
"Damn, Keith’s got moves. No wonder Lance is whipped."
"Lucky bastard. Bet Keith’s used to being passed around though."
"Slutty manager much? No surprise he got exposed."

Lance’s phone buzzed incessantly, each notification like a fresh spark to his temper. He snatched it up, jaw clenched as he scrolled through the comments. "I swear to god," he hissed, "if I find out who these assholes are—"

Keith reached out, gently prying the phone from Lance’s grip. "Don’t. They’re not worth it."

Lance’s eyes burned with fury. "They’re talking about you like you’re—like you’re some—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It’s not just the leak. It’s the way they’re treating you."

Keith’s chest ached. He wanted to tell him. He wanted to confess everything—the blackmail, the threats, the reason this was happening. But fear locked the words in his throat.

Instead, he pulled Lance into a tight embrace, resting his chin on his shoulder. "We’ll handle it," he murmured, though the promise felt hollow.

Because Keith knew one thing for certain—he was running out of time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Soon the room was a storm of voices and movement, everyone scrambling to put out a fire that had already consumed too much. Their team was working at breakneck speed, contacting site administrators, issuing takedown requests, sending cease-and-desist letters. But Keith knew better than anyone—once something was on the internet, it was never truly gone.
Romelle, Hunk, Ronnie, and Lia had all come over to help, their phones glued to their ears, their fingers flying over keyboards. And in the middle of it all was Lance, fuming, pacing, his voice sharp and unrelenting as he tore into his lawyer over the phone.
“I want that hotel sued!” Lance snapped, his free hand clenched into a fist. “How the hell would they allow someone to put a camera in there—?”

A muffled response came through the receiver, but Lance wasn’t hearing it.
“Well, who else are we supposed to blame? How else would that video be out?” His voice cracked slightly, not in fear, but in rage. “My partner never asked for this! He never consented to this! This is a fucking violation!”
Lance wasn’t even angry about his own exposure—he was furious for Keith. He knew exactly how the world would react, how the scrutiny would land heavier on an Omega than an Alpha. The public was ruthless. And the angle of the footage? It was clear they had no idea they were being filmed. The camera had been hidden, expertly placed.
Romelle was working with their PR team, her face grim as she shot off urgent emails. Lia was in the corner, calling site after site, her voice steady but sharp as she demanded takedowns. Ronnie stood near Lance, arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and concern.

Keith, meanwhile, felt like he was slipping beneath the surface of a dark ocean. The noise around him became distant, muffled. His pulse pounded in his ears, and chills skated up his spine. His thoughts were racing, unraveling faster than he could catch them.
Whoever had done this wasn’t just trying to ruin him—they were sending a message. This wasn’t about money or a simple invasion of privacy. No one had reached out with demands. No one had come forward with a price. This was about control, about torment.
And that meant they knew him.
His breath caught in his throat as a possibility clawed its way to the forefront of his mind.

It couldn’t be her… right?
She… she wouldn’t do this to me.
“Baby.”
Keith jolted, pulled from his spiraling thoughts by Lance’s voice. His boyfriend stood before him, eyes burning with determination and something softer—concern, guilt.
“I’m so sorry,” Lance whispered, reaching out to grip Keith’s hands. “I’ll fix this. Please, don’t be too upset. This is downright illegal, and I swear to god, whoever did this is going to pay.”
Keith’s stomach twisted painfully. If only Lance knew—this wasn’t about him. It never was. This was Keith’s past, coming back to haunt him, and now Lance was caught in the crossfire. The guilt dug into his ribs like claws.
He forced himself to move, to react, to push the mask back on. He pulled Lance into a hug, holding him close, grounding himself in his warmth.
“Hey,” Keith murmured, his voice as steady as he could make it. “This isn’t your fault. Let’s just… let’s just get through this together, okay? I’m not mad. This happens all the time. The internet will forget. We just need to find the fucker who did this.”

His words were meant to soothe, but even he wasn’t convinced.
There was a pause, thick with tension, before Ronnie broke it. Her voice was casual, but her eyes were sharp as they flicked between Keith and Lance.
“Lance,” she asked slowly, “do you have any stalkers?”
The question was direct, almost clinical, and yet it sent a fresh bolt of unease through Keith’s chest. Because the truth was, Lance didn’t.
But Keith did.
Keith pushed his guilt down, swallowing it like a poison pill, and hated himself even more as Lance racked his brain, trying to think of any stalkers he might have had. Keith knew this was pointless—this wasn’t about Lance. But he couldn’t tell Lance that. Not now. Not ever.

The internet was going to internet. While their team worked tirelessly to erase the video, the damage was already done. Social media was ablaze, and although they received their fair share of heinous comments, the public was largely on their side.
“What the actual fuck,” Lance seethed, shoving his phone onto the table.
Keith said nothing. He couldn’t. His skin burned with shame, his stomach twisting painfully. He had been prepared for the public to tear him apart. He just hadn’t been prepared for the way Lance would look at him—furious, protective, hurt.
And yet, despite it all, Keith still couldn’t tell him the truth. That this wasn’t random.
And that they weren’t finished yet.

Keith’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A cold spike of dread shot through him as he pulled it out, his hands trembling just slightly. Another message from the unknown number.
Did you like the preview? Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from.
His stomach dropped. His grip tightened around the phone, as if he could crush the words out of existence. No demands. No threats. Just a promise—a taunt. Whoever this was, they weren’t just trying to hurt him. They were playing with him.
Keith forced himself to swallow the rising panic, shoving the phone back into his pocket before Lance could notice. He had to fix this. He had to end this before it got worse.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The moment Lance left to visit his mother, Keith was out the door—jaw clenched, fists tight, a man on a mission. The team had done damage control, issuing stern legal threats to anyone still sharing the leaked video, but Keith knew better. This wasn’t about clicks. This was personal.

And if there was one person sleazy enough to dig up dirt and keep his mouth shut, it was Robert.

Robert’s office smelled like expensive cologne and poor life choices. The man himself lounged behind his desk, blonde hair artfully messy, blue eyes glinting with the smug satisfaction of someone who’d already won an argument they hadn’t even started yet.

"Look, Keith, I’ve tried," Robert sighed, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Whoever this is? They’re good. My PIs came up empty, and these guys once found a politician’s secret love child in Belize."

Keith dropped into the chair across from him, unamused. "Rob, I need answers. Lance didn’t sign up for this. They’re not just coming for me—they’re ruining his career too."

Robert’s lips quirked. "Now, kitten," he purred, leaning forward, "if you’d just stayed with me instead of running off with a pop star, we wouldn’t be dealing with this, now would we?"

Keith’s eye twitched. "Call me ‘kitten’ again and I’ll reintroduce your face to that very expensive desk."

Robert laughed, unfazed. "Still fiery. I miss that." He leaned back, shrugging. "Look, I’ve done my best. Sex tapes are so common these days, Kim Kardashian’s a billionaire. Maybe you should lean into it—charge for the next one."

"Rob." Keith’s voice was lethal.

"Fine, fine." Robert held up his hands. "I’ve got a dozen cases right now—corrupt senators, underground fight rings, a guy who claims he’s the reincarnation of Elvis. I’ll try, but no promises. Journalism waits for no man, not even your pretty little crisis."

Keith stood, disgusted. "You’re useless."

"And yet," Robert called after him as Keith stormed out, "you still came to me first. I wonder why?"

Back in his apartment, Keith stared at his phone, the weight of the last unanswered question crushing him.

Whoever this was, they hadn’t asked for money. They hadn’t demanded anything.

They just wanted him to suffer.

With a sharp exhale, he finally caved and dialed the blackmailer’s number.

Call failed.

Gritting his teeth, he typed out a text instead:

>> What do you want?

The reply came immediately.

<< I’m going to ruin you.

Keith’s blood ran cold.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Weeks passed, and slowly, painfully, life settled into something resembling normal. The internet had mostly moved on, the video fading into the chaotic churn of online scandals, replaced by the next big disaster. Their team had done their job well—Lance and Keith weren’t trending anymore, and the news cycle had shifted. But Keith couldn’t let it go.
The blackmailer had gone silent.
And that scared him more than anything.
Lance mistook Keith’s unease for lingering stress over the leak, and Keith let him. It was easier that way. So when Lance suggested they start house hunting—something fresh, something new—Keith had agreed. A place just for them, somewhere safe. At least, that’s what he wanted to believe.

They found it within the month: a sleek, modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows and just enough space to breathe. Keith should have been excited. Moving in with Lance, truly building a life together—it was something he had never thought he’d have. Instead, he found himself checking every corner, running his hands along the edges of mirrors, pulling apart vents, looking for cameras that weren’t there.
Lance never questioned it. He did it too. They had both become paranoid, scouring the house like detectives, afraid of ghosts that might not even exist. The memory of the leak had tainted them, making them hyper-aware of every shadow, every unfamiliar noise.

But in between the moments of fear, there was love. Real, tangible love. They spent days picking out furniture, debating over colors, laughing as Lance insisted on a ridiculous velvet couch that Keith swore would never match anything. Mornings were spent curled up together on their half-built bed frame, drinking coffee, talking about stupid things like what to name the neighbor’s cat.
Keith wanted to believe this was real. That he could have this without it being taken away. But every time his phone buzzed, his heart lurched into his throat, expecting another message, another reminder that peace was temporary.
Yet, nothing came.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Keith was out with Ronnie when the world cracked open.
They had gone for lunch, something normal, something easy. Ronnie, all charisma and natural star power, was currently frowning at her phone, flipping through interior design samples for Keith and Lance’s new place.
"I’m telling you, Keith, the marble countertops are worth it," she said, scrolling. "They scream luxury."
"They scream overpriced," Keith countered, sipping his coffee. "Lance will put an espresso machine on them, and I’ll have a heart attack every time he spills."
Ronnie snorted. "Fair. But still, think about it."

Then her phone buzzed.
Keith noticed the way her face froze, the way her easy going demeanor slipped like a mask shattering. Her grip tightened, nails tapping against the glass. Then, in slow motion, she turned the screen toward him.
BREAKING NEWS: MUSIC LEGEND ENRIQUE McCLAIN EXPOSED IN SHOCKING SCANDAL – YEARS OF ABUSE, INFIDELITY, AND A SECRET LOVE CHILD?
Keith’s heart stopped.

Ronnie’s mouth opened, but no words came out. People were already whispering around them, phones lighting up across the café. Keith’s hands were shaking before he even reached for his own device. And there it was. Everywhere. Every news site, every social media feed.
A woman had come forward. Not just a woman—proof. Emails, letters, voicemails. Manuel McClain, the untouchable legend, had pressured a woman into an affair, gotten her pregnant, then spent months trying to force her into an abortion. When she refused, he harassed her until she disappeared.
And the child? Still alive. Anonymous.

Keith’s stomach twisted. He could barely process the words, the weight of them pressing against his chest, but it got worse. Because then, the byline.
By Robert Castillo.
And then, the words that obliterated his world:
Citing an inside source, journalist Robert Castillo confirmed that key details and evidence were provided by none other than Keith Kogane, current manager—and boyfriend—of Manuel McClain’s son, Lance McClain.
Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.
Ronnie’s phone clattered onto the table.
Keith couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop the world from crashing down around him.
"Keith." Ronnie’s voice was dangerously quiet. "Tell me this isn’t real."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Because he knew, with bone-deep horror, that it didn’t matter what he said.
The damage was already done.
A dull roaring filled his ears, drowning out everything—the café noise, Ronnie’s breathing, the buzz of notifications going off like gunfire all around them. Keith’s hands clenched on the table, his pulse hammering so violently it made him lightheaded.
Ronnie exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. "Jesus fucking Christ," she muttered, voice shaking. "You—you’re his manager. You’re with Lance. And you—?"
Keith shook his head wildly. "I didn’t—Ronnie, I swear, I didn’t—"

"Then why does it say you did?!" Her voice was rising now, raw with disbelief and betrayal. "Why is your name plastered all over this like you just handed my dad’s fucking grave over to the press?!"
People were staring now. Keith barely noticed. His hands were ice cold. His stomach churned violently. He wanted to wake up. This had to be some sick joke, some elaborate, twisted nightmare—
But no. The words were real. His name was real. Robert had done this. Robert had dragged him into this hellscape, nailed him to the cross, and walked away whistling.
Keith’s phone buzzed, jolting him.

A message.
Not from Robert. Not from Lance.
From the blackmailer.
<< Told you I’d ruin you.Say Hi to your boyfriend for me😍. >>
Keith’s breath left him in a sharp, silent exhale. His vision tunneled, spots of black creeping at the edges.
He had been so afraid of the silence.
Now, he understood why.

Chapter Text

Keith’s hands shook as he reached for Ronnie’s wrist, his grip firm but pleading. “Ronnie, listen to me. I didn’t do this. I would never—”

Her eyes burned with betrayal, but she didn’t pull away. “Then why does it say you did?” she hissed, voice cracking.

“Because someone set me up,” Keith snapped, leaning in so the eavesdropping café patrons wouldn’t catch his words. “Think about it—why would I torch my own life? My career? Lance?” His voice broke on his boyfriend’s name, and Ronnie’s glare faltered. Just slightly.

A crash of chairs made them both flinch. Across the café, a barista pointed at them, whispering to a customer whose phone was already raised—recording.

“Shit,” Ronnie muttered, grabbing her sunglasses and slapping them onto Keith’s face. “We need to go. Now.”

They barely made it to the door before the first camera flash blinded him.
Microphones jabbed at Keith’s throat like knives. “Keith! Did you sell out the McClains?” “How does Lance feel about your betrayal?” “Was your relationship just a cover to get dirt on Enrique?!”

Keith ducked his head, Ronnie’s grip on his elbow the only thing keeping him upright as they shoved through the swarm. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the screams—until one voice cut through like a blade.

“Keith! Wait!”

He knew that voice.

Keith turned, and there he was: Robert , his stupidly perfect hair ruffled, his stupidly blue eyes wide with something that almost looked like guilt. The reporters surged toward him, but Robert shouldered through them like a man on a mission, his hand clamping around Keith’s wrist.

“Not here,” Robert growled, yanking him toward the alley. “Come with me.”

Keith ripped his arm free. “How could you?” he snarled, voice trembling. “You used my name—”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Robert shot back, then flinched as cameras clicked behind them. He dragged Keith deeper into the shadows, his breath ragged. “Just—get in your car. Please. I’ll explain everything.”

Keith’s survival instincts screamed trap, but his need for answers won. He needed proof. He jerked his chin at Ronnie—go—before storming to his parked Jeep.
Keith slid into the driver’s seat, fingers flying over his phone to start a voice recording before Robert could follow. The door slammed shut, sealing them in tense silence.

Robert exhaled sharply. “Before you stab me—”

“Give me one reason not to.”

“I’m the kid.”

Keith blinked. “...What?”

Robert’s laugh was hollow. “The love child. The ‘anonymous source.’ Enrique McClain’s bastard.” He ran a hand through his hair, his usual smirk gone. “My mom was a makeup artist on his ’98 tour. He promised her the world, got her pregnant, then paid her to ‘take care of it.’ When she refused, he blacklisted her. She couldn’t get work after that. She—fuck.” His voice cracked. “She OD’d when I was twelve. Left a note saying his name.”

Keith’s stomach twisted. “Rob…”

“Don’t.” Robert’s eyes glistened. “I used you. I needed the McClains to hurt, and your name gave the story teeth. But I didn’t leak that sex tape—that was Pidge. Your old friend.” He spat the word. “She’s pissed you left her rotting in jail while you played house with Lance.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” Robert muttered, staring out the window. “I had a plan—leak the story anonymously, let the evidence speak for itself. But Pidge… she changed it. Added your name. Said it’d ‘hurt worse.’”

Keith’s pulse spiked. Pidge. His old partner-in-crime, now his executioner.

“Why?” Keith forced out.

Robert laughed, bitter. “I tracked her down with the number you gave me she offered me a deal to clean some corrupted files so I’d have proof .” He turned, eyes blazing. “Now she’s making sure you lose everything too.”

The car felt suffocating. Keith’s mind raced—Pidge had access to the files. Pidge planted Keith’s name. Pidge was the blackmailer.

But Robert wasn’t done.

“And yeah, I let her,” he admitted, voice dropping. “Because fuck the McClains. Fuck Enrique. I swore I would take him down and I finally had a way to do it.” His hands clenched.

Keith’s throat tightened. He’d known Robert was ruthless, but this? This was grief.

Robert leaned in, voice raw. “So yeah, I used you. But you’re collateral, not the target. Pidge? She’s coming for you personally. And if you think that sex tape was bad? She’s just getting started.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Also, side note—” Robert smirked, the mask slipping back on. “—you literally slept with half-brothers. Guess you have a type. But you chose wrong.”

Keith’s eye twitched. “I hate you.”

“Noted.” Robert reached for the door. “Watch your back, Kogane. Pidge doesn’t plan to lose.”

As Robert stepped out, Keith waited until he was gone before flipping his phone over. The recording app blinked back at him—00:04:22.

Got you.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith never thought he'd get out of the game clean, but he had a plan.
He'd saved enough—well, enough for someone who once thought fifty bucks was life-changing. He was now going to Uni his tuition was covered, and for the first time, the future felt like something he could actually reach for. But Pidge? Pidge had never believed in futures. She lived in the now, fast and ruthless, convinced she was too smart to ever lose.

"School is a scam," she declared one night, cross-legged on their battered couch, a laptop glowing in front of her. "They make you pay thousands for knowledge you can find on YouTube."
Keith rolled his eyes. "You literally scam for a living. You can’t call other things scams."
"I scam the rich and stupid. It’s different."
Keith sighed, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. "Pidge, we can't do this forever. Eventually, we'll get caught."

She scoffed, fingers never pausing on the keyboard. "Speak for yourself. I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen. Have I been caught?"
"Not yet."
She flashed him a grin. "Exactly."
But Keith could feel it—something shifting. Pidge’s risks were getting bigger, her confidence bleeding into arrogance.

Keith had always known Pidge was too smart for her own good.

It was why they worked so well together—her genius, his instincts. But tonight, her fingers flew over the keyboard with a recklessness that set his teeth on edge.

"Pidge," he warned, watching the numbers on the screen climb higher. "That’s enough. We hit the target. Let’s bail."

She didn’t even glance up. "Five more minutes. I can reroute another fifty grand."

Keith’s gut twisted. "No. We stick to the plan."

Pidge rolled her eyes. "Since when are you the cautious one?"

Since he’d started dreaming of something more.

But before he could argue, the monitors flickered.

Then—

Black.

The entire system went dead.

Pidge’s breath hitched. "Oh, fuck."

Outside, tires screeched.

They didn’t even make it to the door.

SWAT burst in, guns drawn, shouting orders that blurred together in Keith’s adrenaline-soaked mind. He barely had time to raise his hands before he was slammed face-first into the concrete, cuffs biting into his wrists.

Next to him, Pidge was laughing.

Actual laughter.

"Well, shit," she wheezed, cheek pressed against the floor. "Guess we finally fucked up."

Keith choked out a disbelieving laugh. "You think?"

Even as they were hauled to their feet, Pidge shot him a grin. "Jail’s not so bad. Three meals a day, free Wi-Fi—"

An agent yanked her arms tighter. "Shut it."

Pidge winked at Keith. "See you in the slammer, pretty boy."

Turns out, jail was boring.

Keith and Pidge sat side by side on the cold bench, passing the time like it was just another night in their shitty apartment.

"Bet you twenty bucks the guard’s wearing a toupee," Pidge muttered.

Keith squinted. "...No way."

"Oh, it’s a rug. Look at the hairline."

Keith snorted. "You’re insane."

Pidge grinned. "And you’re fucked. They don’t let hackers walk."

Keith’s chest tightened. "We’ll get out."

Pidge just hummed, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Sure we will."

Three days later, everything changed.

Keith was pulled from his cell without explanation, marched past Pidge’s confused stare, and shoved into an interrogation room.

Where he waited.

Takashi Shirogane.

Billionaire. Philanthropist. And—most importantly—the man who’d taught Keith’s Ethics in Business seminar at university.

Keith had stood out in that class. Not because he was the best student, but because he was the only one who called bullshit on Shiro’s "morality" lectures.

"Ethics are a luxury," Keith had said flatly. "Try surviving on ramen and hope, then tell me about ‘right and wrong.’"

Shiro had looked at him then. Really looked.

Now, sitting across from him in a cheap plastic chair, Shiro folded his hands. "You’re getting out."

Keith’s pulse spiked. "What?"

"I pulled strings. You walk. Today."

Keith’s stomach dropped. "And Pidge?"

Shiro’s expression didn’t change. "She’s the brains behind all this.She stays."

Keith was processed and released so fast his head spun.

One minute, he was in cuffs. The next, he was standing on the courthouse steps, squinting in the sunlight like a fucking cliché.

Shiro’s car idled at the curb. "Get in."

Keith didn’t move. "I need to talk to Pidge."

"She won’t see you."

"Bullshit."

Shiro sighed. "Her exact words were, ‘Tell that traitorous slut I hope his sugar daddy’s dick was worth it.’"

Keith’s breath left him in a rush.

She thought he’d left her behind.

She thought he’d slept his way free.

And worst of all?

She wasn’t entirely wrong.
Pidge got five years.

Keith got a full-ride scholarship, a mentorship under Shiro, and a hollow ache where his best friend used to be.

He tried to visit her once.

She refused.

The guard handed him a note instead:

"Rot in hell, Kogane. Hope he’s worth it."

Keith crumpled it in his fist.

Because that was the worst part—

Shiro hadn’t touched him.

But no one would ever believe that.

Chapter Text

**Hunk’s phone buzzed again—another notification, another twist of the knife.**

He stared at the screen, the glow casting shadows under his wide eyes. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening, as if he could crush the truth before it spread any further.

*Oh God. Oh no. No, no, no.*

The article had exploded online thirty minutes ago, and already, the world was tearing at the seams.

*"LEGEND’S SECRET SCANDAL: ENRIQUE MCCLAIN ‘S ABANDONED MISTRESS—AND THE MANAGER WHO KNEW."*

Photos. Texts. A timeline so meticulously laid out it left no room for doubt.

Hunk’s stomach lurched as he scrolled—there was Keith, shoulders hunched, talking to a reporter in a dimly lit parking garage. There were screenshots of messages, damning words in black and white. And worst of all, the document—**signed by Enrique himself**—demanding the woman’s silence.

*Lance’s dad.*

Hunk’s breath hitched. His gaze snapped up, searching for Lance through the studio glass.

Inside the booth, Lance was lost in the music, eyes shut, fingers curled around the mic stand. His voice—raw, aching—poured into the headphones as he sang the bridge of *Lose Control*, a song so transparently about Keith it hurt.

*"I don’t wanna fight it, don’t wanna hide it…"*

Hunk’s throat tightened.

*He doesn’t know.*

Lance had spent his whole life chasing his father’s shadow. Worshipped him. Wanted to *be* him. And now?

Now the world knew the truth.

Hunk’s phone buzzed again—a text from Romelle:

**>> You seeing this shit?**

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t move.

Because what happened when Lance found out?

What happened when *Maria* found out?

His hands shook. He locked the screen, but the words were already burned into his mind.

*Please,* he thought, watching Lance sway with the music, *just… don’t let the session end yet.*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The door clicked open.

Maria didn’t turn around.

She already knew it was him.

Enrique stood frozen in the doorway, his usual confidence stripped away, leaving only the hollow shell of a man caught. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her.

"Maria," he started, voice cracking.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

The silence was worse than any scream.

He swallowed hard. "I—I can explain."

Finally, she turned.

Her eyes weren’t wet. They weren’t even angry.

They were *dead*.

"So," she said, voice eerily calm, "this is who you really are."

Enrique flinched. "It was years ago. I was stupid—"

"You harassed her." Maria’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater, nails biting into her palms. "You got her pregnant. And then you *made her disappear*."

His face twisted. "No! No, I didn’t—I just paid her off. I didn’t know she’d—"

"*Get out.*"

The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t even sharp.

They were final.

Enrique’s breath stuttered. "Maria, please. You’re sick. You can’t do this alone—"

She took a step forward. Just one.

And for the first time in his life, **Enrique Vazquez looked afraid of his own wife.**

"Get. The fuck. Out."

He opened his mouth—closed it. Nodded once, like a man clinging to the hope that this wasn’t the end.

"I’ll come back," he whispered. "When you’ve calmed down."

Maria didn’t blink.

The door shut behind him.

And then—**only then**—did she let her knees buckle.

She didn’t cry.

She just sat there, on the cold hardwood floor, staring at the space where he’d stood.

*How long had she been loving a ghost? *

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The last note of *Lose Control* faded, and Lance pulled off his headphones with a satisfied grin, sweat glistening at his temples. The band clapped, the sound engineer gave him a thumbs-up—another perfect take.

Then he saw Hunk’s face.

Lance’s smile faltered. “Dude, you look like you just watched a horror movie. What’s wrong?”

Hunk’s throat worked. He opened his mouth, closed it, then held out his phone like it was a live grenade.

“You… need to see this.”

Lance frowned, scrolling—then froze.

His breath hitched. His fingers tightened.

*No. No way.*

**Denial came first.**

“This is fake,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Some sick joke. My dad wouldn’t—*Keith* wouldn’t—”

Hunk’s silence was worse than any confirmation.

Lance kept scrolling, heart hammering. The texts. The document. The *signature*.

His stomach dropped.

**Then came the rage. **

“What the hell is this?!” His voice cracked, raw and furious. The band members exchanged uneasy glances, backing away.

Hunk reached for him. “Lance—”

“No. No.” Lance shoved the phone back at him, chest heaving. “Keith *knew*? This whole time? And he just—what, *hid* it?”

His phone buzzed. **Keith’s name flashed on the screen.**

Lance declined the call with a sharp swipe. Then again. And again.

**Each ring was a betrayal.**

Finally, he fired off a text:

**>> We’ll talk at home.**

Cold. Distant. Nothing like the man who had just sung a love song for him.

Lance barely remembered the drive.

He burst through the front door, heart in his throat—only to nearly collide with Veronica.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, arms crossed like she’d been waiting for him. “You saw it.”

“Yeah, I *saw it*,” Lance snapped. “Where’s Mom?”

Veronica grabbed his arm before he could storm off. “Wait. Just—*wait*. I think there’s more to this.”

Lance scoffed. “Oh, really? Because it looks pretty damn clear to me. Dad’s a liar, Keith’s a liar, and—”

“Keith’s *not* the source,” Veronica cut in. “Look at the dates. He was barely out of high school when this happened. Someone’s setting him up.”

Lance’s jaw clenched. “Then why didn’t he *tell me*?”

Before she could answer, a weak voice called from the living room.

“*Mijo*?”

Maria sat on the couch, wrapped in a shawl, her face pale but eerily composed. The TV was off. No articles. No noise. Just silence.

Lance’s anger flickered, replaced by something colder.

“*Mamá*…”

She held out a hand. He took it, sinking beside her. Veronica hovered, biting her lip.

Maria exhaled slowly. “So. Now you know.”

Lance’s grip tightened. “Did *you* know?”

She shook her head. “Not until today.” A pause. Then, quieter: “But I should have.”

Veronica sat on her other side, pressing close. “This isn’t your fault.”

Maria’s smile was brittle. “Isn’t it? I married him. I let him into our lives. And now—” Her voice broke. “Now I don’t even know who he is.”

Lance’s phone buzzed again. **Keith.**

He silenced it.

Veronica shot him a look. “You should at least hear him out.”

“Why?” Lance’s voice was ice. “So he can lie to me too?”

Maria squeezed his hand. “*Cariño*, anger won’t fix this.”

Lance swallowed hard.

But the fire inside him hadn’t burned out yet.

**And Keith was still waiting.**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
He sat on the edge of their bed, phone clenched in a white-knuckled grip, thumb hovering over the screen like a lifeline. He’d called Lance maybe a hundred times—okay, seventy-four, but it felt like a hundred. Each one went unanswered. No callbacks. No voicemails. Just a single text that had hit like a bullet to the chest:
“We’ll talk at home.”

No emojis. No punctuation. Nothing but doom.
Keith had seen friendlier threats carved into bathroom stalls.
He’d spent the last hour pacing holes into the floor, his brain clawing itself apart with worst-case scenarios. Was Lance packing? Was he done? Was he telling his publicist to leak a breakup statement with something devastating and vague like “irreconcilable differences”?

He checked his phone again. The recording was still there. Four minutes and twenty-two seconds. His only weapon. His only hope.
The sound of a key in the lock froze him mid-breath. The door opened. Closed. Shoes scuffed against the floor. Keith stayed frozen in place, staring at his knees like they might offer answers.
Lance walked in like a storm cloud—quiet, dark, charged. He didn’t say a word as he passed by, just tossed his keys into the bowl and collapsed onto the couch like it had wronged him.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
\

Keith felt his ribs press in like a collapsing building. He wanted to beg. To throw himself on the floor and confess every sin, every fear, every regret. But he knew better. He knew that look Lance gave him as he finally turned his head—sharp, cold, furious.
The voice that followed cut like glass.
“Start talking.”

Keith flinched. Not from the volume—Lance hadn’t even raised his voice—but from the sheer weight of it. Like he’d been held underwater and was only now realizing he might not surface.
“I…” Keith swallowed. His tongue was dry, his throat tighter than a noose. “I didn’t lie about everything. But I didn’t tell you everything either.”
Lance just stared.
So Keith talked.
He told him everything.
About how his mother wasn’t dead like he’d always implied—how she should have been, because the woman who raised him had been cruel in ways Keith never found the words for. About the day he ran, seventeen and starving, with nothing but a backpack and bruises.

About meeting Pidge—Genius. Terrifying. Loyal. Untouchable. She’d given him a couch to sleep on and taught him how to pick a lock in under a minute. How they scammed rich bastards and corporate assholes for rent money, and how he used his cut to quietly enroll in night classes. A double life, built on guilt and survival.
He told Lance about getting caught. About the SWAT team. About sitting in that freezing cell while Pidge cracked jokes about toupees and prison Wi-Fi like they were still roommates, not criminals.
And then he told him about Shiro.

About how the man walked into the interrogation room and changed his life. How he saw something in Keith—something worth saving. How Keith got out, and Pidge didn’t. How she’d never forgiven him.
Keith didn’t cry. But his voice broke. Cracked right down the center.
“She thinks I sold her out,” he whispered. “And honestly? I don’t blame her.”
He could feel Lance watching, but he didn’t dare look up. Not yet.
“I tried to keep you out of it,” Keith said. “But when the threats came I went to Robert , I gave him the black mailer’s number so he could find out who it was. I didn’t know she’d use him to do this. I thought I could get ahead of it. I thought I could protect you.”

He pulled out his phone, hands shaking, and hit play.
Robert’s voice filled the air.
“I used you. I needed the McClains to hurt, and your name gave the story teeth… But I didn’t leak that sex tape—that was Pidge… She said it’d ‘hurt worse.’”
The whole four minutes and twenty-two seconds played out.
When it ended, Keith finally looked up.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said, voice barely audible. “I thought I could fix it before it touched you. I was dumb. I was so fucking dumb.”
Lance stared at him for a long time. Then—
“And the sex tape?” His voice shook—not with tears, but fury. The kind you swallow so long it curdles inside you. “You just sat there? Why didn’t you say anything then? Why didn’t you say you were being blackmailed? You just watched me spiral like a fucking idiot!”
“I wasn’t watching you spiral,” Keith snapped, then instantly deflated. “Okay. Maybe I was. But it wasn’t like that. I was scared, Lance. I didn’t know how to explain without making it worse. I didn’t know if you’d believe me, and if you didn’t—if you walked—I wouldn’t survive that.”

Lance stood so suddenly the couch creaked. “You should’ve trusted me!”
Keith shot to his feet too. “I do! But trust and terror aren’t mutually exclusive!”
Lance laughed, sharp and joyless. “That’s rich coming from the guy who slept with his ex’s half-brother.”
Keith winced. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t know you were related. Second of all—ow.”
Lance ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. His breathing was ragged, his eyes too bright.
“I did everything to be with you,” he whispered. “And I thought… I thought I was finally through your walls. And then all this shit starts pouring out, and I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t even know you anymore.”

Keith felt his stomach twist. “I’m still me,” he said quietly. “The mess. The dumbass. I’m still yours.”
Lance froze.
Then his voice dropped—shaky, bitter, small.
“Then why does it feel like I’ve been sleeping next to a stranger?”
Keith had no answer.
Only silence.
And the quiet sound of something breaking.
The fact that Lance had trusted him—had loved him, openly, without armor—and Keith had let him drown in shame while holding the life raft just out of reach.

Keith opened his mouth—

Lance’s phone rang.

Dad.❤️

Lance stared at it, jaw clenched so tight Keith heard his teeth grind.

Then he hurled it across the room.

It hit the wall with a crack, screen spiderwebbing, before clattering to the floor.

Silence.

Keith didn’t move.

Lance’s breath came in short, sharp bursts.

Then, quietly—

“...I need air.”

He stood, shoulders hunched, and walked out.

The door shut softly behind him.

Keith didn’t follow.

Chapter Text

Lance didn’t remember driving to Hunk’s.

One second, he was standing outside his home, the cold night air biting his skin. The next, he was pounding on Hunk’s door with a fist that already ached from how hard he’d been clenching it.

The door swung open.

Hunk took one look at him—red-rimmed eyes, shaking hands, the kind of quiet devastation that only came from a heart ripped in half—and immediately pulled him inside.

“Okay,” Hunk said, steering him toward the couch. “Okay. You’re here. That’s step one.”

Lance collapsed onto the cushions like his bones had given up.

Hunk disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two things:

A weighted blanket (because he was Hunk).

A bottle of whiskey (because he was also Hunk).

He didn’t ask. Just poured a glass and pressed it into Lance’s hands.

Lance stared at the amber liquid, his reflection warped in the curve of the glass.

Then he downed it in one burning gulp.

And the floodgates opened.

“Robert the reporter, he’s my brother.”

Hunk choked on his drink. “What?”

“Half-brother,” Lance corrected, voice hollow. “Turns out dear old dad knocked up his mother before I was even born.” He let out a wet, broken laugh. “Guess he really was busy.”

Hunk’s face did something complicated between horror and heartbreak.

Lance kept talking—spilling the whole ugly truth like poison he needed out of his veins.

Keith’s abusive mom. The scams. The blackmail. The recording of Robert laughing about how easy it was to ruin them.

“And the worst part?” Lance’s voice cracked. “I don’t even know if I’m mad at Keith or just… sad. Because he let me think—he watched me—”

His throat closed.

Hunk didn’t push. Just refilled his glass.

Lance swirled the whiskey, watching the way the liquid clung to the edges.

“Who is my dad, Hunk?” he whispered. “Because the man I idolized? The one who taught me how to ride a bike and told me to always protect my family?” He laughed, sharp and bitter. “That guy never existed.”

Hunk exhaled slowly. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” Lance knocked back the drink. “Damn.”

Meanwhile:
Keith was not crying.

(He was. Violently.)

Curled on their—his? —bed, face buried in Lance’s pillow, breathing in the fading scent of his pheromones.

Every gasp of air felt like glass in his lungs.

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

He’d spent his whole life running—from his mom, from his past, from the fear that he’d never be enough. And the one time he should’ve stood still, should’ve trusted someone…

He’d let Lance drown.

Instead, he dragged himself to the bathroom and splashed icy water on his face.

The mirror showed a stranger—red-eyed, trembling, ruined.

Behind him, the house was silent.

No Lance. No music. No stupid, off-key singing in the shower.

Just… nothing.
Keith slid to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Lance’s phone lit up around 3 AM.

Keith: I’m sorry.

Simple. Raw. No excuses.

Lance stared at it, chest aching.

He didn’t reply.

(But he didn’t delete it either.)

3:47 AM
Keith didn’t hear the knock at first.
He was sitting on the floor again, back against the couch, Lance’s message open on his phone. He hadn’t replied. He didn’t know if he should. Maybe Lance needed space. Or maybe this was it. The final goodbye.
The knock came again—louder, sharper this time. A beat later, the door swung open.
Only one person had a key and the guts to use it at ungodly hours.
“Keith.”
Ronnie.

Keith scrambled to his feet, wiping at his face too late. His cheeks were already blotchy and wet.
She stepped inside like a storm—hair in a messy bun, hoodie zipped up to her chin, eyes dark and blazing. She kicked the door shut behind her and crossed her arms.
“I’m not here to comfort you,” she said. “So don’t bother with the tears.”
Keith winced. “I wasn’t—”
“Cut the crap, Keith. What the hell is going on?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I—Lance knows,” he rasped.

Ronnie raised an eyebrow. “Knows what? Because from the pieces I got from Hunk—who should not have been the one to fill me in, by the way—you’ve been keeping some next-level secrets.”
Keith looked away. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”
“Well, it did. And now my brother is drinking himself stupid on Hunk’s couch and you look like you haven’t slept in a week. So, again—talk.”
Keith sat down heavily on the armrest. His shoulders sagged.
And then, like with Lance, the words just… spilled out.
About Robert—the blackmail, the manipulation, the slow, creeping sabotage. About Pidge—how they'd been a team once, how she’d turned on him. How he’d been meeting Robert behind Lance’s back to find out who was pulling the strings. How he recorded Robert's confession, hoping it would clear him, fix things.

“I thought if I handled it myself,” he said quietly, “Lance would never have to know. I didn’t want to drag him through it. Not after everything.”
Ronnie’s silence was louder than yelling.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low and tight. “You idiot.”
Keith flinched.
“You absolute idiot, Keith.”
“I know,” he whispered.

“No, you don’t,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You were my best friend. Are—maybe. But you didn’t trust me. Not with this. Not when it mattered. You were scared? Fine. So was I when I realized something was wrong. But you let me think you were just being distant. You let Lance think you were betraying him. You let all of us think—” She cut herself off, biting down hard on the next words.
Keith said nothing. What could he say?
Ronnie let out a long, shaky breath and dropped onto the opposite couch.
“I talked to Mom.”
His head shot up. “What?”
“She thinks you should step down as our manager. Just for now. Until this whole mess is sorted.”

Keith’s heart dropped. “Ronnie…”
She met his eyes, and for a moment, the anger faded—replaced with something softer. Sadder.
“You’re not fired,” she said. “No one’s punishing you. But this? It’s not just business anymore. It’s personal. Too personal. And right now, Lance doesn’t know if he can separate the two.”
Keith looked down at his hands. They were shaking again.
“I tried to protect him,” he said, barely audible.
Ronnie nodded slowly. “And in doing that, you broke his heart.”
He closed his eyes.

“I miss him,” he whispered. “So much it hurts.”
Ronnie stood and crossed the room.
She hesitated, then knelt in front of him, her voice softer now.
“Then fix it. But not with secrets. Not with silence. You’ve got one shot, Keith—don’t waste it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
**Lance’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.**

He didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the rage or the goddamn hole in his chest where his heart used to be. The couch in Hunk’s living room was too soft, the air too thick, the silence too loud.

Hunk had long since given up trying to talk to him, retreating to the kitchen.

*Keith. Robert. The recordings. The lies.*

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Keith’s face—raw and wrecked, begging him to listen. But Lance hadn’t. Couldn’t. Not when every word out of Keith’s mouth felt like another knife twisting in his ribs.

*You were meeting him behind my back. You let me think—*

He took another swig from the bottle in his hand, the whiskey burning his throat. It didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Hunk’s phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark. Lance stared at it, his vision blurring.

*Ronnie would know.*

She always knew. She’d gone after Keith, hadn’t she? Of course she had. Ronnie didn’t let things lie, not when it came to them.

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed the phone, fumbling with the passcode. Hunk had the same one he’d had since college—Lance’s birthday. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Ronnie picked up on the second ring.

“Hunk?” Her voice was sharp, alert.

Lance swallowed. “No.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Lance.”

Just his name. Just *that* tone. The one that meant she already knew he was a disaster.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Is he okay?”

The question tore out of him, ragged and raw. He hated himself for asking. Hated that he still cared.

Ronnie exhaled heavily. “Do you actually want to know?”

Lance’s grip on the phone tightened. “Don’t—don’t do that. Just *tell me*.”

“He’s a mess,” she said bluntly. “You both are.”

Lance let out a broken laugh. “Good.”

“Is it?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Ronnie’s voice softened. “Lance… he loves you.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

“He has a *real* shit way of showing it,” Lance slurred, tipping the bottle back again. The room spun.

“Yeah, well, so do you,” Ronnie shot back. “You’re sitting there drowning in whiskey instead of talking to him.”

“*Talking*?” Lance’s voice cracked. “What’s there to talk about, Ronnie? He lied. For *months*. He let me think—” His throat closed. He couldn’t say it.

*He let me think he didn’t love me anymore.*

Ronnie was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“He was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t *need* protecting!” Lance snapped. “I needed *him*.”

The silence on the other end stretched, suffocating.

Lance dragged a hand over his face, his anger crumbling into something worse. Something hollow.

“I hate this,” he whispered.

Ronnie sighed. “I know.”

“I *hate* him.”

“No, you don’t.”

Lance’s breath hitched.

Because she was right.

He didn’t hate Keith.

He *loved* him.

And that was the worst part.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*
The first thing Lance registered was the light.

Too bright. Too sharp.

The second thing was the pain—a jackhammer behind his eyes, a desert in his throat.

The third thing was the weight on the edge of the bed.

He cracked one eye open, wincing.

Keith sat there, silent, still in last night’s clothes, dark circles under his eyes. A glass of water and two aspirin sat on the nightstand beside him.

Lance groaned and rolled over, turning his back to him.

"Go away." His voice was sandpaper.

Keith didn’t move. "Drank all of Hunk’s whiskey, huh?"

Lance gritted his teeth. "Not in the mood, Keith."

A pause. Then the bed dipped as Keith leaned forward, his voice low. "I know. But you’re coming home with me."

Lance scoffed. "Like hell I am."

"You’re hungover. You’re miserable. And Hunk’s got work in an hour." Keith’s tone left no room for argument. "So get up. Or I’ll carry you."

Lance turned just enough to glare at him. "You wouldn’t dare."

Keith met his gaze, unflinching. "Try me."

Lance regretted everything.

The whiskey. The yelling. The fact that he’d let Keith bundle him into a jacket and half-drag him out of Hunk’s apartment like a scolded child.

The morning air was cold, sobering. Lance’s head pounded with every step, but Keith’s grip on his elbow was steady, grounding.

"You’re an idiot," Lance muttered.

Keith didn’t look at him. "Yeah. I know."

Their home was exactly as Lance remembered—cluttered, lived-in, theirs.

The familiarity stung.

Keith nudged him toward the couch. "Sit. I’ll make coffee."

Lance sank into the cushions, closing his eyes against the throbbing in his skull. He heard Keith moving in the kitchen, the clink of a spoon, the gurgle of the coffee pot.

A blanket landed over his shoulders.

Lance didn’t open his eyes. "Stop being nice to me."

Keith exhaled sharply. "Not a chance."

The coffee helped. So did the aspirin.

Lance sipped slowly, the fog in his brain lifting just enough for the memories of last night to come crashing back.

Robert’s voice on the recording. Keith’s shattered expression. The way he’d begged Lance to listen.

Keith sat across from him, hands clasped tight, like he was holding himself together by force.

"I should’ve told you," he said quietly. "From the beginning."

Lance set his mug down. "Yeah. You should’ve."

Keith flinched but didn’t argue. "I thought I could handle it alone. I didn’t want—" His voice broke. "I didn’t want you to look at me the way you are right now."

Lance’s chest ached. He looked away.

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not suffocating. Not anymore.

Finally, Lance sighed. "I’m still pissed at you."

Keith nodded. "I know."

"And I don’t trust you yet."

Another nod. "That’s fair."

Lance met his eyes. "But… I believe you."

Keith’s breath caught.

Lance reached across the space between them, his fingers brushing Keith’s. "Just—don’t lie to me again. Ever."

Keith turned his hand over, lacing their fingers together. "Never."

Lance’s headache was fading.

Keith’s thumb traced circles over his knuckles.

And for the first time that day, it felt like they might actually be okay.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The recording went viral in under an hour.

Robert’s voice—cold, calculated, smug—echoed across headlines, social media, and entertainment news. They redacted the parts about Pidge.

The internet exploded.

#Robertisthechild trended worldwide.
#JusticeForKeith followed close behind.

Lance’s team released an official statement alongside the recording:

"The truth matters. Lance McClain stands by those who stood by him. Keith Kogane acted to protect him, and we will not tolerate further defamation or harassment." They were plenty of people still mad.

The heat shifted off Keith—slowly, but surely.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Maria McClain’s penthouse was rarely this quiet.

Lance sat between his siblings—Ronnie, arms crossed; Lia, elegant and unreadable; and Marco, their oldest brother. Maria stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her back to them, shoulders rigid.

Keith sat across from them, spine straight, hands clasped. He’d faced down paparazzi, industry sharks, and Lance’s fury—but this was the moment that terrified him.

Maria turned.

"You should have come to us," she said, voice sharp.

Keith didn’t flinch. "I know."

Lia scoffed. "That’s it? I know?"

Lance shot her a look. "Lia."

"No, he doesn’t get off that easy." She leaned forward. "You lied to all of us. You let Lance think—"

"I was wrong," Keith cut in, quiet but firm. "I thought I could handle it alone. I didn’t want to drag anyone else into Robert’s mess. But I should’ve trusted you. All of you."

Silence.

Then Maria sighed. "You love him?"

Keith didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

She studied him a long moment before nodding. "Then you’ll step down as his manager."

Lance stiffened. "Mom—"

"It’s not punishment," Maria said. "It’s logic. Romelle will take over—she’s fair, she’s capable, and she’s not personally entangled." Her gaze flicked to Keith. "You and Lance need space to heal. Without business in the way."

Keith exhaled. "I agree."

Lance’s fingers twitched toward his. "So… what? We’re just done working together?"

Keith turned to him. "No. We’re just starting something new."

-------
The press release was brutal. Short. Unforgiving.

"Effective immediately, Maria, Veronica, Lia, and Marco McClain sever all professional and personal ties with Robert McClain following the revelation of his actions, including infidelity, coercion, and harassment. Our family stands with survivors. We stand with each other. And we stand with those who protect our own."

Robert’s reputation crumbled overnight.

Two weeks later, Lance sprawled across their couch, flipping through Romelle’s proposed tour schedule.

"She wants me in Europe for a month," he grumbled.

Keith, stirring soup on the stove, smirked. "Better pack warm."

Lance tossed a pillow at him. "You’re coming with me, right?"

Keith caught it, his expression softening. "Try and stop me."

Lance grinned—real, bright, free—for the first time in months.

At first, it was the small things.
The kind you could brush off if you squinted and tilted your head—maybe even laugh about later over pancakes.
Lance forgot their six-month “reconciliation anniversary.”
“Sorry, babe,” he said, kissing Keith’s cheek on his way out the door, “Romelle had me in back-to-back meetings. I swear I only remembered after she threatened to feed me to her assistant.”
Keith laughed, a little forced. “It’s fine. I didn’t remember either.”

(He had. He’d made a dinner reservation and everything. Cancelled it when Lance texted ‘Rain check?’ at 6:47 PM.)
Then came the double-booked date night. Lance had promised a quiet dinner in, just the two of them and a truly unhealthy amount of sushi.
Keith, ever the optimist (or fool), showed up with takeout and a bottle of wine… only to walk into the studio and find Lance laughing with a very attractive, very handsy R&B singer who looked like a Calvin Klein model dipped in honey.

Keith stood in the doorway for a full minute before setting the bag of food down on the edge of the table.
“Keith—hey! It’s just business,” Lance said, a little too quick. “Don’t be weird about it.”
Keith didn’t say a word.
He just left.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance’s phone buzzed for the third time that week.
Dad.
Voicemail: 1 new message.
He didn’t want to listen, but he did.
“Lance, come on. You’re really gonna cut me off over some ancient history? I made a mistake. Please, don’t be dramatic.”
His father’s voice was smooth. Polished. Like a politician trying to win back a vote he'd already lost.

Lance deleted the message. Then immediately texted Hunk: If I ever sound like him, shoot me. No questions.
Three days later, he cracked.
It was after a charity gala where Keith had been—God forbid—cordial to some exec who looked like he’d known Keith biblically in another life. Lance had downed three champagne flutes and a gin cocktail and ended the night drunk, angry, and seething with unspoken things.
So he called his father.

“Just tell me the truth,” Lance demanded, pacing the hotel balcony. “Why did you lie? Why did you keep lying for so long?”
Robert sighed. That sigh. The one he always used when Lance was being ‘too emotional.’
“Lance, everyone lies. I made a mistake, alright? Let it go.”
Lance hung up before he threw his phone off the balcony.

The next morning, he cancelled his and Keith’s weekend trip to Big Sur.
“Something came up,” he said.
Keith didn’t ask what.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
The way Lance’s hugs went stiff and formal, like they were choreographed. How his sweaters stopped showing up in Keith’s drawers. The distance—subtle but cutting. Like Lance was an ocean slowly pulling back from the shore.
Keith let it happen.

Because maybe this was his penance. Maybe Lance was right to resent him. Who was he, really? A man who broke trust and expected it to stitch itself back together like magic? Who thought love was strong enough to survive rot if you just smiled enough?
So when Lance came home smelling like someone else’s pheromones—Keith didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He just handed him a coffee and said, “How was the meeting?”
“Fine,” Lance replied, sipping. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

Keith didn’t point out it was 2 AM.
When Lance missed another dinner—“Sorry! Lost track of time!”—Keith ate alone, covered the leftovers, and left a sticky note on the fridge that read: Miso’s in the Tupperware. You like the right side of the egg, I left it for you.
And when Lance finally exploded over something trivial—like Keith folding the laundry “too perfectly”—he just nodded and went to sleep on the couch without a word.

It really came to a head at Lia’s birthday party.
The lights were too bright. The music too loud. Lance, three drinks in, was practically draped over a model with cheekbones so sharp they could’ve sliced glass. He laughed too loud, tossed his head back like it was all so funny, and ignored how Keith stood by the balcony, clutching a bottle of water like it might keep him grounded.
Ronnie sidled up beside him with a look that could level a building.

“You gonna let him keep doing this?” she asked, voice low.
Keith didn’t look at her. Just stared at Lance across the room. “Let him?”
“You know what I mean.”
He did.

He knew exactly what she meant.
Lance was looking at him now, across the sea of people. Eyes glassy. A hint of a smirk on his lips, like he was daring Keith to say something. To make a scene.
To prove him right.
Keith just took a slow sip of his water and said, “Think she’s flirting with him because of the suit or the free champagne?”
Ronnie rolled her eyes. “You’re a coward.”

“Yup,” Keith said quietly. “But I’m a quiet coward.”
They both stared as Lance laughed again—too loud, too bright, too not okay.
Ronnie’s voice was gentler now. “You’re gonna have to choose, Keith.”
“Between what?”
“Between pretending this doesn’t hurt... and doing something before it breaks you both.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The week before his heat, Keith brought it up gently. It was after a night where Lance had fallen asleep on the couch, half-drunk, half-exhausted, and Keith had nudged him awake with a blanket and a whispered, “Come to bed.”
Lance blinked at him blearily, lips parted. “Huh?”
Keith smiled softly. “Just a reminder—my heat starts next week.”
“Right. Yeah. I’ll clear my schedule,” Lance mumbled before rolling over.
Except he didn’t.

Three days later, Keith walked into the kitchen to find a suitcase by the door and Lance pulling on a jacket.
Keith stared. “Where are you going?”
Lance didn’t look up. “Company retreat. Joshua Tree. Romelle planned the whole thing. A week off-grid, team bonding, hiking, bonfires, the whole cult-vibes package.”
Keith’s heart dropped into his stomach.
“My heat—”

“Oh shit.” Lance paused, wincing. “I totally forgot. Damn. Can you push it?”
“Push it?” Keith repeated, stunned. “It’s not a Zoom meeting, Lance.”
Lance laughed a little. “Right, right. Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
And then he kissed Keith’s cheek and walked out the door, suitcase bumping behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The pain started on day two.
At first, it was just dull cramping—enough to make Keith wince, curl up in bed with a heating pad, and pretend it would pass. He drank water. Took supplements. Told himself it was normal.
By day three, it was sharper. Like something was tearing inside him.
He lay curled in their bed—his bed now—breathing through clenched teeth, sweating through his shirt, the scent of Lance’s cologne lingering on the pillow like a ghost that wouldn’t leave.
By day four, he couldn’t take it.

He shakily grabbed his phone and called the one person he trusted when things went to hell.
“Shiro,” he gasped when the line connected.
“Keith?” Shiro’s voice was instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”
“I—something’s wrong. I think—I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m on my way.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He didn’t remember the car ride.
Didn’t remember being wheeled into the ER, or the nurse’s voice, or the blood tests.
What he remembered—what would stay burned in his mind forever—was the doctor’s face.
Soft. Careful. Pitying.

“Keith… you were pregnant. A few weeks along, by the looks of it. But I’m afraid… you lost the baby.”
Everything after that was static.

~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Back in his room, Keith gripped his phone like a lifeline and called Lance.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
Straight to voicemail.

He called again.
And again.
Then texted:
“Please. Call me back. Please, Lance. I need you.”\

Nothing.
No reply.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Meanwhile, Lance sat on a log by the fire, whiskey in hand, phone on silent and facedown.
Ronnie appeared out of the shadows like judgment incarnate.
“Are you seriously ignoring him right now?”

Lance groaned. “Ron, not now—”
“No. Now,” she snapped. “He’s called you five times. He never calls that much unless he’s panicking.”
“It’s probably about his heat,” Lance muttered. “He wants to guilt me for leaving.”

“God, listen to yourself,” she said, staring at him like she didn’t recognize him. “You’ve turned into your father.”
Lance flinched.
Ronnie didn’t let up. “If you’re gonna keep treating him like this, then end it. Don’t string him along just because you’re scared of being the bad guy.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance came back a week later.
Keith was waiting.
He’d cleaned the house top to bottom. Not out of spite. Just because… he needed to feel like he had control over something.
He stood in the doorway, arms folded, jaw tight.

Lance didn’t say hello.
Didn’t ask if Keith was okay.
He just looked exhausted. Empty.
“Keith,” he started, “I think… we need to end this.”
The words sliced through the room.

Keith blinked. “What?”
“I’m not who I used to be. And I don’t like who I am when I’m with you,” Lance said. His voice wasn’t cruel. Just… resigned. “This is toxic. I’m always angry, and I’m hurting you, and you keep letting me.”
Keith’s hands balled into fists.
He wanted to scream. Throw something. Tell him about the baby.
But instead, he asked, “How long do I have?”

Lance looked at the floor. “I’ll give you until the end of the week.”
Keith swallowed. Something inside him cracked, but he didn’t let it show.
“No need,” he said quietly. “I’ll be out of your hair by Tuesday.”
Lance nodded. “Okay.”
He turned and walked away.

Keith didn’t watch him go.
He just stood there, in the doorway of the home they’d built together, and realized—
Lance wasn’t coming back.
And he wasn’t worth staying for.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet when Lance let himself in, just the soft hum of the TV filling the space. Veronica was on the couch, feet tucked under her, half-watching some trashy dating show while shoveling popcorn into her mouth. She glanced up as he entered, her eyes narrowing.

“You good?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kicked off his shoes and sank onto the couch beside her, his body heavy with the weight of something final. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, blank.

“I told Keith it’s over.”

Veronica froze mid-chew. Slowly, she turned to face him, her brow furrowed. “Wait. You—what?”

“We’re done,” he said flatly. “Gave him a week to move out. He said he’d be gone in two days.”

She blinked at him, stunned. “Lance... I was joking. I didn’t actually mean it. I was just pissed you were treating him like shit.”

A short, humorless laugh escaped him. “Yeah. Well. Maybe you weren’t wrong.”

Veronica set the popcorn aside, giving him her full attention. He didn’t look at her, just leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling like maybe the answers were hiding in the plaster.

“I don’t trust him anymore, V,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I ever really can again.”

She didn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch. Sometimes he needed to talk without interruption—needed to let it all out before the dam sealed up again.

“Every time I see him, I remember visiting Mom,” he went on. “Sitting across from her in that damn house, watching her smile like nothing ever happened. And all I can think about is how Dad lied to her for years. Looked her in the eye and made her believe he loved her while screwing around behind her back.”

His voice cracked. He swallowed hard.

“She didn’t see it coming. She believed in him. And when the truth finally hit her, it shattered everything. I watched her fall apart, Veronica. I’m not doing that. I won’t let that happen to me.”

“Keith isn’t Dad,” she said gently.

He turned to her then, eyes sharp and tired. “You don’t know that.”

“I know he stayed,” she said. “Even when things got ugly, even when you pushed him, he stayed. That means something.”

“He stayed out of guilt.”

“Maybe. Or maybe because he loves you,” she said softly. “People make mistakes, Lance. People screw up and lie and hide things because they’re scared. Not because they’re trying to ruin you.”

He shook his head, fingers curling into his lap. “But that’s just it. I don’t know if I can ever tell the difference. Between someone who’s scared and someone who’s lying.”

Veronica reached out, resting a hand on his knee. “Then that’s your choice. Your limit. And I respect that. But don’t compare Keith to Dad. Don’t paint him with that same brush just because it’s easier than sitting with the fear.”

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just a flicker of something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. Maybe sadness. Maybe guilt.

She gave his leg a gentle pat, then leaned back and nudged the popcorn bowl toward him. “Want some? It’s the fake butter kind you hate.”

He let out a half-laugh, grabbing a handful anyway. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re welcome.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith stood at the door long after Lance left.
He didn’t move. Not even when the hallway light flickered and dimmed. Not when the silence grew thick and humming. Not even when the cold air started biting through his thin shirt.
His fingers were still curled around the edge of the wall. His mouth hung open just slightly. Like he wanted to say something—but the words had died somewhere on the way up.
He blinked.
Then again.
Slowly, like he was waking from a dream.
And then, quietly, he turned around and got to work.

------
Keith didn’t just pack.
He erased himself.
He started with the closet—separating shirts that were his from the ones Lance sometimes stole. Socks that had gotten mixed together. A hoodie Lance used to sleep in during winter, even though it was technically Keith’s.
He folded it carefully and left it on Lance’s pillow.
He packed with a precision that bordered on obsessive. Labeled boxes. Folded every shirt the KonMari way. Double-checked drawers. Triple-checked under the bed.

Then came the laundry.
He washed every item Lance owned. Twice. On scent-neutralizing cycles. Scrubbed the detergent tray clean and ran a vinegar rinse through the machine just to be sure.
He even Febrezed the couch and threw away the blanket they used to curl under for movie nights.
After that, he googled:
“Professional scent removal cleaning company.”
Found one with five stars and no questions asked.

By Monday morning, a van pulled up and a cheerful woman in a lab coat and gloves walked in with a case full of scent-neutralizing spray guns.
By the time she was done, the place didn’t even smell like a home. It smelled like sterile hotel air and goodbye.
He wiped the counters.
Left his house key on the kitchen table.
Took one last look at the living room—the ghost of their life together still flickering in the corner of his eye.
Then he slid on his backpack, walked out the door, and didn’t look back.

Keith didn’t say a word when he arrived.
He just walked in, dropped his duffel on the floor, and stood there like something was holding him together by string.
Shiro took one look at him and pulled him into a hug.
Adam already had soup on the stove.
Later, Keith would curl into the guest bed—their guest bed, his now—hold the fresh sheets to his face and breathe deep.
There was no Lance in this house.
And it hurt like hell.
But at least here, he could fall apart.

On Tuesday morning, Keith sat on the back porch with Shiro, phone in hand.
“You sure?” Shiro asked gently.
Keith stared at the screen, where Lance’s name still lived under his favorites.
He didn’t reply. Just hit block.
Then he called his carrier and changed his number.
Once it was done, he handed the phone back and whispered, “That’s it.”
Shiro nodded. “That’s it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*
Lance came home expecting the final goodbye.
He had a bag of Keith’s favorite snacks. Some lame apology half-scripted in his head. Maybe even a quiet "We can try again. Someday."
But when he walked in—the silence was louder than any goodbye.
The apartment was spotless.

Too spotless.
No shoes by the door. No keys in the bowl. No hoodie on the chair. No hint of lavender in the air. Just bleach and emptiness.
“Keith?” he called out, voice cracking.
Nothing.
He checked the bedroom. The drawers were empty. The closet had only his own clothes—colorless, stiff, untouched.
The bed was made like no one had ever slept there at all.
His stomach turned.

He looked around the living room, heart pounding. There was no note. No goodbye. Not even a fuck you.
Just… nothing.
And suddenly, Lance realized—
Keith hadn’t left.
He’d disappeared.
Completely.
And this time, it wasn’t a punishment.
It was a choice.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Two Months Later
At first, Lance was relieved.
No dramatic fights. No slammed doors. No Keith crying in the hallway while he pretended not to hear. Just… silence.
He came home the day after Keith left and sat on the couch, half-expecting a final confrontation. But all he found was an empty apartment, a pristine kitchen, and a hoodie folded neatly on his pillow like a parting gift.
There was no yelling. No mess. No guilt.
And for a while, that felt like peace.

Until it didn’t.

He noticed it first in the air.
The place smelled… wrong.
Sterile. Lifeless. Like the scent of clean sheets in a model home. There was no lavender in the air. No faint trace of Keith’s shampoo on the pillowcases. No warm, earthy comfort curling around him in the quiet moments between sleep and waking.
He told himself it was fine.
Keith was always too sensitive anyway.
Too emotional. Too intense.
Too everything.

But then, he reached for a joke and no one was there to roll their eyes.
He made pancakes on Sunday and realized Keith used to hum stupid pop songs while flipping them.
He climbed into bed one night and instinctively rolled toward the other side—only to find it cold, untouched.
He remembered the last time they had sex—how Keith had clung to him, breath hitching, trembling from more than just the aftershocks. And Lance had just… rolled over. Closed his eyes. Slept.
And Keith hadn’t even complained.
He’d just curled into himself and whispered, “Goodnight.”
Lance blinked at the ceiling, chest hollowing.
Why hadn’t he held him?

Now, two months later, the guilt was louder than the relief had ever been.

He’d made up his mind. The house—the one they’d shared for over a year—was too heavy. Too full of shadows and ghosts.
He called a realtor. Started boxing up memories.
That’s when he found it.
A little white prescription bottle, pushed to the very back of the bathroom drawer, behind a box of old condoms and a rusty razor.
He almost threw it out.

Almost.
But the name on the label made him pause.
“Misoprostol.”
He frowned. “That sounds… not great.”
A quick Google search. Then another.
And then—
His blood turned to ice.

Medication used for managing miscarriage.

The bottle slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
“No,” he whispered, grabbing his phone with shaking fingers. “No no no—”
He contemplated for a bit. Gathering his courage and taking out his phone.
He dialed Keith’s old number.
Disconnected.

He tried again. And again. Until his fingers were cramping and his breathing grew erratic.
“Answer me,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please, —just—just pick up.”
But the silence on the other end was merciless.

So he called Ronnie.

She picked up on the second ring, voice sleepy but sharp. “Lance?”
“I need to talk to you,” he said, already pacing the hallway. “Now.”
“Jesus, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Keith,” he said. “I—I found something.”
Her breath hitched. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in two months.”
“You what?”

“Ronnie, listen.” He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was packing up the house. I found this prescription bottle. Misoprostol. It’s—it’s used for miscarriage, right? He must’ve been—he was—”
He couldn’t even say it.
There was a long silence on the line.
When Ronnie finally spoke, her voice was trembling. “Are you saying Keith was pregnant?”
Lance sat down, hard. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—I didn’t see. I was so angry, and he—he called me that night. Over and over. I turned off my phone because I thought he was trying to guilt me into talking.”
“Jesus Christ, Lance,” she whispered. “He never told me. He never said a word.”

“I need to find him,” Lance said, desperation crawling into his throat. “I need to—God, I have to apologize. I need him to know I didn’t mean—”
“He blocked me too,” Ronnie said quietly. “I thought he just needed space. But this…”
They both fell silent.
Then Ronnie whispered, “We’ll find him.”
But days passed.
Then weeks.

And every lead dried up.
Keith was gone.
No address. No new number. No trace.
Not even a whisper of scent left behind.
And for the first time, Lance understood what it meant to truly lose someone—
Not to death.
But to yourself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Maria McClain was fading.

It started with little things—forgotten lunches, a persistent cough, the way she sometimes stared at her orchids like she couldn’t remember how to care for them.

Then came the collapse.

One moment, she was humming in the garden. The next, she was on the ground, her body betraying her in a way none of them could fix.

Hospice was arranged within hours.

---

Lance sat by her bedside, holding her frail hand. Her skin was paper-thin, veins tracing fragile paths beneath.

"*Mi corazon*," she whispered, her voice a ghost of what it once was.

He forced a smile. "Still the most beautiful woman in the room."

She huffed weakly. "Liar."

They talked—or rather, *he* talked, and she drifted in and out, her breaths shallow.

He stayed even when she slept.

Because soon, he wouldn’t be able to.

---

The house was too quiet.

Keith’s absence was carved into every corner—the empty side of the closet, the missing coffee mug, the way the bed never warmed on his side anymore.

Lance slept on the couch most nights, unable to face the memories in their room.

He told himself he wasn’t *searching* for Keith.

But he still checked old contacts. Still scrolled through burner accounts. Still drove past places Keith used to love.

Nothing.

No trace.

Just silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You’re seeing a therapist," Ronnie said one evening, arms crossed. "Starting tomorrow."

Lance scoffed. "I don’t need—"

"You *do*," she snapped. "You’re a shell of yourself. You’re grieving *before* Mamá is even gone, and you’re *obsessing* over someone you pushed away. I can’t lose you both, Lance."

Her voice cracked.

That was what broke him.

---

The therapist was patient. Unshakable.

It took weeks before Lance spoke more than clipped answers.

Then, one session, the dam broke.

"I hated my father," he admitted, voice raw. "But I took it out on Keith. I kept waiting for him to hurt me, even when he never did. I *made* him leave."

The therapist waited.

Lance swallowed. "And now I don’t know if he’ll ever come back."

---

Maria passed quietly in her sleep.
The funeral was intimate—just family, close friends, the people who had loved her most. The ones who deserved to be there.
Lance stood stiffly beside Ronnie, his suit too heavy, the air too thick, like the grief had weight. Every breath felt borrowed.
And then—
Shiro.
Keith’s brother walked in silently, head bowed in reverence. He moved with a quiet grace, as if not to wake the dead. He paid his respects, nodded once to Lance—eyes full of something unspoken—and slipped out again without a word.
No Keith.

Lance’s chest ached.
He hadn’t realized until that moment how badly he’d hoped. Hoped that Keith would walk through that door and look at him like he used to. Hoped for some thread of closure.
Instead—
His father stood at the very back, like a shadow cast too far from the firelight. Not near the casket. Not with the family. Not with anyone.
He wore no tears, no sadness etched in stone. Just a clenched jaw and reddened eyes that refused to blink too long, like they might spill if given the chance.
Lance hadn’t spoken to him since the truth came out. The harassment charges still lingered, thick and damning, like smoke in a sealed room.
Now he stood in a corner, hands folded tightly in front of him as if they needed something to hold, someone to hold—and found neither.
When Ronnie sniffled beside him, Lance offered his hand. His father looked on but didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.

Even now, broken as he was, he knew he wasn’t welcome at her side. Not anymore.
But Lance saw the tremble in his shoulders when Maria’s favorite hymn began to play. The way his mouth opened, then closed again, like her name had climbed halfway up his throat before shame shoved it back down.
He stayed until the last flower was placed, the last hug given.
Then he left without a word.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he did—and he no longer had the right to show it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That night, Ronnie poured them both a drink.

Lance stared into the amber liquid. "Do you think I’ll ever get to apalogise?"

Ronnie sighed. "I don’t know. But Shiro came. That means something."

Lance closed his eyes.

Maybe it did.

Or maybe it was just another goodbye.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith had always been good at compartmentalizing.
Pain? Box it.
Grief? Tape it shut.
Regret? Slam the lid and sit on it.

He’d mastered the art of survival—of stuffing things down until they stopped clawing at his throat. But some things refused to stay buried. Some things had names and warm brown eyes and a smile that used to feel like home.
He still remembered Pidge—remembered the sharp betrayal in her eyes the day he walked away. He had promised her forever once too, and then he’d run when it got too hard, too messy. And somehow, with Lance, he’d thought he could do better. Be better. Maybe if he stayed—no matter how cold the silences grew or how often Lance pulled away—maybe it would be different.
So, he tiptoed.
He smiled through clenched teeth.

He apologized in actions, not words—bringing home coffee just the way Lance liked it, folding his laundry, letting the cruel comments slide off him like water off stone. Anything to prove he could be trusted again. That he was worth keeping.
He told himself Lance was just angry. That it was temporary. That if he kept his head down, if he gave it time, the old Lance would return. The one who kissed his shoulders while he cooked, who whispered about dreams and futures with fingers tangled in his.
But trust doesn’t come back on command—and love, real love, doesn’t linger out of pity.
By the time Keith realized Lance hadn’t just been lashing out—that he had truly stopped loving him—it was already too late. The silence wasn’t sharp anymore. It was dull. Heavy. Final.
And Keith was so tired.

Tired of being the only one trying.
Tired of hoping in a house that had grown cold.
Now, in the too-soft guest bed at Shiro and Adam’s place, surrounded by lavender-scented sheets and the quiet hush of people who loved him too gently to say “I told you so,” the walls he’d fortified around himself didn’t just crack—they collapsed.
It hit him at 3:07 AM. A sucker punch, straight to the ribs.
He’d almost had it all.
A family.
A child.
Lance.

He’d imagined a future once. Late-night feedings and sleepy kisses, a home filled with laughter and bickering and warmth. He’d clung to that dream like it was a lifeline.
Now all he had was the hollow rhythm of a heart that kept beating, stubborn and mechanical, when his didn’t want to anymore.
He turned to his side, curling into the emptiness beside him, and wondered—not for the first time—if he’d ever really deserved any of it in the first place.
"If I’d just told him about the baby..."
"If I’d fought harder."
"If I’d been enough."
The guilt was feral. A snarling beast gnawing at his bones, licking its lips every time he blinked.

Maybe Lance was right to leave.
Maybe Keith had driven him away.
Maybe he’d turned love into something sharp and brittle.
The sleeping pills—prescribed with a too-cheerful "Just for the insomnia!" by a doctor who probably thought he looked a little too tightly wound—became a crutch.
Then a habit.
Then an escape.
Two pills.
Three.
Then—
"Would anyone even notice if I didn’t wake up?"

He lost count somewhere between apathy and numb.
The bottle had been nearly full. Now it rattled, hollow, as it rolled from his limp fingers onto the floor like it, too, was done with him.
His vision blurred. The ceiling fan above spun lazily, like it had no real job to do.
"This isn’t so bad," Keith thought distantly. "Just… peace. Just rest. A pause button."
The blades whirred overhead, slow and steady, like a mobile over a crib.
And then—
Black.

"Keith?"
A voice. Muffled. Distant. Like it was trying to break through water.
A hand on his shoulder. Shaking. Gentle, but frantic.
"Keith, hey—wake up, come on—"
Then: a sharp inhale. The unmistakable clatter of the pill bottle bouncing against hardwood.
"Adam!" Shiro's voice cracked. "Call 911, now!"
Keith wanted to roll over, to tell him to stop yelling. That he was fine. That the silence here was nice. Comfortable. Finally quiet.
But his tongue felt like a brick.
And Shiro’s hands were trembling.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Hospital.
Stomach pumped.
Suicide watch bracelet slapped on like a brand.
The psychiatrist was kind. Too kind, like he thought Keith might dissolve if he raised his voice above library level.
“Do you want to talk about why you did this?”
Keith stared at the wall. A dent in the plaster shaped vaguely like a fist.
“I didn’t.”

A pause. The you’re not fooling anyone kind.
“The empty bottle suggests otherwise.”
Keith’s throat burned. “I just wanted to sleep.”
(It wasn’t a lie. Sleep was the only place Lance still held him. Where a tiny heartbeat still existed. Where they were still a we.)
It wasn’t a speech or some dramatic intervention that cracked him open.
It was Shiro.
Crying.

Not sobbing. Not theatrical. Just—
A single tear sliding down his cheek like it had snuck out.
"Please," Shiro whispered, voice shaking like a glass about to shatter. "Don’t ever do this again."
And that—
That broke Keith.
He shattered like a pane of glass struck by guilt.

“I lost everything,” he choked out, barely audible.
Then it came. Messy. Raw.
The baby. The grief. The love that still festered inside him, clinging to Lance like ivy on a dying wall. Even his job.
Shiro didn’t say a word.
He just pulled Keith in and held him as he sobbed into his shoulder like a child.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Recovery wasn’t some movie montage with upbeat music and a sunrise jog.
It was painfully, irritatingly real.
There were good days—when he remembered to eat, when the shower didn’t feel like climbing Everest.
And bad days—when the pill bottles were kept in a locked safe, and Shiro slept in the hallway just to be sure.
Sometimes Keith cracked jokes just to make Shiro stop hovering.

“I’m not gonna do anything stupid,” he said once. “You’ve hidden the knives, remember?”
Shiro had glared. “Not funny.”
Keith grinned. “A little funny.”
He learned something on that road:
Guilt doesn’t erase love.
And survival?
Survival isn’t surrender.

Chapter Text

As soon as Shiro found out Pidge was behind the blackmail, he didn't waste time. Within the day, he’d activated every contact he had — old military buddies, private investigators, tech wizards who could probably find someone hiding in the Mariana Trench if needed. Pidge was smart, sure. Brilliant, even. But Shiro had access to something better than brilliance: funding. And pure, unrelenting, dad-level determination.

It didn’t take long.

He found her holed up in a dingy apartment that smelled vaguely of energy drinks and bad decisions. The walls were plastered with blurry surveillance photos—Keith at the grocery store, Keith leaving a building, Keith petting a stray cat. There were red strings and notes scrawled in three different colors. It was like a serial killer’s vision board.

Shiro stood in the doorway, arms crossed, silent. Intimidating. Pidge sat on a stained beanbag like a kid who’d been caught stealing cookies, refusing to meet his eyes. She looked tired, thinner than he remembered, and twitchy in that caffeine-fueled, paranoia-soaked way. The silence stretched, long and uncomfortable.

Finally, she cracked.

“I didn’t think he’d actually try to kill himself,” she muttered, voice small. “I mean—I just wanted to ruin his life a little, not… you know. Death-death.”

Shiro exhaled through his nose and sank into the only other chair in the room, which squeaked in protest. He looked like a man who’d aged ten years in a week.

“You’ve been stalking him,” he said bluntly. “You knew he was in the hospital.”

Her eyes flicked up, guilt and defensiveness warring on her face. “I knew… something happened. But not the details.”

“Good,” Shiro said coldly. “Then you can keep wondering.”

She flinched.

“I called the ambulance that night,” he continued. “Held his hand while he was vomiting up the pills. Signed the papers to get him into suicide watch. So if you're looking for absolution, you won't find it here.”

Pidge rubbed her hands together nervously. “I didn’t mean to take it that far. I was mad, yeah, but—he left me, Shiro. He let me rot in juvie while he got his pretty little redemption arc.”

Shiro gave her a look that could curdle milk.

“You blackmailed him,” he snapped. “You exploited his past, destroyed his relationship, and nearly pushed him off the edge. That’s not revenge, that’s a hit job.”

Another long pause.

“I’m not his sugar daddy,” Shiro added out of nowhere.

Pidge blinked. “What?”

“You were thinking it. Everyone thinks it. I adopt one traumatized omega and suddenly I’m Elon Musk with a heat kink.”

Despite herself, a tiny snort escaped her. “Gross.”

He stood, towering over her, the weight of his disappointment palpable. “Keith is my family. Always has been. And if you care about him at all, even a little, you’ll stay the hell away.”

She nodded slowly, biting her lip. “I’ll leave him alone. I swear.”

“Good. Then I won’t involve the police. But one text, one email, one cryptic message written on a bathroom mirror, and I will unleash lawyers so vicious they make hyenas look like puppies.”

Pidge swallowed. “Understood.”

Before he left, she handed him a letter. “Can you… give this to him? It’s the last thing, I promise.”

Shiro stared at it, then took it without a word. He didn’t say if he’d deliver it.

~*~*~*~*~*~~~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith was curled up on the couch like a very moody, black-haired burrito, his entire body swaddled in a fuzzy grey blanket that trailed to the floor. Only his face peeked out, eyes locked on the TV where MythBusters was currently blowing up a hot water tank with wild enthusiasm. He wasn’t even sure which myth they were busting anymore—something about pressure—but the chaos was oddly comforting. Explosions were easier to process than emotions.

Shiro had been giving him space. Not the kind of space that felt like abandonment—no, the gentle, hover-in-the-background-just-in-case kind. It helped that Keith was doing better. He was showering regularly (a triumph), eating full meals (mostly), and actually asked to rewatch the episode where they turned a cement truck into a crater. If that wasn’t progress, Shiro didn’t know what was.

Still, the letter had sat in Shiro’s nightstand drawer for a whole week. Untouched. Heavy.

Adam, after the third night of dramatic sighing and fridge-staring, had finally said, “Just give it to him, babe. He’s depressed, not made of glass.”

“You don’t know that,” Shiro argued, holding the envelope like it might bite him. “What if it sets him off again?”

Adam raised a brow. “And what if it helps? You gonna babysit that letter for the rest of your life? Glue it to your chest? Make it a brooch?”

Shiro sighed again—dramatically, yes—and finally gave in.

The next morning, Keith was mid-chew on a slice of toast when Shiro appeared, holding the envelope like it was the last horcrux.

Keith blinked. “What’s that?”

“It’s from Pidge,” Shiro said, his voice calm but cautious. “You don’t have to read it now. Or ever. Just... thought you should have it.”

Keith froze. Toast halfway to his mouth. His fingers twitched as he reached out, trembling just slightly. He took the envelope like it was something sacred, something fragile and haunted all at once.

“I’ll read it,” he whispered, eyes glued to the scrawled handwriting on the front.

Shiro gave him a gentle nod and backed away, silently retreating to the kitchen with the delicacy of a man defusing a bomb. Or microwaving leftovers. Same energy.

Keith sat in silence for a long moment before finally opening the letter.

Pidge’s words stung. Then soothed. Then stung again.

She’d said she was sorry. That she’d been petty and jealous and furious at how he had moved on while she’d stayed stuck. That she hadn’t meant for things to go that far. That she wouldn’t contact him again—not ever. That he deserved peace, and she was trying to find her own.

Keith didn’t cry. Not really. But he stared at the paper for so long that Boba, his chaotic little cat, jumped onto his chest and meowed right in his face like, You okay, emotionally unstable man?

“I’m fine,” he muttered, petting her. “I’m just... free.”

That night, Keith stood outside barefoot under the stars, breathing in air that didn’t taste like fear. For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like someone was watching. He didn’t feel like a ticking time bomb.

A few weeks passed, and Keith slowly transformed into someone almost unrecognizable—someone peaceful. He started taking afternoon walks, his hoodie traded in for tank tops and sunglasses. Shiro and Adam watched from the window like proud, slightly nosy suburban parents.

“He’s walking,” Adam whispered dramatically. “Like... outside.”

“Is this our child’s first steps?” Shiro teased, clutching his heart.

Then came yoga. Then dance classes.

“You’re seriously doing Zumba now?” Shiro asked, baffled.

Keith, mid-hair-tie adjustment, smirked. “It’s called joy, Shiro. You should try it sometime.”

He even asked for a therapist—his idea, not anyone else’s.

“I’m tired of dragging my trauma around like it’s some sort of twisted security blanket,” he explained. “I want... a life. A partner. Maybe a kid someday. I want to stop waiting for the next person to destroy me.”

Shiro blinked. “Who are you and what did you do with my emo son?”

Keith flipped him off, but he was smiling.

Something shifted after that.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a quiet evening when Keith saw the article.

He read it once. Then again. Then *five more times*, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less cruel.

*Maria McClain, beloved mother and community pillar, passes peacefully in her sleep.*

His chest tightened.

Lance.

Lance, who called his mom every Sunday without fail. Lance, who’d once drunkenly sobbed into Keith’s shoulder about how he’d manage without her. Lance, who—despite everything—had *loved* her with every fiber of his being.

Keith’s hands shook. He wanted to go. Needed to go.

But he couldn’t.

Not after the breakup. Not after the way the McClains had looked at him the last time—like he was a problem they’d rather forget.

So when Veronica called Shiro, Keith did the only thing he could.

"Go," he urged, voice rough. "Please. For Maria. She—she trusted me with her kids once. Least I can do is pay my respects."

Shiro hesitated. "You sure?"

Keith nodded, jaw set. "Yeah."

Adam, ever the master of emotional deflection, dragged Keith out for a walk that evening.

"Fresh air," he declared. "Vitamin D. Maybe even a *smile*, if you’re feeling adventurous."

Keith grumbled but went along, shoving his hands in his pockets as they wandered the quiet streets.

Then—

A whimper.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Keith froze. "Did you hear that?"

Adam frowned. "Hear wh—"

Another whimper.

Keith was moving before he could think, dropping to his knees beside a dumpster. And there, tucked behind a soggy cardboard box, was a tiny, trembling ball of fur.

A puppy.

Scrawny, big-eyed, and *very* unhappy with its current living situation.

Adam blinked. "Well. That’s a dog."

Keith scooped it up before his brain could catch up, cradling it against his chest. The puppy—some kind of mutt with ears too big for its head—immediately burrowed into his jacket, shivering.

Adam raised a brow. "You *do* realize we can’t just *keep* it, right?"

Keith glared. "Watch me."

The puppy sneezed.

Keith’s heart did something dangerously close to *melting*.

Adam sighed. "Shiro’s gonna *kill* us."

Keith, already mentally naming the dog, didn’t care.

Maybe this was how healing started—not with a grand gesture, but with small, stubborn acts of love.

And if that love happened to come with four paws and a penchant for chewing shoes?

Well.

Keith could work with that.

~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Grief did funny things to a person.

For Lance, it made him hyper-aware of time. Of *legacy*.

Maria McClain had been the kind of woman who left fingerprints on the world—her laughter in the walls of her home, her warmth in the hearts of her children, her stubborn love in the way she’d stitch up old clothes rather than throw them away. "Nothing lasts forever, mijo," she’d say, "but that doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful while it does."

Lance wanted to make something beautiful.

So he sketched.

Late nights at his kitchen table, empty coffee cups stacked like a sad Jenga tower, he poured his restless energy into designs. Headphones that didn’t look like they were designed for robots. Earbuds that didn’t cost a kidney but didn’t sound like tin cans. *Color*—vibrant, customizable, because why the hell did everything have to be black, white, or *sad beige*?

He called it *ECHO*.

Because music was about resonance. About what lingered.

And god, he wanted to *linger*.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
He met her at a tech incubator event, where she stood out like a comet in a room full of flickering lightbulbs. Tall, British, and smelling inexplicably like sunflowers, Allura Altea owned half the manufacturing plants in Europe and had the kind of presence that made CEOs stutter.

Lance, sleep-deprived and hopped up on free espresso, had accidentally spilled his pitch on her.

"So imagine—earbuds that don’t look like they were designed by a dystopian government. Affordable, high-quality, and *fun*. Like, *pick-your-own-color-combo* fun. And not just for audiophiles—for *everyone*. Kids, musicians, your abuela who still thinks Bluetooth is witchcraft—"

Allura’s eyes gleamed. "You had me at ‘not dystopian.’ Let’s talk."

Allura’s London office was a controlled hurricane. Mood boards covered every wall, samples of metals and silicone scattered like confetti. Lance, who had expected *suits and silence*, was delighted.

"We’re using recycled materials," Allura declared, tossing a handful of bioplastic pellets at him. "Better for the planet, and it comes in *these* shades." She fanned out a rainbow of samples. "That one’s ‘Solar Flare.’ That’s ‘Midnight Mirage.’ And *that*—" She pointed to a shimmering teal. "—is ‘Mermaid’s Revenge.’"

Lance gasped. "I want to marry this color."

"Focus, McClain."

They bickered over shapes (Lance wanted curves, Allura wanted "sleek, lethal elegance"), debated battery life, and nearly came to blows over whether the touch controls should include a "panic button" for bad dates ("Absolutely," said Lance. "Over my dead body," said Allura.).

But when the first prototype clicked into place—a sleek, matte-finish earbud with magnetic, swappable shells in *Solar Flare*—Lance nearly cried.

"It’s perfect."

Allura smirked. "Of course, it is. I helped."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They became an unlikely duo. Allura, the alpha with a "five-year plan or bust" mentality, and Lance, the chaotic alpha who once emailed her at 3 AM with "WHAT IF WE ADDED GLITTER."

One evening, over tea that tasted like "regret and aristocracy" (Lance’s words), Allura dropped a bombshell.

"I’m in love with an omega," she said, stirring her cup like she hadn’t just cracked Lance’s worldview. "Lotor. We grew up together. He’s… complicated. Brilliant. A bit of a disaster. Voice of an angel." Her smile was soft, *private*. "He writes poetry and forgets to eat."

Lance blinked. "You? Dating a *poet*? Miss ‘Efficiency Is My Love Language’?"

"Hush."

Lance sighed, spinning his own cup. "I get it. My person was—*is*—Keith. Stormy-eyed, emotionally constipated Keith. We blew up spectacularly."

Allura studied him. "Do you want him back?"

"I want him *happy*," Lance admitted. "Even if it’s not with me."

Allura clinked her cup against his. "To complicated loves."

"And *un*complicated business partnerships."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance marketed ECHO like it was the second coming of Jesus.

Celebrities got custom sets—Julie (a K-pop idol) rocked "Mermaid’s Revenge" on stage, *DJ Cypher* wore "Neon Noir" in his music videos, and even his sister, Veronica, had her own personal set made "Violet Vendetta."

The internet lost its mind.

#ECHOstyle trended. Memes popped up ("When your earbuds match your *soul*"). A tech reviewer tearfully declared, "They’re *comfortable* AND they don’t judge my life choices."

And through it all, Lance grinned.

Maria would’ve loved this.

Allura leaned against his desk, holding up a new sample—"Galaxy Glaze," a deep purple with swirling iridescence. "Next line?"

Lance took it, rolling it between his fingers. "Yeah. Next line."

Somewhere out there, Keith was living his life. Healing. And so was he.

Chapter Text

“OHHH! My goodness!” Allura wheezed, clutching her stomach as she scrolled through Lance’s album track list like it was the funniest thing since memes of cats in tiny hats. “Lance, sweetheart, did you write these after a three-hour sob session in a bathtub full of ice cream? Because wow.”

Lance, face buried in his hands, groaned into his palms. “I was in my feelings, okay?! Art is pain! And also maybe a little spite!”

He had been slightly upset. Fine, maybe more than slightly. Maybe he’d gone full dramatic songwriter mode after the whole Keith Debacle™—which, in hindsight, probably hadn’t been his best time to be in the studio. Sure, some songs on the album were fire—undeniable bops, lyrical masterpieces.

But then there were… the others.

The ones where he’d basically taken his heartbreak, his confusion, and his lingering what-ifs, thrown them into a blender with a generous helping of pettiness, and hit puree.

And now? Now he had to promote this emotional rollercoaster. In public.

“Oh, this one’s my favorite,” Allura announced, wiping a tear from her eye as she read aloud, “‘Cry Me a River .’—Lance. Lance.” She dissolved into laughter again. “He’s never taking you back after this.”

“I said I wanted him to be happy!” Lance protested, flailing. “That counts for something, right?!”

Hunk, ever the supportive best friend, patted his shoulder with a wince. “Buddy… I think it technically shows you still care? In a… feral, emotionally unprocessed way?”

Lance let out a long, suffering sigh. “I hate both of you.”

The worst part? He couldn’t just scrap the album. Not when an entire team of producers, writers, and label execs had poured time and money into it.

But did he have to perform these songs live? In front of actual people? In front of Keith—who either would hear them and think Lance was still bitter (he wasn’t! Mostly!) or, worse, would avoid listening altogether because Lance’s feelings were now an inconvenience to him?

“You know what?” Lance muttered, slumping onto the couch like a deflated balloon. “I’m just gonna… not tour. Ever. I’ll become a hermit. A mysterious hermit who makes music but never shows his face. People love that, right?”

Allura smirked. “Oh, absolutely Echo is doing great. Just make sure your next album isn’t called ‘Keith Kogane’s Greatest Betrayals (And Also Why He Sucks)’ and you’ll be fine.”

Lance groaned louder. “I’m dying. This is death.”

Hunk nodded sympathetically. “At least the merch will sell?”

Lance threw a pillow at him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
It wasn’t denial. Not really. He didn’t shove it down; he just set it aside. Like a box on a shelf marked “Not Worth My Energy.”

Lance McClain had been put in that box. Taped shut. Double-sealed. Labeled with fire emojis and a "Do Not Open" sticker. And frankly? Life had gotten better ever since.

Keith’s mornings were quiet now. *Peaceful*, even. No more passive-aggressive sticky notes on the fridge, no more half-empty coffee pots left as a *test* of his observational skills, and—best of all—no more waking up to a cold voicemail saying, “I’ll be back next week.”

Instead, he woke up when he wanted (which was still 5:30 AM because his body was a traitor), ran his favorite trails through the hills behind Shiro’s place (where he dramatically outpaced his own emotional baggage), and ate his eggs with the yolks *just* right.

So, no. He didn’t listen to the album.

Even though he was *aware*. Oh boy, was he aware.

He didn’t read the articles. He didn’t check Spotify. He muted Lance’s name on socials (after one *tiny* relapse that definitely didn’t involve scrolling through a year worth of photos). He deleted old numbers, scrubbed every “couple photo” off his cloud and by *scrubbed*, he meant he’d handed his phone to Adam and said, “Do it before I throw myself into the sun”.

And he *especially* didn’t let himself wonder if Lance even remembered what day it was. If he knew what he’d lost.

Because Keith was doing *just fine*, thank you very much.

And also because he had a fluffy, four-legged disaster to take care of.
Keith had crouched down, expecting a hiss or a growl—but instead, two big, *ridiculously* blue eyes had blinked up at him, followed by a wobbly tail wag that suggested the creature had already decided Keith was his new emotional support human.

Adam, ever the voice of reason, had said, “Keith, we can’t just keep a stray.”

Keith, already cradling the puppy like it was made of glass and dreams, had replied, “Watch me.”

The vet had confirmed the little guy was malnourished, scuffed up, and possibly part gremlin (based on the way he immediately tried to eat the stethoscope). But he was healthy. And *gorgeous*—a tiny husky with a coat like fresh snow and ink, ears too big for his head, and a habit of tilting his head like he was judging Keith’s life choices.

Which, fair.

Shiro had come home to the three of them on the couch—Adam cooing, Keith covered in bite marks (the puppy’s new favorite hobby: *gnawing on Keith like a stress toy*), and the puppy himself sprawled belly-up in victory.

“No,” Shiro said.

“Please,” Keith said.

“He already chewed my slippers,” Adam added, as if that was a selling point.

Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We are not equipped for a dog.”

The puppy chose that moment to sneeze directly into Keith’s face.

“We’re keeping him,” Keith declared.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Naming him had been a process.

Keith had thrown out the usual suspects—*Bandit, Shadow, Ghost*—but the puppy had responded to none of them, preferring instead to stare at Keith like he was an idiot.

Then, one evening, the little menace had teleported (fine, wriggled) from the couch to Keith’s lap in 0.2 seconds flat, knocking over a bowl of popcorn in the process.

“Dude,” Keith said, staring at the carnage. “You’re like a tiny cosmic disaster.”

The puppy wagged his tail.

“…Kosmo?”

A happy yip. A slobbery lick. A destiny sealed.

And just like that, Kosmo the (self-proclaimed) Space Wolf had officially claimed Keith as his own.

Shiro sighed. Adam grinned. And Keith?

Well.

He was doing *just fine*.

“So…” Shiro began, like he always did when he was about to drop a bomb that would change Keith’s life, “how do you feel about Korea?”

Keith blinked, his fork hovering mid-air over a very well-deserved stack of post-run pancakes. “...The country?”

“No, the skincare routine,” Shiro deadpanned. “Yes, the country.”

“Is this about that collaboration you mentioned with the music label?”

Shiro leaned forward, smile creeping in like he couldn’t hold it back anymore. “Not a collaboration. An offer. I want you to head it.”

Keith raised a brow, suspicious. “What? I don’t know anything about k pop.”

“I want a creative director, not a manager,” Shiro said, and then he paused, hands folding together in that dad mode way Keith knew all too well. “Keith, I’ve seen your work. Your stage concepts, your designs, the storytelling you do with your projects? I want all of that.”

Keith swallowed. “Okay, so… help out on a project?”

“Not help out. Lead. You’d be the creative director of two upcoming K-pop groups under the label. And—” Shiro held up a finger like he was saving the best for last, “—you’d be CEO of your own company. Your own label. Full backing, full support. I’ll handle the business side; you just create.”

For a second, Keith couldn’t breathe.

CEO. Of his own company. Not just a job. Not just a role someone gave him until they got tired. But something that was his. A future that had nothing to do with past flames or tabloid scandals or people who left him bleeding in his apartment.

“Why me?” Keith asked quietly, eyes dropping to the syrup pooling around his pancakes.

Shiro didn’t even hesitate. “Because I believe in you.”

Keith looked up.

Shiro met his gaze, firm and unwavering. “Because you see the world differently, and you make other people feel it too. You’re not just talented, Keith. You’re visionary. It’s time the rest of the world saw it.”

Something in Keith’s chest twisted, warm and a little painful. Not like heartbreak. More like… hope.

He swallowed it down, nodded slowly, and let himself imagine a version of the future where he didn’t need to pretend he was fine. Because maybe—for the first time in a long time—he really was.

Keith was doing just fine.

Better than fine, actually. Because two weeks later, he was 30,000 feet in the air, sprawled across a buttery leather seat on a private jet with Kosmo snoring at his feet and a cup of overpriced herbal tea in his hand. Shiro sat across from him, scrolling through property listings like he was browsing for throw pillows instead of million-dollar estates.

“Something minimalist?” Shiro mused. “You’ll want room for a studio. Oh—this one has a koi pond and an indoor zen garden.”

Keith squinted. “You trying to make me start a cult?”

Shiro didn’t look up. “With your face? You’d get followers in a week.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but the smirk stayed.

Their new project was officially underway. Shiro had handed him the reins to a brand-new label. Full creative control. CEO status. No micromanaging. No backup plan. Just belief.

And the name?

Venom Entertainment.

It sounded slick. Deadly. Beautiful in a “this might ruin your life but you’ll enjoy it” kind of way. Perfect.

Kosmo shifted at his feet, tail thumping like he could feel the energy buzzing off Keith.

For the first time in ages, Keith wasn’t just reacting to life—he was building something.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Landing felt like stepping into a new skin. They were greeted by Shiro’s assistant (who Keith was pretty sure had a Bluetooth headset surgically attached to her ear), and whisked into a sleek black SUV. Kosmo had his own little travel bag. Keith had… three phones again.

“What is it with you and phones?” he asked.

“One’s for business, one’s for the label, and the third is for ordering fried chicken at 3 a.m. without judgment,” Shiro said.

Keith tucked the third one in his hoodie pocket. “That one stays.”

Their first stop was *Venom HQ*—all glass and steel with bold, edgy murals splashed across the side, half-constructed but already oozing attitude. The energy hit Keith the moment he stepped out of the car. This wasn’t some clean, corporate box.

This was *his*.

Shiro tossed him the keycard like it was a gift. “It’s all yours.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~

Keith wasn’t sure what he expected when he walked into the practice room.

But it wasn’t *that* much talent packed into one room. They were young, nervous, but their movements had fire—like they were dancing for their lives. The potential? Off the charts. The need for guidance? Even higher.

He scribbled notes, offered direction, rewound the music, and asked for retakes. Shiro lurked in the back like a dad at a recital.

Then—

“Director Kogane?”

The voice was cool, smooth like cold soda on a hot day.

Keith turned, expecting a clipboard. Maybe a blazer.

Instead, he got *her*.

Laid-back in a black oversized hoodie, black cargo pants, black sneakers. Jet-black hair pulled into a messy bun, rings on every finger, and a vibe like she either ran the place or was about to steal it.

“I’m Axca,” she said, hands in her pockets like she wasn’t walking into the biggest creative launch of the year. “Your new assistant. Don’t worry—I don’t do coffee runs. I do strategy.”

Keith blinked. “You… don’t look like an assistant.”

“You don’t look like a CEO,” she shot back with a crooked grin. “Guess we’re both here to surprise people.”

Shiro, smug bastard that he was, popped a vitamin gummy into his mouth and said, “Told you you’d like her.”

Axca offered Keith a small folder, flipping it open to reveal mood boards, trainee notes, and a very detailed to-do list—somehow written in both Korean and sarcasm.

“I figured if I was gonna help build a revolution, I might as well organize it too,” she said. “Also, your schedule is chaos. How do you survive like this?”

Keith couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“I’ve been asking myself that for years,” he said, taking the folder. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Her grin widened. “You too.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That night, in a minimalist house with floor-to-ceiling windows and radiant floors (yes, there was a koi pond, because Shiro insisted on it), Keith sat on the balcony with Kosmo curled beside him and Seoul glittering below.

He wasn’t chasing the past anymore.

He wasn’t cleaning up his mess’.

He was making art. Making moves. Making *Venom*.

And damn if he wasn’t finally—*finally*—doing more than just fine.

Chapter Text

"So... how can I help you... Veronica, is it?"
Ronnie shifted stiffly in the chair across from him, the old leather creaking beneath her. Her palms were clammy, and she wiped them against her jeans under the table, praying he didn’t notice.
She didn’t even really know why she was here.
Closure?
Answers?
Curiosity?
Or maybe she was just lost — another casualty in the fallout Keith had left behind.

"I... was curious, honestly," she said, voice too thin to feel real. "It’s not every day you find out you had a half-brother."
Robert’s blue eyes — identical to hers in a way that was almost insulting — softened slightly. No paternity test needed. He was family. Like it or not.
Ronnie tried not to glare at him. It wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t anybody’s fault, really.
Unless you counted Keith. And Lance.
She inhaled sharply, the bitterness curling up her throat like smoke.
If they had just kept things professional... if Keith had just stayed her brilliant, stubborn, infuriating best friend and not gotten tangled up in a McClain...
Maybe none of this would’ve happened.

Maybe Keith would still be here.
Maybe Ronnie wouldn’t have spent the last year feeling like a ghost haunting someone else's life.
She’d thought it would get better when Keith temporarily stepped down as her manager. A reset.
Instead, Keith and Lance had exploded, and Keith had disappeared like she meant nothing at all.
She knew now, of course — knew about the hell Keith had been dragged through, the guilt Lance carried like a second skin. She knew all of it.
It didn’t make the hollow ache any easier to bear.

Keith was her best friend. Her family when hers had crumbled.
When her mom had passed, she had been sure — sure — that Keith would reach out, even if it was just a half-hearted text or a badly timed joke.
Something. Anything.
But he hadn’t.
He’d left her behind without a second thought.
And she hated how easily she could still make excuses for him.
Romelle was fine — brilliant even — but she wasn’t Keith.

Romelle didn’t instinctively know when Ronnie needed a script that would let her scream her soul out on screen.
Romelle didn’t know how to nudge her out of a spiral with a muttered insult about her taste in shoes.
She missed him like she missed oxygen some days.
She had even called Shiro once, just to ask — casually, like it didn’t matter — how Keith was doing.
Shiro had been polite. Tight-lipped. Kind in a way that was worse than cruelty.
She hadn’t even bothered to call again after that.

Which was why she was here now, sitting across from Robert, desperately trying to sew something whole from the scraps Keith had left behind.
Her hands twisted in her lap as she spoke.
"I also want you to find Keith for me," she said quietly.
The words felt pathetic on her tongue. Desperate.
She forced a laugh, bitter and brittle.
"I know it’s dumb. I just..." She swallowed the lump clawing up her throat. "I just want closure. Or maybe I just want to punch him in the face. Honestly, at this point, I'd take either."
The joke didn’t land. It wasn’t supposed to.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and awkward.
Ronnie stared down at her hands, willing them to stop shaking.
If Keith had just kept his distance.
If he hadn't fallen for Lance.
If he hadn't made Ronnie believe she was part of something unbreakable.
Maybe she wouldn't be sitting here, begging for the chance to say goodbye.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ronnie sat curled up on the worn couch, picking at the threads of the blanket draped over her legs.
The meeting with Robert had left a bad taste in her mouth — bitter and heavy, like a secret she couldn’t spit out.
She didn’t know what she'd been expecting. Some miracle? A fix?
Instead, she'd gotten proof that family was just another kind of heartbreak waiting to happen.
The front door burst open without warning, letting in a gust of warm air — and Lance, grinning ear to ear, arms full of snacks.

"Ron-Ron! I come bearing gifts!" he announced, dropping bags of chips and takeout onto the coffee table like he was hosting a party instead of crashing her pity session.
Ronnie grunted, unimpressed.
Lance, of course, didn’t notice. He flopped down beside her, practically vibrating with energy.
"You will not believe the day I had," he said, pulling out a soda and tossing it to her. "Echo's new limited editions are almost sold out and—guess what—I'm recording two more songs for the deluxe album. Like, right now. I literally just came from the studio. Can you believe it?"
He was so happy. So normal.

And for a second, Ronnie hated him for it.
Hated how he was sitting here — whole, excited, planning a future — while she was still trying to stitch herself together with memories Keith had left behind.
"That’s great, Lance," she said flatly, cracking open the soda without enthusiasm.
Lance barely seemed to hear the strain in her voice. He kept chattering, telling her about the producers he was working with, some hilarious mishap with Allura at the new Echo pop-up store, even something about Hunk sending him a thousand crying emojis after hearing one of the new tracks.
It should have been funny.

It should have made her smile.
Instead, something inside her snapped.
"You know what, Lance?" she said, voice trembling with the effort it took to keep from screaming. "I'm so glad you're doing so well. I'm so glad you're out there living your best life while the rest of us are still picking up the pieces left behind."
The room went dead silent.
Lance froze mid-sentence, blinking like he’d just been slapped.

"I went to see Robert today," she said, voice cracking. "Our half-brother. Because apparently, when I realized everything fell apart, I needed something — anything — to fill the hole Keith left."
She shoved the blanket off her legs, sitting forward, fists clenched.
"I needed my best friend, Lance. I needed Keith. And he—" she swallowed hard, blinking back tears, "—he just ghosted me. Like I didn’t matter. Like I was nothing."
Lance opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to defend Keith — but Ronnie wasn’t done.
"And you—" she jabbed a finger at him, the words spilling out now, messy and ugly, "—you ruined everything. You and Keith. If you two had just kept it professional, if you hadn’t gotten involved, maybe... maybe he wouldn't have disappeared. Maybe he wouldn't have shut me out like I was disposable."
The tears came hot and fast now, no point trying to stop them.

"I lost my best friend, Lance. And you—you're fine. You're doing photo shoots and recording albums and smiling like nothing happened and I'm here... I'm here and I don't even know how to move forward without him!"
Her voice broke on the last word, raw and trembling.
For a long, horrible second, Lance just stared at her.
And then, slowly, his face softened.
"I'm sorry, Ron," he said quietly. "God, I’m so sorry."
He shifted closer, careful — like she was something fragile he didn’t want to break any further.
"I miss him too," Lance said, voice thick with emotion. "You think I don’t? You think I don’t lie awake some nights wishing I could undo it all?"

Ronnie scrubbed at her face with her sleeve, feeling like a kid again, messy and hurt and stupid.
"I know I was part of it," Lance said. "I know I hurt him. I know I hurt you too. And no matter how good things look from the outside, I feel that hole every single day."
He reached out, gently squeezing her hand.
"I wouldn’t even be functioning if I hadn’t started therapy after..." He trailed off, his throat working around the word neither of them wanted to say. Miscarriage.
"You made me go," he said, smiling weakly. "You dragged me kicking and screaming, remember?"
Ronnie let out a broken laugh, remembering — Lance, stubborn as hell, practically glued to her car seat while she bullied him into his first appointment.
"Let me return the favor," Lance said softly. "Come with me. Just one session. You don’t have to say anything. You can sit there and glare at the therapist for an hour if you want. I’ll even bring snacks."
Ronnie laughed again, wet and miserable, but real.

"I hate you," she muttered, sniffling.
Lance grinned, brushing a tear off her cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie.
"Yeah, well," he said, bumping her shoulder with his, "you’re stuck with me."
For once, Ronnie didn’t push him away.
Maybe she was still lost.
Maybe Keith had left holes in both of them that would never quite heal.
But at least she wasn’t alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The neon glow of Seoul’s skyline filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, casting long shadows over the scattered demos and lyric sheets on his desk. Keith rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly. Running a company was harder than he’d expected—especially when half the time, he still struggled to read his own damn emails in Korean.

But he was learning.

"진짜… 이거 너무 어려워," he muttered under his breath, squinting at the contract in front of him.

"You sound like a toddler who just learned their first swear word," Axca remarked dryly, dropping a fresh cup of coffee on his desk. His alpha assistant—sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued, and somehow the only person who didn’t treat him like a foreign novelty—leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "You’re saying it wrong. Emphasize the ‘eo’ in ‘어려워.’"

Keith shot her a look. "I am emphasizing it."

"No, you’re not."

"Yes, I am—"

"Keith." Axca raised a brow, arms crossed as she leaned against the mirrored studio wall. "You sound like an American cartoon character trying to order kimchi."

Keith groaned, slumping back in his chair and dragging a hand through his hair. “I miss English.”

“Tough.” She tossed him a bottle of water. “You live here now.”

And he did.

Somehow, against every expectation — including his own — Keith was building a life in Seoul. It was quieter than his old one, but in that silence, things had started to bloom.

Axca had made it her personal mission to keep him from turning into a brooding cryptid glued to a laptop. Anytime he pulled an all-nighter or spent three days straight buried in production notes, she'd barge in like a storm and yank him into the outside world.

“You’re in Seoul,” she’d say, looping her arm through his and dragging him to the elevator. “Stop acting like a hermit crab. We’re getting 떡볶이.”

At first, Keith had resisted — citing jet lag, deadlines, or a sudden, mysterious stomach illness that conveniently struck every time she mentioned crowds.

But she never let up.

She taught him how to order food without sounding like a confused time traveler, made him delete his clunky translation app, and drilled essential slang into him like a chaotic tutor.

“No, Keith. ‘대박’ doesn’t mean ‘oh crap,’ it means ‘holy shit, that’s amazing.’”
“Also stop saying ‘annyeong’ like a cartoon alpaca. Say it from the chest.”

She took him to hidden noraebangs tucked behind alleyways, the kind that smelled like strawberry soju and forgotten dreams. They belted out *Big Bang* and *SHINee* at top volume, Axca singing like a rockstar, Keith laughing through the high notes.

One weekend, she dragged him to Busan — no schedule, no plan. Just street food, overpriced coffee, and a long walk by the ocean. She took a hundred photos of him sulking near a seagull. He only posted one. It got a million likes. He refused to talk about it.

And then there was *the night of the octopus.*

Some bar in Mapo, too many shots of green glass soju bottles, and a plate of *산낙지* squirming on the dish like it had unfinished business.

Keith stared at it, pale. “It’s moving. Why is it still moving—WHY IS IT STILL MOVING—”

“Because it’s fresh, you coward. Eat it before it escapes.”

He gagged dramatically but still took a bite.
She cheered.
He nearly cried.

It was ridiculous.

It was… nice.

He was learning. About the culture. The food. The rhythm of the city. The way people softened when you tried, really tried. The strange warmth of shopkeepers who called him "handsome foreigner" and always gave him extra garlic.

But the homesickness still lingered — not for America.
For *them.*

In the quiet moments — when the practice room emptied out and the hum of the city softened to a whisper — Keith’s thoughts curled inward like bruised petals.

Sometimes it hit him while he was alone in his apartment, music looping through his headphones, light from the Seoul Tower blinking faintly through the window.

Other times it struck at 3AM when he sat at the edge of the Han River, coffee in hand, watching the water shimmer with city lights and regret.

He thought about Ronnie — her loud laughter, the way she could read his moods like sheet music, how she always stole his fries even when she swore she wasn’t hungry.

He thought about Lance.
Of course he did.

Lance, with his hurricane moods and sunshine smile. Lance, who used to playfully kick his chair in the studio when he was stuck on a chord. Lance, who kissed like a promise and fought like he was afraid of keeping it.

Keith still wasn’t sure how everything had fallen apart.
Just that it had.

They were probably better off without him.

(He hoped they were.)

But some nights… when the silence stretched too long…
He wished they missed him back.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“So you’re the mysterious Keith Kogane," a voice drawled, smooth as honey and cocky as hell.
Keith turned — and blinked, completely thrown.
Sliding into the studio like he owned the place was a tall Black guy with deep brown skin, neat rows of locks pulled into a low ponytail, and an energy that filled the room before he even fully stepped inside. He wore a faded OutKast T-shirt, ripped jeans, and a pair of sneakers that looked like they’d survived a war. His grin was wide, a little mischievous, like he was in on a joke Keith didn’t know yet.
Keith gawked for a second — an actual Black dude, with locks, fluent in Korean, and somehow casually thriving in the heart of the K-pop industry?
It felt like spotting a unicorn riding the subway.

Kinkade cocked his head. "You good, man? You’re lookin’ at me like I’m a damn mirage."
Keith cleared his throat, cheeks heating. “Sorry. Just… wasn’t expecting…”
"Someone who looks like me?" Kinkade finished easily, flashing a grin that took the sting out of it. "Get that a lot. Don’t sweat it."
Keith shook himself, standing up a little straighter. "I just—was expecting some pretentious industry dude. Armani suit. Maybe a tragic little man bun."
Kinkade barked out a laugh, loud and infectious. "Man bun? In this economy?"

Keith couldn’t help it; he laughed too, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
The rumors hadn't done Kinkade justice. In the industry, he was a bit of a ghost story — the guy labels whispered about when they needed a miracle. The one who took clunky English demos and spun them into gold-plated Korean hits. Word was he could write circles around half the pop stars and translate cultural nuances without breaking a sweat. Fluent in four languages, a monster with rhyme schemes, and, apparently, funny as hell in all of them.

Kinkade plopped down into the chair across from Keith and gave a lazy spin. "Alright, mystery man," he said, still grinning. "Let’s make some magic. Or at least something that’ll make teenagers lose their goddamn minds."
Keith smirked despite himself. "I like your style."
"Good." Kinkade leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming. "Because I don’t work with boring people. And you?" He gave Keith a quick once-over. "You don’t look boring."
It was stupid — just a casual comment — but something in Keith’s chest warmed.
Because for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t second-guessing himself.
He wasn’t drowning in guilt or wondering if he even belonged.
He was just here — with someone who spoke his language.

He glanced around the studio: the half-scribbled lyrics on the whiteboard, the beat pads glowing softly under the dim lights, the quiet buzz of possibility in the air.
Keith smiled, genuine and a little disbelieving.
Maybe… just maybe, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith stood at the head of the mirrored practice room, arms folded, watching the two groups of trainees warm up.
It had taken months — months — to find them.
He'd made it clear from the start: no debuting minors. He wasn’t doing that. Not on his watch. The industry had eaten up too many kids before they even had a chance to grow up.
So instead, he'd scoured agencies and underground circles, pulling together two very different groups — two teams that everyone else had already written off or never even noticed.
Group One: Four ex-trainees, all over 25, veterans of the system.

Each had trained for years — some for a decade — but had always been passed over. Too old. Too plain. Too unconventional.
Keith had seen them perform once in a dingy studio at 11PM, tired but still giving it everything. That was all it took.
Their concept would be bold. Seductive. Raw.
They called themselves OBLIVION — four ghosts of the system, finally ready to haunt the stage. Their concept? Sultry, mature, unapologetic. Think Taemin meets Kai—smoldering stares, intricate choreo, and lyrics that didn’t shy away from being adult.

"They’re not here to play cute," Keith had told the producers. "They’re here to remind everyone that talent doesn’t expire at 22."
Group Two: Five girls, bright-eyed, younger, a little chaotic, and endlessly talented.
Aged between 18 and 20, all rookies with hunger in their bones and that reckless, wild hope only dreamers had.
Their concept? Futuristic. Unapologetic. Loud.
Think cyberpunk sirens meets girl crush on steroids — Keith was already obsessed.

They named themselves NOVA5 after a joke one of the girls made about their outfits “looking like a rave and a space station had a baby.”
Both groups were still rough around the edges. But they were real.
And for the first time in a while, Keith felt like he was building something good again.
It started with a joke.
Kinkade had been messing around on the beat pad, layering this bizarre, glitchy synth over a deep bassline. Keith, nursing his third iced Americano of the night, raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a robot dying.”
Kinkade smirked. “A sexy robot dying.”

Keith rolled his eyes but didn’t say no. That was how most of their sessions went—half banter, half experimentation, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, a sound would click. A melody would loop. A chorus would form. And somehow, they’d made a song.
They worked out of Keith’s minimalist studio—glass walls, soft lighting, Axca's plants thriving in every corner. Kinkade always showed up with takeout and a Bluetooth speaker he refused to part with. “The acoustics in this room are too bougie,” he’d say. “I need to hear it on something cheap—that’s how the kids’ll hear it.”
But somewhere between the late nights, fried chicken, and Keith’s hesitant attempts at adding harmonies, he started changing.
He started trusting himself again.

Kinkade would shove the mic in front of him and say, “You wrote it. Sing it how you hear it.” And Keith—still reluctant, still unsure—would try.
And when it worked, when it sounded good, the look on Kinkade’s face was pure satisfaction.
“See?” he’d grin. “Told you you had sauce.”

The two groups debuted six months later.
FOURPLAY, the older, sultry quartet, dropped their first single with a concept dripping in velvet and candlelight. Their harmonies were tight, their styling sharp, and the choreography oozed confidence. It was the kind of debut that didn’t scream for attention—but demanded it.
A week later, NOVA, the younger girl crush group, stormed onto the scene like a meteor shower. With cyberpunk aesthetics, metallic outfits, and hooks that burrowed into your brain and refused to leave, they exploded across TikTok and hit a million views in two days. Their debut track, co-written by Keith and Kinkade, became a minor anthem for Gen Z rebellion.

They weren’t chart-topping yet—not SM or JYP big—but they were loud. They were fresh. And somehow, against all odds, Venom Entertainment was competing.
They snagged a win on KBS’s Music Bank—a small one, for a new artist category, but still. The moment Keith saw NOVA on stage, tearfully accepting the trophy while holding hands, he felt something swell in his chest that he hadn’t let himself feel in years:
Pride.

Enter: Lotor.
He arrived like a storm wrapped in silk.
The first time Keith heard the name was from Shiro, who FaceTimed him out of nowhere with a look that screamed just go with it.
“So, I may have… sort of… accidentally arranged a meeting with a young artist named Lotor,” Shiro said.
“Okay…” Keith sipped his coffee. “And?”
“He’s an omega,” Shiro continued, “with very loaded, very oil-rich parents. They’re funding his solo music career.”

Keith blinked. “And they want…?”
“Creative direction. From you.” Shiro paused. “Also… possibly a minor collaboration in exchange for access to some very lucrative oil shares.”
Keith spat his coffee. “What?!”
Shiro held up a hand. “Don’t worry about the oil part. Focus on the music.”
The next day, Lotor showed up to the studio with two assistants, a trench coat that probably cost more than Keith’s entire apartment, and a perfume that smelled like money and menace.
“I’ve watched every NOVA stage twice,” he said dreamily, eyes shining. “Your visual world-building… the narrative cohesion… it’s art.”
Keith stared.

Lotor clapped his hands once. “I must have you. For my next comeback.”
Kinkade, watching from the corner with a mouth full of gimbap, whispered, “This some Prince meets Ariana Grande shit.”
And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.
Lotor was obsessive, dramatic, and spoke in full monologues. But beneath the flair was real talent—his vocals were clean and impeccable he was even able to hit whistle notes, his songwriting introspective, and his artistic instinct razor-sharp. Keith hated how much he respected him.
“You understand omegas in a way no one else does,” Lotor said when they met, uncharacteristically sincere. “You design for them, not around them. That’s rare.”
And just like that, the music started flowing again.

Chapter Text

At first, working with Lotor was like starring in a reality show Keith hadn’t signed up for.
Everywhere he went, Lotor was trailed by an entourage of assistants—perfectly groomed, perfectly silent, and perfectly terrifying. They carried his extra shoes, his imported water, his emergency skincare kit ("For emergencies, Keith. What if I get stressed and break out?") and at least three backup chargers for his 5 phones. (Who needs five phones)
He never opened a door for himself. Never carried his own coffee. Once, Keith watched in horror as an assistant popped a piece of gum into Lotor’s mouth like he was a baby bird.
"Is he... serious?" Keith muttered to Axca the first time he saw it.

Axca, who had spent the last ten minutes silently calculating the optimal way to assassinate the entire entourage, just grimaced. "Serious as a tax audit."
In meetings, Lotor was all fake smiles and practiced laughs, his voice syrupy and soft as he agreed to everything Keith suggested—only to immediately turn to one of his assistants and whisper, "Make sure I’m not actually doing that, okay?"
In the studio, he showed up in outfits that looked like they cost more than Keith’s entire net worth, refusing to sit on the couch until someone laid down a silk cloth first. ("I have sensitive skin," he said with an airy wave, as if that explained anything.)
The worst part was that Keith could see the moments when the real Lotor peeked through.

A flash of dry sarcasm. A smirk when Kinkade made a dirty joke. A crack in the perfect façade.
But every time it happened, Lotor seemed to catch himself—straightening his spine, pasting on a polite, empty smile, retreating back into his performance like a soldier to a bunker.
It was funny, in a sad kind of way.
Keith tolerated it for exactly two weeks.

The breaking point came when Lotor showed up late for a songwriting session—forty-five minutes late—flanked by five assistants carrying two designer dogs, a portable ring light, and an espresso machine. An entire machine.
"Sorry, sorry," Lotor said with a dazzling smile, as one of the assistants fluffed his hair. "Traffic was a nightmare and I simply cannot create without proper lighting, you know how it is."
Keith stared at him for a long moment.

Something in him finally, blessedly snapped.
"No," Keith said flatly, standing up. "I don’t know how it is."
Lotor blinked, confused.
"You’re not Beyoncé," Keith continued, voice calm but lethal. "You don’t need a ring light to write a chorus."
The assistants gasped like someone had committed high treason.
Lotor’s face crumpled—just for a second—before he scrambled to rearrange it into a bright, unaffected grin.
But it was too late. Keith had seen it. The crack.

He threw his hands in the air. "That’s it. Get up. We’re going out."
"W-where?" Lotor stammered, genuinely rattled.
"To be a human being," Keith said, already grabbing his jacket. "And you're leaving the clone army behind."
"But—but who will carry my emergency mist?" Lotor cried, clutching his designer tote.
"Carry it yourself," Axca said, looking delighted as she grabbed the tote and lobbed it at him.
Keith pointed at the assistants, who were frozen in horror. "Go home. Take a spa day. You deserve it."
And just like that, Keith and Axca herded a scandalized, dramatically sighing Lotor out of the studio and into the wild chaos of Seoul.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You’re not going to kill me, right?" Lotor said dramatically, backing away as Keith stalked toward him.
"Take. It. Off." Keith pointed at the velvet blazer with gold embroidery that looked like it belonged at a royal coronation. "All of it."
Lotor gasped, clutching his chest like Keith had mortally wounded him. "Keith, at least buy me dinner first—"
"Not like that," Keith groaned, grabbing the hem of Lotor’s designer scarf and yanking it off. One of Lotor’s ever-present assistants squeaked and tried to intervene, but Axca casually blocked her path with a dead-eyed glare that said, try me.

“Clothes, makeup, shoes. Off. Normal stuff only. We’re going out.”
“I am normal,” Lotor protested, offended. "This is casual couture!"
Keith deadpanned. “You’re wearing custom Balenciaga to the studio.”
Lotor pouted but finally relented, peeling off his layers of extravagance until he was left in a plain black T-shirt and jeans—jeans so tight they probably cost a thousand dollars, but Keith would let it slide for now.
Axca handed Lotor a baseball cap. "You put this on, or I'll put it on for you."
Lotor whimpered but complied, tucking his blue-silver hair under the cap with theatrical misery. The assistants looked on like they were witnessing a war crime, but Keith ignored them, tossing Lotor a battered pair of sneakers.
"No designer shoes," Keith said. "You’re about to live like the rest of us."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They took him everywhere.
The neon chaos of Hongdae, where buskers danced under the streetlights and the smell of spicy tteokbokki filled the air. Tiny indie cafés tucked into alleys where no one cared about last names or designer labels. Crowded subway rides where Lotor clung to the overhead bar like it was a lifeline, scandalized by the proximity of other human beings.
At first, Lotor acted like he was being sentenced to death by commoner, but by the third stop, something shifted.

He laughed. A real, belly-deep laugh when a street performer pulled him into a silly dance battle. He shrieked with glee at the claw machine arcade, determined to win a squishy pink bear. He stared in wonder at the Han River skyline, eating fish cakes off a skewer with sauce dribbling down his chin.
And Keith saw it—the real Lotor. Goofy. Sarcastic. Weirdly competitive. Alive.

Later, sprawled across the picnic blanket they’d thrown down by the river, Keith finally said what he’d been thinking.
"You know why you haven’t blown up yet?"
Lotor, lazily munching on a bag of shrimp chips, peeked over his sunglasses. "Because the universe fears my power?"
Keith snorted. "Because no one knows who you are."
Lotor blinked, caught off guard.

Keith sat up, elbows resting on his knees. "People don't follow faceless brands anymore. They follow people. Their values, their stories, their hearts." He paused, picking at the grass. "When I design for omegas... it’s not about building a fantasy around them. It’s about making space for who they really are. That’s what people connect with."
Lotor didn’t answer right away. His smile, usually so easy, faltered a little.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I feel like people only like me for what I can give them. The clothes. The money. The image." He shrugged, trying to sound casual, but Keith heard the ache underneath. "No one ever really... cares what’s underneath."
Keith’s chest tightened.

He remembered what Shiro had told him once, years ago: People only show off when they’re scared they won’t be loved without the armor.
He nudged Lotor’s shoulder. "Well, I care. Axca cares. Kinkade’ll care once you beat him at karaoke."
Lotor chuckled. A small sound. A real one.

Over time, Keith learned more.
Lotor was an only child, born to impossible expectations. His father, a tycoon with deep roots in the UAE oil empires, wanted power. His mother, a legendary jeweler whose pieces could fetch millions at auction, wanted perfection. Lotor grew up in a golden cage, adored but isolated, every aspect of his life curated like a museum exhibit.
He wasn't mean. He wasn't snobby. He just... didn't know any other life.
But he wanted to learn.

Keith watched him give money to struggling buskers without fanfare, offer his umbrella to an old man in the rain, spend twenty minutes helping a lost tourist navigate the subway, fumbling with his phone in hilarious frustration.
He was kind. He was vibrant. He was real.
And as weeks turned into months, Lotor changed.
He stripped back the layers—kept the sarcasm and the sass, lost the obsession with image. He started writing songs that sounded less like marketing and more like journal entries. He started laughing more, trusting more.
One night, after a long studio session, as they sat on the roof sharing cans of peach soda, Lotor looked over at Keith and said, "Thank you."

Keith raised an eyebrow. "For what? For forcing you into normal-people jeans?"
Lotor grinned. "For seeing me."
Keith just smiled, bumping their shoulders together. "Well you came to me. So deep down you knew what you needed."
And for the first time in a long, long time, Lotor believed it.

Keith’s home studio was technically just a spare bedroom he’d gutted and soundproofed, but it had become the heart of everything he was building here.
Tonight, it was a little chaotic — empty takeout boxes, wires snaking across the floor, Axca half-asleep in the corner with a Red Bull, and Keith sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open.
Lotor sprawled across the couch, wearing a hoodie for once instead of some ridiculous designer outfit, a pencil tucked behind one ear and a guitar across his lap. His hair was still perfectly styled, but it somehow didn’t feel fake anymore — just him.
They were supposed to be writing a banger for Lotors comeback. Something fun, something explosive.
Instead, they were...talking.

Or rather, bleeding.
"I don’t know," Lotor said, fingers absently strumming the strings. "Maybe it’s my fault. I ruined it."
Keith looked up. "What?"
"Allura," Lotor said, a wry, tired smile tugging at his lips. "She’s—God, you’d love her. She’s brilliant. Loud. Sharp like glass." He laughed under his breath. "A British alpha with a tongue that could cut steel. And the kindest heart I’ve ever seen."
Keith leaned back against the wall, listening.
"I think she loved me. I think I loved her, too," Lotor continued, voice getting quieter. "But I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust her. I was...I was so sure she’d leave me, or get bored, or realize I wasn’t worth it." He smiled bitterly. "So I started picking fights.

I accused her of cheating, of not caring. I pushed until she finally got tired of fighting back."
Axca stirred, glancing over from her nest of pillows.
Keith’s throat felt tight. Too tight.
He swallowed. Hard.
"I get it," he said, his voice rough.
Lotor looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time all night.
"I had someone, too," Keith said. "Lance. He was...bright. He made everything louder. Better."

The guitar fell silent in Lotor’s lap.
"I didn’t trust him either," Keith admitted, staring down at the carpet. "Not because of him. Because of me. I didn’t tell him everything. About my past. About the things I was afraid of." His hands curled into fists. "And when it mattered most, when I needed him to show up for me—he didn’t."
The room felt unbearably heavy.
Axca sat up fully now, setting her drink aside without a word.
Keith squeezed his eyes shut. His chest hurt. Like something was splintering open inside him.
"I lost a baby," Keith whispered. "Our baby. And he didn’t even know. Because I didn’t tell him. Because I didn’t think he’d care."

The words hit the air like a bomb.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then—
A sound escaped Keith’s throat. A low, broken thing he couldn’t swallow down.
Tears welled up before he could stop them, hot and furious, sliding down his cheeks in silent, ugly rivers.
He tried to turn away, ashamed—but Axca was already there, pulling him into a fierce, awkward hug, her arms trembling.

Lotor slid down from the couch and wrapped an arm around both of them, burying his face in Keith’s shoulder without a second thought.
They stayed like that for a while—a small, messy pile of hurt and heartache on the studio floor.
"I’m jealous," Axca said suddenly, her voice thick with emotion. "You two...you loved. You had something real. I’ve never even let anyone close enough to hurt me. I just—" She laughed wetly. "I’d rather die than get my heart broken."
Keith let out a ragged breath, squeezing them both tighter.

"You’re not broken," he said hoarsely. "None of us are."
They pulled apart eventually, sniffling and wiping their faces like a bunch of idiots.
After a few minutes, Lotor grabbed the guitar again, his fingers moving carefully over the strings.
A melody formed—soft, aching, beautiful.
Keith sat up, still wiping at his face, and opened a fresh file on his laptop.
"Sing something," he croaked.
And so they did.
It wasn’t a dance track. It wasn’t flashy.
It was raw.

Keith found the words first, broken and real:
"I'm going under and this time I fear there's no one to save me..."
Axca chimed in with a few harmonies, her voice rough but steady.
Lotor closed his eyes, adding a low hum underneath it all, grounding it.
"This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy..."
And somehow, despite everything...
Keith realized he wasn't alone anymore.
Not really.

Keith wiped his face on his sleeve, breathing out slowly, something easing in his chest for the first time in what felt like years.
"...We’re a mess," he said.
"Yeah," Lotor agreed easily. "But at least we’re a mess together."
Something shifted between them then.
Not just colleagues. Not just collaborators.
Friends.

The kind of friends who would drag you out of the dirt if you needed it—and sit in the mud with you if you didn’t.
Keith leaned over and grabbed his guitar again, the strings still warm from his earlier playing.
They built it piece by piece, laying their wounds bare.
Their fears.
Their grief.
Their hopes.
By the time midnight arrived, they had it.
The song.

Someone You Loved.
Keith strummed the final chords, his fingers sore and his heart lighter than it had been in months.
Lotor sat back against the couch, a grin breaking across his face. "We’re gonna ruin people with this."
Axca groaned, flopping onto her back. "Can we not make crying a habit? I’m gonna start charging therapy rates if this keeps up."
Keith laughed—really laughed, a sound bursting out of him bright and real.
Maybe they were broken.
Maybe they were scared.
But they weren’t alone anymore.

That night, none of them left.
Lotor outright refused.
Axca made a show of complaining—something about how "it’s a goddamn tundra outside"—but truthfully, she didn’t even put on her shoes before collapsing back on Keith’s couch.
Keith didn’t argue.
If he was being honest, he didn’t want them to leave either.
Somewhere between finishing the demo and cleaning up the coffee cups, Lotor found a dusty bottle of tequila in the back of Keith’s pantry.
"Is this actual tequila or is this, like, cooking tequila?" Axca asked, squinting suspiciously at the label.
Lotor sniffed it delicately, nose wrinkling. "It’s criminal, is what it is. But we’ll make do."

Keith raised an eyebrow. "You’re such a snob."
"I am cultured, Kogane," Lotor said loftily, already pouring generous shots into mismatched mugs. "You wound me."
They passed the mugs around like teenagers at a sleepover, toasting to nothing and everything at once.
The first few sips burned like hell.
The next ones burned less.
Then it was just laughing, half-falling into each other, feeling lighter than any of them had in months.

They started swapping stories—Axca cackling about disastrous Tinder dates, Lotor recounting some truly ludicrous tabloid rumors ("Apparently, I fathered triplets with a Russian heiress. I wish I were that interesting.").
Eventually, the topic circled back—like it always did—to Keith.
Specifically, Lance.
Lotor was on his fourth mug by then, cheeks flushed a delicate pink, hair starting to curl slightly from the humidity of Keith’s apartment. He had Keith’s hoodie stretched halfway over his knees, looking like some dramatic, overgrown cat.
"And he just left you?" he demanded, scandalized, setting his mug down with a dangerous clink.
Keith winced. "It wasn’t that simple—"

"NO, Keith. No. I am LIVID," Lotor declared, flinging an arm wide like he was addressing a royal court. "You—" He jabbed a finger at Keith. "Are a national treasure. A global treasure. A—" He squinted at Axca. "What’s higher than national?"
"International?"
"An international goddamn treasure," Lotor amended proudly. "And that...that peasant—"
Keith choked on his drink. "He’s not a peasant—"
"Peasant," Lotor repeated stubbornly, sipping his tequila like it was expensive wine. "He had the love of a lifetime handed to him on a silver platter and he fumbled it like a drunk toddler."
Axca wiped tears from her eyes, laughing so hard she nearly fell off the couch. "Holy shit, you’re DRAMATIC."
Lotor placed a hand on his chest. "I am wealthy and traumatized. It’s a potent combination."

Keith laughed until his sides hurt.
Somehow, between Lotor ranting about "dueling Lance at dawn" and Axca pulling up the worst playlist she could find (Drunk Girl Anthems, Vol. 3), they started dancing.
Badly.
Keith, red-faced and gasping, stumbled around his tiny living room while Lotor did ridiculous, exaggerated waltz steps in socks, and Axca attempted twerking so half-heartedly she looked like she was trying to start a lawnmower.
The tequila made everything brighter. Softer.

Every laugh stitched something broken back together.
They didn’t stop until all three of them collapsed in a pile on the couch and floor, sweaty and exhausted, still laughing quietly.
Keith couldn’t even remember falling asleep.
He just remembered feeling safe.

The next morning—or afternoon, technically—they woke up in various states of ruin.
Keith had a couch cushion stuck to his face.
Axca was wrapped in a blanket like a human burrito, muttering threats at anyone who dared speak above a whisper.
Lotor was the only one who seemed remotely functional, already perched on the counter in fresh clothes somehow, scrolling through his phone with a judgmental look on his face.
"How," Keith croaked, dragging himself upright, "are you so awake?"
"I ordered food," Lotor said serenely, like he was announcing a royal decree. "You’re welcome."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a line of pristine black cars pulled up outside.
Keith blinked blearily. "You ordered a fleet?"
"I don’t trust delivery drivers with my soufflés," Lotor said with a sniff.
Keith gawked as a literal personal chef carried in trays of gourmet meals: fresh croissants, eggs, fancy avocado things that looked too pretty to eat, and real espresso in delicate little cups.
Axca finally unburritoed herself just long enough to slur, "You’re like if Gossip Girl and Gordon Ramsay had a bastard child."
"Thank you," Lotor said, preening.

While Axca demolished a croissant in three bites and Lotor artfully plated his food like he was on MasterChef, Keith sat on the floor with his laptop, staring at the demo file.
His heart raced a little.
This was it.
It was real.
He hit SEND, attaching the file and shooting it off to Kinkade with a simple message:
"Hope you’re ready for your heart to break."

Within five minutes, Kinkade responded in all caps:
"WHAT THE HELL. WHY WASN’T I INVITED WHEN YOU WERE MAKING HITS. I’M OFFENDED. I’M SCREAMING. SEND MORE."
Keith laughed, chest warm and full.
Lotor leaned over, peeking at the email. "Hah. Peasant behavior."
Axca snickered. "You’re just mad Kinkade called you not the main character."
"I am the main character," Lotor insisted, flipping his hair dramatically. "Keith is the tortured genius, you’re the goblin mascot, and I am the tragic, wealthy beauty who funds the operation."

Keith was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his coffee.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about Lance.
Or the miscarriage.
Or how he wasn’t enough.
He just felt...right.
Here.
Now.

With these two disasters who somehow—messily, loudly, drunkenly—had made room for him in their lives.
Here, he belonged.
And it felt like the beginning of something good.
The laughter in Keith’s apartment was still echoing when Keith’s phone started buzzing across the floor.
Kinkade.
Incoming video call.

Keith exchanged a look with Lotor and Axca, who were still munching on pastries like gremlins.
He answered, flipping the screen toward the room.
"Are you ACTUALLY kidding me?!" Kinkade howled immediately, face filling the screen. His hair was a mess, shirt slightly crooked like he’d rolled out of bed furious. "You made the saddest, most soul-ruining hit of the century—and you didn’t even invite me?!"
Axca wiped fake tears from her eyes with a croissant. "Tragic."

Lotor leaned into the frame, flashing his most catty smile. "I’m sorry, we had a talent-only gathering."
"BITCH," Kinkade gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been shot.
Keith nearly fell over laughing.
Kinkade pointed accusingly. "You’re DEAD to me. All of you. I hope you choke on your gluten-free sadness bread."
"Not gluten-free," Lotor sniffed. "Artisanal. There’s a difference."
Keith, still laughing, managed to gasp, "We’ll send you the next demo. Maybe. If you beg."
"Beg?" Kinkade huffed. "I’ll do worse. I’ll leak your embarrassing karaoke videos."

Axca perked up. "THERE ARE VIDEOS?!"
Kinkade waggled his brows. "Oh, sweetheart. There are entire albums."
Lotor clutched his pearls. "This is betrayal. This is treason."
"Get wrecked". Kinkade said sweetly before hanging up.
The apartment dissolved into howling laughter again.
Keith's cheeks hurt from smiling.
It was stupid. And it was perfect.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The atmosphere in Robert’s office was the complete opposite: cold, clinical, and heavy with things unsaid.
Veronica sat stiffly in one of the expensive leather chairs, hands twisting nervously in her lap. She knew Robert had found Keith—but judging from the tension in the air, it wasn’t good.
Robert, polished and composed in a tailored suit, folded his hands on the desk between them.
"Veronica," he said, voice gentler than usual, "I have news about Keith."
Her heart stumbled painfully.
"He's alive," Robert assured quickly. "Doing well, professionally. He's in Korea."
Veronica blinked. "Korea?"

"Yes," Robert said. "He’s behind a relatively small company called Venom Entertainment. Music-focused. New, but making waves."
Veronica exhaled shakily, relief flooding her chest. Keith was okay. He was building something. He had a future—
But Robert’s expression didn’t soften.
"There’s something else," he said carefully. "Something I found...through my investigators."
Her stomach twisted.
He hesitated, for once seeming to weigh his words.

"Before he left for Korea," Robert said quietly, "Keith was held on suicide watch."
Veronica felt like the ground shifted under her.
"What?" she whispered, voice cracking.
Robert’s eyes were steady, almost sympathetic. "There was an attempt. He was hospitalized. It’s sealed now, but...it happened."
Veronica pressed a hand to her mouth, horror blooming in her chest.
Keith.

Sweet, stubborn Keith.
Alone, hurting, so much worse than she ever realized—
Tears burned her eyes. "I didn’t know. I—I tried to reach out, but he was gone. He changed everything—"
"I know," Robert said.
He leaned back, a shadow crossing his features.
"I’m not telling you this to punish you," he added. "But you should think very carefully before you try to contact him now."
Veronica stared at him, bewildered.

Robert’s mouth twisted. "Because McClains," he said bitterly, "have a bad habit of poisoning everything they touch."
The words landed heavy between them.
Veronica knew about Robert’s history now.
The illegitimate son their father had tried to erase. The years of silence. The quiet, seething hatred.
She understood why Robert was so cynical. Why he saw their family name like a curse.
"I know you care," Robert said, softer now. "But sometimes...caring isn't enough. Sometimes, it hurts more."
Veronica sat frozen, blinking back furious tears.
Keith.

Who they had all failed, in ways they didn’t even understand.
Robert stood, smoothing down his sleeves.
"Think about what’s best for him," he said, voice final. "Not what’s best for you."
Veronica rose mechanically, heart splintering with every step.
She left Robert’s office numb, the weight of the truth crushing down on her.
Outside, the city buzzed and roared like nothing had changed.
But for her—

everything had.
Keith was alive.
But he had almost not been.
She didn’t know if reaching out would help him...or just hurt him all over again.
And for the first time, Veronica began to understand why Shiro had been so fiercely protective.
Why he had guarded Keith like a secret too precious—and too fragile—for the world to break again.
She had choices to make now.

None of them easy.
And as the afternoon sun burned low in the sky, Veronica realized:
She might not ever be able to make this right.

Chapter Text

Ronnie stared at her screen, blinking against the harsh glow.
She typed.
Deleted.
Typed.
Deleted.
Over and over, until the words blurred and her hands started trembling.
Finally, with a choked-off sob, she slid off her chair onto the floor, laptop still in her hands, like it could somehow anchor her.

But it couldn't.
Nothing could.
The sobs ripped free from her chest, ugly and loud. Tears smeared down her face, snot running, mascara bleeding—she didn’t care.
Let the universe see her fall apart.
It had already taken enough.
She had been trying.
Therapy. Healing.

Rebuilding the broken bridges between her and Lance, her other half, her twin flame in this messy life.
She had even told him about today. About meeting Robert.
She thought she could handle it.
She thought she was strong enough.
Turns out, she wasn’t.
And how the hell was she supposed to tell him now?
How was she supposed to hand Lance a truth so heavy it might crush what little he had left?

Would he survive it?
Would he blame himself?
Would he ever forgive himself?
Ronnie sobbed harder, rocking where she sat.
And because the universe was an absolute bastard, that was when her front door burst open.
"Wonder Twin, activate!" Lance called out cheerfully, arms overloaded with snacks, humming a terrible version of some pop song. "I come bearing the most nutritious dinner of—"
He stopped.

The chips and candy hit the floor with a crinkle.
The room fell silent except for Ronnie’s broken cries.
"Lance," she gasped, like saying his name might save her from drowning.
He didn’t say a word.
He dropped everything and crossed the room in three giant steps, dropping to his knees in front of her.

"Ronnie—Ronnie, breathe, sweetheart—what’s wrong? What happened?"
He wrapped his arms around her, and she collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest.
Lance’s heart was slamming against his ribs.
He knew. He knew it had to be about Keith.
Had Robert said something awful? Had something worse happened?

The pit in his stomach was screaming at him—something is wrong.
He held her until her breathing started to slow.
Until the violent shudders turned into hiccupping sobs.
When he finally whispered, "Talk to me, baby girl," Ronnie wiped her face with a shaking hand.
She couldn't look at him.
Couldn’t stand to see the light in his eyes flicker out.

But she had to tell him.
Had to give him the truth, even if it shattered him.
She laced her fingers with his and squeezed, grounding herself.
"Keith is alive," she rasped out. "He’s...in Korea. He started a company. It’s small, but...he’s doing okay."
Lance’s brows furrowed, confused.
If Keith was okay—then why—

"Ronnie," he said, gently, "why are you crying like this?"
She squeezed his hand harder, nails digging into his skin.
"Before he left," she whispered.
She swallowed, tried to breathe, tried not to break again.
"Before Korea...he tried to kill himself."
The world went silent.

Ronnie's voice cracked apart.
"He—he was on suicide watch."
For a moment, Lance just sat there.
Frozen.
Breathless.
Broken open from the inside out.
Keith.
His Keith.
The boy he had loved so recklessly, so completely, it scared him sometimes.

The boy whose laughter still haunted his dreams.
The boy whose absence had carved a hollow into his chest.
And he'd almost lost him.
Really lost him.
Forever.
A strange sound escaped Lance—half laugh, half sob.
It started small, a choked-out noise, but it grew until he was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, tears streaming down his face.

He clutched at Ronnie like he was falling, and she clung back just as tightly.
"I thought he hated me," Lance gasped between jagged breaths.
"I thought he left because he didn’t care anymore."
"I thought he was just gone," Ronnie sobbed. "I was so mad. I was so—"
"We were so goddamn stupid," Lance whispered, voice breaking.
And then he was crying for real, loud and ugly and heart-shattering.
The kind of crying that didn't make noise at first because it was too deep, too painful.

Ronnie pressed her forehead against his, and together, they wept.
For the years lost.
For the pain Keith must have carried alone.
For the love Lance had buried under resentment and fear.
They stayed there, two broken-hearted kids on the floor, clinging to each other and mourning the boy who was alive but had almost been lost forever.

And somewhere inside all that wreckage, Lance made a silent vow:
I’m going to find him.
I’m going to fix this.
I’m going to love him better than I ever did before.
No matter what it took.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
That night, after Ronnie finally cried herself to sleep — curled on the couch with tissues littered all around her — Lance sat there in the dark for a long time.
The truth clawed at his insides.
Keith was alive.
Keith was doing okay.
But Keith had almost been gone — because of pain Lance hadn't seen, or maybe refused to see.
And now?
Now Lance wanted to run across the world, find him, throw himself at his feet if he had to.

But what if...
What if Keith didn’t want to see him?
What if Keith had fought so hard to heal, only for Lance's face to rip the scars wide open again?
What if the person Keith had once loved was the last person he wanted anywhere near him now?
Lance buried his face in his hands, his heart pounding out an awful rhythm of fear.
You don't deserve him, a vicious voice whispered.
You never did.

By midnight, Lance couldn’t sit still anymore.
He texted Hunk:
Bro you up? Need you. Pls.
It didn’t even take a minute for Hunk to reply:
Door’s open.

Twenty minutes later, Lance was slumped over Hunk’s kitchen island, knocking back shots of something suspiciously strong and very, very illegal-looking.
"Whoa, slow down, man," Hunk said, wincing as he poured him another shot anyway. "This stuff’s supposed to peel paint off walls, not your liver."
"I need it," Lance mumbled, his voice thick. "I—I found out some things. About Keith."
Hunk didn’t say anything. Just leaned on the counter and let Lance talk.
It all spilled out in broken pieces — Keith’s suicide attempt, the therapy, the grief, the guilt. Lance’s ugly fear that he was too late, that he'd already missed his chance.
Hunk didn’t interrupt.

He just kept refilling the glass and sliding plates of food in front of Lance.
By the time Lance was sprawled on the couch, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, Hunk was sitting beside him, arm slung over his shoulders.
"You still love him," Hunk said simply.
Like it wasn’t even a question.
Lance let out a wet laugh.
"I never stopped."
Hunk smiled sadly and ruffled his hair.
"You'll figure it out, bro. You always do."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A few days later, something shifted.
Lance was lazily scrolling through his phone, half-dazed, when Ronnie burst into his apartment waving her phone like a maniac.
"HE OPENED AN INSTAGRAM!" she shrieked.
Lance sat bolt upright. "WHO?!"
"KEITH, YOU IDIOT!"
Lance grabbed her phone out of her hand so fast he almost knocked it across the room. His heart was hammering.
Sure enough —

@keith.k — a new account, barely a few posts but gaining followers fast.
It was like someone had punched Lance right in the stomach.
He’s real.
He’s here.
He’s okay.
Immediately, Lance made a burner account — something stupid like @totallynotlance123 — and hit the follow button.
He wasn’t about to scare Keith off by being that guy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Over the next few weeks, stalking Keith became...routine.
Every morning: Check Keith’s stories.
Every night: Scroll through Keith’s feed.
During the day: Rewatch all the videos Lotor posted of them because, apparently, Lotor was a Keith fanboy and posted Keith way more than Keith did himself.
It turned out Lotor — yes, Allura’s Lotor — was signed under Keith’s tiny label.
(Confirmed with Allura after some extremely awkward, panicked texting.)

Keith wasn’t just surviving.
He was thriving.
Managing new groups, promoting young artists, even dancing and doing karaoke nights.
Lance saw him laughing in videos, blushing when Lotor shoved the camera in his face, holding up new merch with a proud little smile.
And God.
He was beautiful.
He looked a little younger, a little sharper around the edges, his hair was longer down to the middle of his back but his smile still made Lance's heart feel too big for his chest.

One night, Lance was innocently scrolling when Lotor posted a new video that nearly gave Lance a goddamn heart attack.
It started with Axca cackling behind the camera.
"You lost the bet, boys," she said gleefully.
Then it cut to —
Keith.
Standing outside.
In the snow.

Wearing nothing but a tiny red bikini, oversized furry boots, sunglasses, and a deadpan expression like he was contemplating homicide.
Next to him, Lotor was posing dramatically in a white bikini, matching boots, blowing kisses to the camera.
The caption read:
Kendall Jenner challenge but make it ICONIC ❄️🔥 #SnowBabes
Lance almost dropped his phone.
Then he snatched it back up and zoomed in like a psycho.

Keith’s skin was practically glowing against the snow, toned arms crossed over his chest, looking like he wanted to kill everyone but still managing to be...ridiculously, stupidly hot.
Lance slapped a hand over his face.
"Oh my God," he groaned out loud, laying back dramatically on his bed. "I'm never recovering from this."
He had to stop.
He really did.
But five minutes later, he was staring again, heart in his throat, watching Keith throw a snowball at Lotor’s head in slow motion.

God, I love you, Lance thought, clutching his phone like a lifeline.
Too scared to reach out.
Too scared to shatter whatever peace Keith had finally found.
So he stayed quiet.
And watched.
And hoped.

That maybe, one day, Keith would be ready to see him again.
And when he was...
Lance would be there.
Waiting.
Always.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The snow was absolutely freezing against Keith’s bare feet, even with the ridiculous furry boots Axca had shoved at him.
He stood outside, arms crossed over his chest, shivering slightly, wearing a tiny, blazing red bikini that clashed violently with the winter landscape.
"This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done," Keith muttered under his breath.
"Correction," Lotor said cheerfully, adjusting his own white bikini and striking a pose, "this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done with me. You're welcome."
Axca cackled behind the camera.
"Alright, models! Give me fierce! Give me dangerous!" she teased, snapping shot after shot.

Surprisingly, Keith...actually started posing.
Maybe it was the absurdity of it. Maybe it was the way Axca kept shouting "SERVE!!" at them like a deranged fashion photographer.
Either way, Keith tilted his chin up, narrowed his eyes, and gave the camera a look so smoldering it could have melted the snow around him.
Lotor whistled low.
"Bro, you're gonna break the internet."
Keith snorted and flipped him off — in a very aesthetically pleasing way, of course — just in time for Axca to catch the shot.

When they posted the pictures later, it exploded.
Lotor’s likes hit numbers he'd never seen before.
The comments were a chaotic mess of screaming fans, new followers flooding in, and an unhealthy amount of thirst tweets.
Keith’s tag?
Even worse.
"You’re welcome," Axca said smugly, scrolling through the endless notifications.

Keith just grumbled and shoved his face into Kosmo’s fur.
Meanwhile, back at the studio, Lotor’s album was finally coming together in a way that made Keith’s chest swell with pride.
It wasn’t just good.
It was incredible.
Raw and glittery, fierce and aching — every song layered with emotion.

Keith could see it in Lotor too: a new confidence, a glow that hadn’t been there before.
They were prepping hard to go back to America for the big promotional tour and the listening party.
Lotor was buzzing with nerves, pacing around the office, making panicked lists.
"What if nobody shows up?" he fretted, stuffing his face with cookies.
"They will," Keith said calmly, tapping away on his laptop.
"You're about to take over the world, you idiot. Chill."
Kosmo barked in agreement, tail wagging.

Axca, perched on the couch, was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Americaaa! Here we come! Y’all better be ready for us!"
Keith was excited too, though he kept it tucked quietly behind his usual blank expressions.
The idea of seeing Shiro and Adam again — his family — made his chest ache in the best way.
He missed them.
God, he missed them so much.
Kosmo would be thrilled too — he hadn't seen Adam since he was a puppy.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A few days before they were scheduled to leave, something unexpected happened.
Lance — Lance McClain, international heartthrob, certified idiot, still devastatingly handsome — casually posted on his main Instagram:
"Been obsessed with these new K-pop groups lately. Whoever’s managing them? Genius stuff. 🔥"
He didn’t tag Keith.
He didn’t even mention Keith.
But it wasn’t hard for people to figure it out.
The comment section blew up, fans connecting the dots — and suddenly, Keith’s groups were gaining crazy attention.

Keith found out because Axca ran into his office, waving her phone and yelling, "WE'RE VIRAL, BABY!"
At first, Keith thought she was exaggerating.
But then he saw it.
Lance’s post.
His heart did something painful and stupid inside his chest.
He didn’t know why he did it.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was some part of him that hadn't fully healed.

But that night, curled up in bed with Kosmo asleep at his feet, Keith found himself opening Lance’s Instagram.
No burner account.
No comments.
Just...looking.
Lance was still Lance — dumb jokes, gorgeous selfies, goofy videos with friends.
He looked good.
Really good.
Keith’s thumb hovered over the like button more than once, but he never pressed it.

Instead, he switched over and checked Ronnie’s page too —
laughing quietly when he saw a photo of her flipping off the camera with a birthday cake smeared across her face.
He still cared.
Even if he didn’t want to.
Even if it hurt.
Keith sighed and locked his phone, pressing it to his chest.
Kosmo whined softly and curled closer, sensing his mood.

Maybe...
Maybe he wasn’t as ready to move on as he thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The pink jet gleamed under the afternoon sun like some ridiculous, gaudy fever dream.
It was pink.
Like, unapologetically, aggressively pink — and massive, with the royal emblem of Planet Lotor (okay, technically his family crest but Keith refused to call it that) printed in elegant gold on the tail.
Axca stood on the tarmac, jaw practically dislocating from how wide it dropped.
She adjusted her sunglasses and just said, flatly, "I’ve made terrible life choices up until now."
Lotor strolled past her, sunglasses on, dragging his designer luggage like he was strutting a runway.

"You're welcome."
Inside, the jet was even worse — or better, depending on your soul's capacity for drama.
Crushed velvet seats, gold fixtures, champagne already chilling in ice buckets. A full dessert spread laid out like they were royalty about to conquer a foreign land.
Axca wasted no time plopping down into a plush seat and pouring herself a glass of champagne.
She took one sip, let out a long, delighted sigh, and declared, "This is my life now. I’m never going back."
Keith snorted and shook his head, Kosmo happily bouncing onto the seat next to him, tail wagging furiously.

The dog had a little travel vest and everything — Keith had insisted. (It was pink, naturally.)
Kinkade, lounging across from him with a laptop perched on his knees, grinned.
"Honestly? Same. I'm gonna fake marry Lotor for the jet access."
"You'd be lucky," Lotor sniffed, flopping into a seat with exaggerated drama.
"True love is expensive."
The laughter filled the cabin, warm and easy, and for a few hours — soaring miles above the world — everything felt light again.

Landing in America was a different kind of high.
Shiro and Adam were waiting for them at the private terminal, waving like maniacs.
Keith spotted them the second they stepped off the plane and his whole body lit up from the inside out.
He let Kosmo lead the charge, the dog bolting across the polished floors and launching into Adam’s arms with frantic barks.

Keith followed, barely restraining himself before throwing himself into Shiro’s hug.
"Welcome home, kiddo," Shiro murmured, voice rough with emotion.
Keith hugged him tighter.
It felt like breathing after being underwater for too long.

~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next few days were a whirlwind of planning.
Between prepping for Lotor’s mini-concert/listening party, adjusting to the time zone, and making sure Kosmo didn’t destroy Adam’s house, Keith barely had time to sleep.
But it was worth it.
Because Lotor wasn’t just doing a basic showcase.
He was doing something different.
They were stripping the songs back, performing acoustic versions — raw, emotional, honest.

Real instruments, no flashy effects.
And, to Keith’s horror, Lotor had somehow convinced him to perform live.
"Just for one song!" Lotor pleaded, hands clasped dramatically like he was begging for his life.
"You and Kinkade — acoustic, chill, vibey. I need you, Keith. You wrote half this album with me!"
Keith, who had never in his life performed anything live, wanted to die.

He agreed anyway, because Lotor looked so earnest it hurt.
(And okay, maybe because Kinkade kept giving him those puppy eyes too.)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Somewhere in the chaos of rehearsals, Lotor sat down and sent an invitation to Allura.
A long, heartfelt message.
An apology for how immature he’d been before, for pushing her away when she didn’t deserve it.
He told her he wrote a special song just for her, and he hoped she'd come — even if it was just to yell at him in person.
To his immense relief, Allura replied within an hour:

I'll come. But I'm bringing a friend. Hope you don't mind. 😉
Lotor didn't even blink.
"Bring whoever you want," he typed back immediately, grinning like an idiot.
He didn’t ask who the friend was.
He probably should have.

Meanwhile, Lance — oblivious to all the plans quietly unfolding — kept up his new nightly ritual.
Checking Keith's Instagram, flipping through the posts Lotor and Axca shared of the trip.
He nearly fell off his bed when Lotor posted a new set of photos:
Keith, wrapped up in a huge hoodie and jeans at rehearsal, guitar slung over his back, looking like some indie rock prince.
Another shot had Keith and Kinkade harmonizing in the studio, laughing over something stupid.

The casual intimacy of it punched Lance straight in the heart.
And somehow, somehow, the worst one was a short clip of Keith — still in that stupid hoodie — dancing backstage with Kosmo trying to jump into his arms.
Keith was laughing.
Really laughing.
And Lance, halfway across the city, stared at his screen and realized he was smiling back.

Chapter Text

Allura’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. She barely glanced at it—until she caught the name flashing across the screen: Lotor.
Her heart stopped.
Without thinking, she snatched the phone up. It was a message. Short. Hesitant.
"I’m sorry. I miss you. I hope you’re okay. I’m having a listening party there’s a song I really want you to hear. Please come"
Allura stared at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something safer. Something easier to ignore.

She set the phone down. Picked it up again.
Paced. Sat. Stood.
"Ugh!" she groaned aloud, raking a hand through her hair. "You stupid, beautiful fool."
Memories hit her like a truck: Lotor, arms crossed, brow furrowed, insisting she had a crush on every single male acquaintance; Lotor scowling at her modeling photos, muttering under his breath about "how everyone looks at you"; Lotor making up the dumbest excuses to show up wherever she was just to "check in."
So full of jealousy. So fragile inside, even when he looked so put together.
"Dammit," Allura muttered, grabbing her phone again. Her thumb hovered over the call button.

No.
Yes.
No.
She needed backup. She needed someone stupid and reckless enough to tell her to do whatever her heart wanted, consequences be damned.
She called Lance.
It rang once before he picked up, already laughing. "What'd you break now?"
"Lance," she snapped, "this is serious!"
"Okay, okay," he said, voice still a little teasing. "What's up?"

"Lotor texted me," she blurted. "He apologized. Out of nowhere! I don't know what to do! Should I text back? Should I call? Should I ignore him? Should I move to another country?"
Lance barked out a laugh. "Wow, you're spiraling fast. First off, breathe. Second off, didn’t you tell me Lotor has the emotional intelligence of a soggy salad?"
"Exactly!" she hissed. "Which means this is not normal!" She dropped onto her couch dramatically. "He's never apologized first. Ever."
"So maybe he’s actually trying?" Lance pointed out. "Like... for once? Doesn't that mean something?"
Allura groaned, covering her face. "I hate when you're the voice of reason."
"I hate it too, honestly," Lance said cheerfully. "Feels wrong."

She laughed in spite of herself. "...I want to see him."
"Then go!" Lance said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "You’re allowed to want stuff, ‘Lura."
"Will you come with me?" she blurted, before she could second guess it. "You said you wanted to see Keith, right? Even if you just… look at him from across the room like some tragic Victorian widow?"
There was a beat of silence. Then Lance wheezed laughing. "That’s the most pathetic image I’ve ever heard but—yes. Absolutely yes. I'll even bring a black lace veil if it gets dramatic enough."
Allura smiled, a little breathless now. "Okay. Okay. We’ll go together."
"Ride or die," Lance said solemnly. "Mostly die."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"We’re NOT doing a whole arena thing," Keith said firmly, arms crossed as he watched Lotor pace around the tiny studio.
"Not an arena," Lotor huffed. "*A boutique experience." He made air quotes. "Intimate. Exclusive. Trendy."
Keith raised a brow. "You just made that up."
"Marketing is ninety percent bullshit," Lotor said proudly. "Anyway, it’s perfect. I'll do an acoustic set first—super raw, super emotional—" he mimed strumming a guitar dramatically, "—then halfway through, you and Kinkade take over."
Keith grimaced. "You're sure about that?"

"Duh. 'Safety Net' is amazing," Lotor said. "And you and Kinkade have—" he wiggled his eyebrows, "—great chemistry."
Keith rolled his eyes. "We’re friends, not a romance novel."
"Tell that to anyone who’s seen you two rehearse," Lotor said dryly. "Kinkade looks at you like you're the last donut in the box."
Keith flushed, tossing a crumpled paper ball at him. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying!" Lotor said, laughing. "Anyway, after that, I'll come back, finish the set, then we switch to studio versions while I mingle. Easy. Cool. Hip. Very main pop boy behavior."
Keith leaned against the wall, smiling despite himself. "You’re insane."

"I'm a visionary," Lotor corrected. "Now come on, we need to run through your set. Kinkade's already waiting."
Keith pushed off the wall, his stomach fluttering slightly.
He hadn’t told anyone yet, but singing 'Safety Net'—especially that soft, yearning chorus—felt dangerously close to ripping open old wounds.
He shook it off.

Tonight was about Lotor.
Not about the ghosts Keith couldn’t quite let go of.
He followed Lotor down the hall, not noticing the way Lotor watched him—with a glint of concern—and a tiny smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The day of the party, Allura paced her living room like a woman possessed.
She clutched her phone in one manicured hand, biting her thumbnail, as Lance stormed in and immediately flung himself onto her couch in a groan of pure anguish.
"I can't go," he declared dramatically, flopping face-down into a throw pillow.
"You’re going," Allura said immediately, without even looking at him.

"I shouldn't." Lance's voice was muffled but still ridiculously loud. "What if I just ruin his night? What if he sees me and immediately has a breakdown? What if my FACE causes him physical pain?"
"I sincerely doubt your face has ever caused anyone pain—except maybe by being too pretty," Allura muttered, finally sitting down with a thump. "God, we're pathetic."
"We're disasters," Lance agreed.
They stared at each other for a long beat.
And then they both got up and went to the liquor cabinet at the same time without a word.

Several Shots Later
"Okay—," Lance slurred slightly, waving a vodka shot around, "—but seriously. Outfit check. Emergency outfit check. Top-level crisis, Allura."
He had already changed five times.
Currently, he wore a deep purple silk shirt half-buttoned over his chest, tailored black pants, and polished boots.
It was a solid look. He looked like he belonged on a rooftop album party with beautiful people.
But Lance was spiraling.

He sprinted back to her guest room and threw on another outfit: a boxy purple blazer with nothing underneath but a delicate chain necklace.
"Hot or try-hard?" he demanded, standing in the doorway.
"Hot," Allura said immediately.
Then: "But maybe button one more button unless you want Keith to pass out."

Lance groaned, tugging at his hair. "Maybe I want him to pass out. Then he can't be mad at me."
Allura laughed a little too hard. "God, I wish Lotor would pass out. Maybe then I wouldn't be dying inside."
They locked eyes.
A long, wobbly silence.
"Another shot?" Lance offered weakly.
"Another shot," Allura agreed.
They clinked glasses and knocked them back.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Back at the rooftop earlier that day, chaos reigned.
"You’re off key!" Lotor snapped, pointing dramatically at Kinkade.
"You're wearing CROCS," Kinkade retorted, kicking one purple croc-clad foot in Lotor’s direction.
"They are fashionable and efficient!" Lotor barked.
Keith just groaned into his hands.

"We're gonna die," he mumbled. "I'm gonna get up there and forget the lyrics and fall off the stage and die and they'll put 'he was hot but a dumbass' on my tombstone."
"A flattering epitaph," Lotor said airily. "But we will not let it come to that."
"Speak for yourself," Kinkade said, plucking at his bass guitar with a smirk.
Keith huffed out a weak laugh despite himself.

His stomach was a riot of nerves—but underneath it, a tiny, flickering excitement.
He hadn't performed in front people ever in his life. And never something this personal.
He tugged at his purple gloves, checking the fit for the millionth time.
Across the rooftop, the crew was still setting up fairy lights, adjusting sound levels, taping down cables. The energy was pure, buzzing chaos.
"Keith," Lotor said suddenly, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. "You’re ready. You just don’t know it yet."
Keith looked at him, wide-eyed, and for once, didn’t argue.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Allura’s driver in her black S.U.V with tinted windows whisked them toward the rooftop venue.
Both of them were vibrating with nerves, practically sweating pure anxiety.
"We’re just there to...support," Allura said, voice tight. "We’ll blend into the background. We’ll clap politely. No drama. Zero drama."
"Zero drama," Lance echoed, fidgeting with his sleeves.
They pulled up.

The rooftop glittered above them—music, laughter, the golden shimmer of lights against the deep violet night.
Lance sucked in a deep breath, then turned to Allura. "You ready?"
"Not even remotely," she said. "But you’re not going alone."
They squeezed each other's hands tightly before stepping out into the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The rooftop was a dream.
Strings of golden lights hung from sleek silver poles, casting a warm, dappled glow across the velvet purple couches and low glass tables. A simple, polished stage had been set up at one end, just a vintage mic, a small acoustic band, and a gleaming purple grand piano off to the side.
Everything was stripped back—no giant screens, no pyrotechnics, no flashing spotlights.
It was pure intimacy.

The dress code was clear: purple.
"The color of royalty, rebirth, and dangerously stupid decisions made in the name of love," Lotor had announced dramatically in the group chat.
Keith... looked unfair.
He wore a two-piece outfit: tight, high-waisted purple pants that clung like second skin, paired with a tiny sleeveless crop top that bared his lean stomach and showcased the sharp cut of his waist. Purple opera gloves ran up his arms nearly to his shoulders. His hair had been styled into soft, glossy waves that fell all the way to the middle of his back.
He looked wild, free, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Lotor, of course, looked like he was born for this.
He started the night in a sheer deep violet blouse with dramatic billowing sleeves, tucked into lilac glitter-trimmed trousers. His silver hair had been braided back into an intricate crown braid, tiny amethyst crystals woven through the strands.
For his second outfit—planned for the show's later half—he would wear a sleeveless, dark plum velvet vest with fine embroidery along the seams, matching dark trousers, and a heavy black cape pinned dramatically to one shoulder.
(Of course he'd have a cape.)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Lotor sauntered onto the stage, barefoot, a crystal earpiece nestled neatly in one ear.
He adjusted the vintage mic, flashing a roguish smile that made more than a few people lean forward instinctively.
"Welcome," he said softly, voice sliding over the rooftop like silk. "Welcome to 'Venus in Retrograde.'"
There was a soft ripple of laughter through the guests, but it quickly fell into quiet as he continued.

"This album," he said, one hand resting against his chest, "is about falling in love. About the parts that terrify you. About how it breaks you open, and then rebuilds you stronger."
A soft snap of his fingers, and the first notes of acoustic guitar trickled into the air.
From the first song, it was obvious:
Lotor was built for this.
His voice floated effortlessly—elegant, raw, soulful. Even without the heavy production he usually loved, his natural extravagance bled through: hand flourishes, dramatic pauses, the slight quirk of his mouth when he hit a particularly devastating lyric.

But nothing hit harder than the moment he introduced a new song, one he hadn't previewed on any social media:
"For the one person who ever saw me. All of me."
The crowd stilled.
And then he sang.
It was vulnerable, breathless, aching—
A song about wanting to be seen the way someone else saw you. About not believing you could possibly deserve it, and needing them anyway. About being terrified to let yourself be loved.
The chorus soared:

I wanna love me (ooh)
The way that you love me (ooh)
Ooh, for all of my pretty and all of my ugly too
I'd love to see me from your point of view
I wanna trust me (trust me)
The way that you trust me (trust me)
Ooh, 'cause nobody ever loved me like you do
I'd love to see me from your point of view

As soon as the first verse hit, Allura froze.
Her hand tightened around the stem of her champagne glass, and her breath caught painfully in her throat.
It was her.
It was undeniably about her.

The way she had loved him without flinching, even when he showed her the messy, broken pieces. Even when he hadn’t believed he deserved it.
She didn't move. Couldn't breathe.
The words washed over her like a confession Lotor had never been able to speak before.
Across the table, Lance gave a low whistle. "...Holy shit."
Allura blinked hard, trying to discreetly wipe her eyes, but Lance saw it—and for once, said nothing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
After the emotional gut-punch of Lotor’s first half, he made a showy bow and flashed a wink to the crowd.
"Now," he said, "I hand the stage over to two artists who remind me why falling in love is worth all the chaos."
The lights dipped into a soft purple glow, and the first dreamy chords of "Safety Net" floated through the air.
Keith stepped onto the stage alongside Kinkade, his purple crop top shimmering slightly under the string lights.

He adjusted the mic with a small, almost shy smile—then he opened his mouth and sang.
And Lance forgot how to breathe.
Keith's voice was raspy, delicate, and heartbreakingly vulnerable, each note spilling out like something torn straight from his chest.
There was a beautiful, raw tone underneath—pure and aching and honest—and it wrapped around the rooftop like a whispered secret.
The song had been co-written by Keith and Kinkade.

Keith had written it about Lance , when he'd first fallen for Lance and had no idea what to do with the fear clawing at his ribs.
Falling, without knowing if anyone would catch him.

You know you're really something, yeah
How we get here so damn fast?
Only you could tell me that
Baby, 'cause you know I'm coming back
You're making me forget my past
Never thought I'd feel like that ,again
I came to peace with my path
Now you got me off track
I've never been this scared before
Feelings I just can't ignore
Don't know if I should fight or fly
But I don't mind
Tripping, falling with no safety net
Boy, it must be something that you said
Is it real this time or is it in my head?
Got me tripping, falling with no safety net

Lance stared, slack-jawed.
He had never heard Keith sing before.
Never imagined he could sound like this.
And the chemistry between Keith and Kinkade was... a lot.
They smiled at each other during the chorus, swaying gently to the beat, their voices twining together so naturally it almost hurt to watch.

Lance's stomach twisted sharply.
He knew it was just a performance—but the way they looked at each other made his chest ache.
"He really is something." Allura said softly beside him.
Lance said nothing, gripping the edge of the table.
When Keith finished the last delicate run and the rooftop exploded in cheers and applause, Keith laughed, breathless and overwhelmed, as Kinkade slung an arm around his shoulders.
They jogged offstage, the tension crackling in the air behind them like static.

Backstage
Lotor, already in his second outfit—the velvet vest and cape ensemble—grinned at Keith.
"You’re a star, darling," he said grandly, tossing him a bottle of water.
Keith just shook his head, pink-cheeked, and flopped into a backstage couch. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're magnificent," Lotor said sincerely, eyes twinkling.
He paused, smoothing down the velvet of his vest.
"Now watch me steal back my spotlight."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The small crowd — influencers, musicians, friends, and a few lucky fans — loved it.
There was a warm, electric buzz in the air.
Keith was too nervous to look at them.
He hovered near the back, hiding with Axca, Shiro, and Adam.
(Okay, not hiding, he told himself. Just... casually lurking.)

"You killed it," Axca said, nudging his shoulder. "They loved you."
"I didn’t even look at them," Keith mumbled, tugging at his purple gloves.
"Better that way," Adam said with a grin. "Mystery. Very rockstar of you."
Keith cracked a small, wobbly smile. He still had no idea that Lance was out there somewhere, heart hammering against his ribs after hearing Keith sing for the very first time.
Across the rooftop, Lotor was already working the crowd like a born star.

He floated from group to group, complimenting everyone’s outfits, laughing too loudly, knocking back champagne with increasing desperation.
And then, like a vulture sensing weakness, Nyma appeared.
She was as stunning as ever — all glittering purple mini-dress, legs for days, and a pout that could kill.
She air-kissed Lotor with all the warmth of a cat about to swat a mouse.
"Darling, it’s been too long," she purred.

Lotor smiled tightly. "Nyma. Still terrorizing the greater fashion industry, I see."
She laughed like he hadn’t just insulted her. "You know me. Always leaving a mark." Her eyes glittered — and not kindly.
They were frenemies to the core. Always had been. Always would be.
Lotor knocked back another flute of champagne.
Keith quickly looked away, heart pounding.
"You okay?" Axca asked.
"Fine," Keith lied.

But he wasn't.
Especially not when he spotted Nyma — all legs and glitter and lipstick — slinking through the crowd.
Keith stiffened.
Nyma.
Lance's ex.
He remembered the first real fight he'd had with Lance — back when they'd still been figuring each other out — all because of a too-cozy Instagram photo with her.
Keith had hated the way that insecurity had felt in his chest.
Now, seeing her again, laughing too brightly with strangers, Keith swallowed hard.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance finally managed to slip away from the crowd, pushing open the balcony door and sucking in the fresh air.
He leaned heavily on the railing, trying to center himself.
Tonight had already been too much.
Hearing Keith sing — raw and gorgeous and aching — had cracked something inside him he wasn’t ready to look at yet.
He inhaled deeply.
Counted to ten.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "You can do this. Just leave quietly. No drama."
He turned to go back inside, pushing through the side door—
THUMP.
He collided hard with someone.
"Shit—"
"Ow—"
Lance stumbled back — and blinked down into wide purple eyes.
Keith.

Keith, flushed from the cold, hair softly waving around his face, dressed head-to-toe in a deep purple two-piece outfit that hugged every beautiful curve.
Lance looked at him like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
Lance froze.
So did Keith.
They stared at each other, caught in that fragile, breathless moment.
Neither spoke first — it was like their hearts had slammed into each other faster than their bodies had.
And then—

"KEIIIIITHHHH!"
Lotor came stumbling out of the party, still in his second outfit change — a glittering purple velvet suit with dramatic shoulder pads and silver boots.
He looked dazzling. And drunk.
Lotor threw an arm around Keith’s shoulders, not noticing Lance yet.
"I need you, darling," he slurred. "I need moral support. Should I tell Allura she’s perfect now or later?"
Keith grimaced. "Maybe later. Like... tomorrow later."

Lotor blinked at him dramatically, then finally noticed Lance standing there.
He squinted.
Paused.
Then leaned into Keith's ear — except he was drunk, so it came out more of a stage whisper everyone could hear:
"Wait... is that the peasant?"
Keith smacked a hand over Lotor’s mouth, mortified.

Lance choked on a laugh.
Before the situation could get even worse, Allura appeared, sweeping onto the balcony like a vision of calm in a storm.
"Lotor," she said sweetly, dangerously, "come with me, darling."
"Allura!" Lotor gasped, clutching his chest like a bad actor. "You came for me!"
She wrapped an arm firmly around his waist and started guiding him away.
"Keith deserves to be WORSHIPED!!!" Lotor shouted back over his shoulder.
Keith groaned into his hands.

Lance lost it, laughing so hard he had to lean against the doorframe, his body shaking.
Keith peeked at him, cheeks pink but smiling, the corners of his mouth tugging up despite himself.
"Peasant, huh?" Lance said between chuckles, wiping at his eyes.
"Apparently," Keith said with a helpless shrug, the soft light from the balcony glinting off his long lashes. "At least you're a high-earning one."
They laughed again — this time quieter, warmer — the kind of laughter that faded into a shared, lingering smile.
For a second, it was just them.

No past mistakes. No heavy silences. Just them.
The buzz of the party behind them felt distant, muffled, like the world had blurred away around the edges.
It settled into something soft and a little sad between them — a reminder of everything they'd been and everything they hadn't managed to hold onto.
Lance shifted a little, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket.
His chest felt too tight, like there wasn’t enough room for everything he wanted to say.
After a beat, he cleared his throat.

"How’ve you been, Keith?" he asked, voice low and careful, like if he said it too loud the moment might shatter.
Keith met his gaze — ocean blue meeting amethyst purple — and Lance swore the ground tilted just slightly under his feet.
"Good," Keith said after a beat, voice honest but gentle. "Busy. Tired. You know. Life."
He gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile.
"You?" Keith asked, a quiet softness coloring the question — like he genuinely wanted to know.

"Same," Lance said, the word catching in his throat. "Busy. Tired. Pretending I know what I'm doing."
Keith chuckled — a real, surprised little sound that made Lance’s heart twist painfully in his chest.
"You always figured it out," Keith said, nudging him lightly with his shoulder.
It was such a small thing — such a Keith thing — but it made Lance blink hard, the burn of emotion stinging behind his eyes.
He hadn’t realized until this moment just how much he’d missed this.

Missed Keith.
Missed them.
"It's..." Lance started, then shook his head, laughing quietly. "It's really good to see you."
Keith's smile wobbled slightly.
"Yeah," he said, voice thick with something unsaid. "You too."
For a heartbeat, it felt like maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to each other.
And then—

"KEITH!"
Axca’s voice cracked through the moment like a whip.
They both startled, glancing toward the door where Axca stood looking exasperated and wildly out of breath.
"Kinkade broke another mic stand. Emergency meeting," she huffed.
Keith let out a tiny, almost apologetic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Duty calls," he said, giving Lance a small, reluctant smile that did dangerous things to Lance's already fragile heart.
"Some things never change," Lance teased lightly, trying to ignore the sudden emptiness clawing at him.
Keith hesitated for half a second — like maybe he wanted to stay — and then he turned and disappeared inside, leaving Lance alone with the cold night air and his heart thundering too loudly in his chest.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Allura had dragged Lotor into a quieter room — one of the rooftop's side lounges — and was now trying to make him sip water.
"Drink," she said firmly.
"I don’t deserve you," Lotor moaned, tipping his head back dramatically.
"No," Allura said dryly. "You really don't."
Lotor stared at her with wide, shiny eyes.
"I'm sorry," he blurted. "For being an idiot. For hurting you. For drinking too much. For everything."

Allura’s heart twisted painfully.
Even drunk, he meant it.
She sighed, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead.
"You’re an idiot," she murmured. "But you’re my idiot."
Lotor slumped against her shoulder, and she steadied him, laughing quietly.

She shot a quick text to Lance:
"Leaving with Lotor. Wish me luck. 🙃"
Then she helped him to the elevator, already mentally preparing herself for whatever confession-fueled chaos awaited her tonight.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith slipped back into the party, the bass from the speakers vibrating faintly under his boots, but it all sounded muffled — like he was underwater.
He barely registered Axca chattering beside him about the mic stand crisis. His heart was still beating too loud, too fast, drowning everything else out.
He gripped the doorframe for a second, grounding himself.
Lance.

He had actually seen Lance.
And somehow — impossibly, unfairly — Lance looked even better than he remembered.
Sharp jawline, a little stubble, messy hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it a thousand times tonight.
Those blue, blue eyes — the same ones that used to look at him like he hung the stars — had caught him so off-guard Keith had almost forgotten how to breathe.
And that laugh.
God, that laugh.
Keith had missed it like missing oxygen.

He'd done everything — everything — to pack those feelings away neatly.
To move forward.
To survive.
But seeing Lance again had been like lighting a match in a room full of fireworks.
Every buried feeling exploded all at once.
The way Lance smiled, a little sad around the edges.
The way he still teased Keith so easily.

The way he asked "How’ve you been?" like he actually cared.
It was too much.
It was everything.
Keith felt like he was walking around with no skin, raw and exposed, every nerve ending lit up.
He stumbled through the crowd mechanically, catching sight of Axca waving frantically at Kinkade in the corner, Shiro laughing at something Adam said — but none of it fully registered.
Because Lance was here.
And Keith still cared.
More than he had any right to.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance stayed out on the balcony a few minutes longer, gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
The city lights stretched out below him, blurred and bright.
The cool air bit at his cheeks — or maybe that was the flush he couldn't shake.
He had seen Keith.
After everything, after all this time.

And he was still so beautiful it hurt.
The soft waves of his long hair, that ridiculous tiny crop top, the way the purple gloves clung to his delicate fingers —
And those eyes.
That impossible violet.
Lance had caught glimpses of Keith online — news clips, photos from events — but none of it, none of it had prepared him for being this close again.
Keith had always been beautiful, but now he was...
Glowing.

Confident and stunning and somehow still a little shy underneath it all.
Lance had been terrified to come tonight — terrified of hurting Keith more just by showing up — but one look, one laugh, and it was like no time had passed at all.
It broke something in him.
And yet... it also stitched something back together, just a little.
Hearing Keith laugh, hearing him say "It's good to see you" in that soft voice — it felt like sunlight breaking through after months of gray.
He hadn't even realized how much he missed Keith until that moment hit him like a freight train.

Lance swallowed hard, pushing off the railing.
He wasn't sure what would happen next.
If they'd talk more.
If they'd even could.
But he knew one thing:
He still loved him.
Maybe he always had.
Maybe he always would.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The rooftop buzzed around them — low conversations, clinking glasses, music humming through the open air — but Lance barely noticed any of it.
Not when Keith was here.
Not when he kept stealing glances across the room — and catching Keith doing the same.
Keith would look away almost immediately, cheeks pink and mouth pressed into that familiar, adorable line, but Lance caught him every time.
It was like there was a thread between them, invisible but unbreakable, pulling them back into each other's orbit.
Nyma, of course, was trying her best to wedge herself between Lance and reality.

She flounced around in a tiny, glittery dress that screamed "Look at me!" — laughing a little too loud, touching Lance's arm whenever she could — but it was like he had a force field up.
He barely glanced at her, polite but distant.
It didn’t help that across the room, Shiro kept shooting Lance the kind of death glares that could level cities.
The big brother energy was vicious.
Axca, sensing something was off, leaned closer to Keith and murmured, "Okay, seriously...who is he to you?"

Keith sighed, watching Lance with a kind of small, aching fondness.
"He's... the ex," he said softly, finally confirming what Axca was starting to figure out.
Axca's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh."
She backed off immediately, suddenly very, very interested in adjusting the nearest lighting fixture.
Shiro, still glaring, started to push off the wall toward Lance, but Keith reached out and caught his arm.
"Trust me," Keith said quietly. "Please. I can handle it."

Shiro hesitated... then nodded once, stiffly, before retreating to join Adam at the bar.
Keith crossed the floor slowly, weaving between groups of guests until he found Lance standing by the railing, a glass of something golden in his hand.
"Hey," Keith said.
Lance turned, smiling — real, not forced.
"Hey yourself."
For a moment, they just stood there, bathed in the soft city light.
"I heard about your mom," Keith said, voice low and rough. "I... I'm so sorry, Lance.As late as it is."
Lance blinked hard, throat tightening.

"Thanks," he said, voice thick.
Keith looked down, fiddling with the purple glove still half on his hand.
"I wanted to reach out," he admitted. "I did. But... I was going through a lot too. I didn't think I had the right."
He didn’t elaborate — and he didn’t have to.
Lance knew.
The pain between them didn’t need words.
"You’re here now," Lance said softly.
Keith gave him a small, crooked smile.
"Yeah."

Another beat of heavy silence stretched between them — full of all the things they weren't saying.
Finally, Keith exhaled and said, "I do have one favor to ask, though. If that's okay."
Lance nodded, shifting closer.
Keith chuckled, a little self-deprecating.
"I’m too much of a coward to do it myself. But could you... could you tell Ronnie I’m sorry? For everything?"
Lance smiled — a real, aching thing.
"You’re not a coward," he said gently. "And yeah. I’ll tell her."

Keith looked up at him, violet eyes shining, and for a second Lance thought — Maybe.
But then Keith took a tiny step back.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
It felt final.
But also... not really.
Because something in Keith’s eyes still lingered.
Because something in Lance’s heart still hoped.

They shared a long, last look — full of history, heartbreak, love — and then Keith turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Lance stayed rooted to the spot, heart thundering.
This wasn’t the end.
He knew it wasn’t.
He’d lost Keith once.
He wasn’t going to lose him again.

But tonight wasn’t the time.
Tonight was just the beginning.
Lance took a deep breath, slipping his phone out to check the new text blinking at him from Allura:
Leaving with Lotor. Don't wait up. 😉
He snorted, pocketed it, and turned his eyes back to the party.
The game had just started.
And Lance McClain?
He played to win.

Chapter Text

Thank you so much for the readers who replied I got very shaken up by that comment and I might have overreacted a little.Sorry.I just didn't want to offend anyone and when the account mentioned me being banned I thought I had done something awful.Full transparency I do use Ai as a tool while writing because english is not my first Language but I promise AI is not writing my work. I will be adding a disclaimer to my stories so my readers will be well aware and you can decide to opt in or out.Thank you so much for those who enjoy the story and there will be an update tomorrow it's midnight where I am so I will be updating the story tomorrow.Thank you so much. Have a blessed day or night.❤️❤️❤️

Chapter Text

Lance yelled as a throw pillow narrowly missed his head, bolting across the living room like his life depended on it.
“Ronnie, please!” he shouted, half laughing, half terrified, ducking behind the kitchen island.
Veronica was in full rampage mode, chucking whatever she could grab. A banana hit the cabinet behind him with a sad little splat.
“You traitor!” Ronnie shrieked, snatching a half-empty water bottle and flinging it. Lance bobbed and weaved, still laughing, still trying to reason with her.

“Hey! Hey! Time out!” he gasped, peeking out from his hideout. “It was last minute! I’m just lucky Allura knew Lotor, okay?!”
Ronnie lobbed an apple this time — Lance yelped, scrambling behind a barstool.
“You knew Keith was gonna be there!” she accused, pointing a dramatic finger at him. “And you didn’t even tell me! I would’ve gone!”
Meanwhile, Lia — lounging on the couch like a queen — barely glanced up from her phone, popping a gummy bear into her mouth.
“I'm the youngest one here and yet somehow the most mature,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Lance risked sticking his head out again, hands up in surrender.

“I knew it would be messy, alright? I didn’t wanna drag you into the emotional apocalypse!”
Ronnie, still brandishing a throw pillow like a sword, narrowed her eyes at him.
“And?” she demanded.
Lance grinned sheepishly.
“And... Keith wanted me to give you a message," he said. "He, uh... he said he’s sorry. For everything. And that he hopes you’re doing okay.”
That stopped Ronnie cold.

The pillow dropped from her hand onto the floor with a dull thud.
For a second, she just stared at Lance — all the fire draining out of her.
Lia, sensing the shift, glanced up from her phone with a softer look.
Ronnie sank onto the edge of the couch, tugging a blanket into her lap absentmindedly.
“He really said that?” she asked, voice a little smaller than usual.

Lance came out from behind the counter, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah," he said quietly. "Didn’t even hesitate. Told me he was too much of a coward to tell you himself.”
Ronnie snorted, a half-laugh, half-sob kind of sound.
“That sounds like him.”
For a moment, she twisted the blanket between her fingers, looking down.
Then, almost to herself, she murmured, "Maybe I should reach out..."

Lance dropped onto the arm of the couch beside her, nudging her gently with his knee.
"You could," he said. "He’d probably lose his mind if you did. In a good way."
Ronnie smiled faintly, the fierce Veronica cracking open just a little.
She tilted her head up to look at him, teasing glint returning to her eye.
“So...” she said slyly. “How did you feel seeing him again?”

Lance laughed under his breath, flopping back dramatically onto the cushions.
“Like I got hit by a damn truck,” he admitted.
Lia snorted.
“No, seriously!" Lance insisted, waving a hand around. "He’s even hotter now, Ronnie. It’s unfair. He was standing there in this stupid purple outfit with those dumb perfect waves in his hair and — I don’t know — gloves? Who looks hot in gloves?!”
Ronnie and Lia both burst out laughing.

Lance covered his face with a pillow, groaning.
“I hate him,” he mumbled dramatically into the fabric. “I love him. I hate him. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Ronnie reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.
“You’re an idiot,” she said warmly.
“But like...a lovable idiot,” Lia chimed in, tossing a gummy bear at his face.
Lance peeled the pillow off his head, chuckling — but deep down, the ache in his chest hadn’t faded.
Keith.

Still setting his whole damn world spinning with a look.
And Lance wasn’t gonna give up this time.
Not without a fight.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The cemetery was quiet that morning, all muted winds and whispering trees, the kind of solemn peace that makes you feel like the world paused for grief. Keith clutched the small bouquet of white lilies in his hands as he walked between the rows of headstones, his chest tightening with every step.
He’d done the research quietly, late at night when sleep wouldn't come and the guilt gnawed at him like a hungry thing. Maria . The woman who gave him his first job, who fought for him when no one else would, who’d once told him he had a stubborn streak like hers and that was why she liked him.

Her headstone was simple. Elegant. Just like her.
Maria Elena Sanchez.
Beloved mother. Fierce mentor.
You are still our fire.
Keith crouched beside it, the lilies trembling in his grip as he placed them gently on the grave. His fingers hovered over the stone before he finally rested his palm against it.
“Hey, Maria,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

He stayed there, forehead nearly touching the stone, eyes closed against the sting. He told her everything — the guilt, the disappearance, the way he’d run instead of facing the chaos. He thanked her, over and over, for believing in him when even he couldn’t.
“I should’ve been there,” he murmured. “I should’ve said goodbye.”
A soft voice behind him cut through the silence like a breeze through leaves.
“Took you long enough, dumbass.”

He froze.
His breath caught in his throat as he turned, and there she was — Ronnie. Standing a few feet away, hands stuffed in the pockets of a tan trench coat, her usually flawless hair tied up in a messy bun, eyes rimmed with faint smudges of eyeliner she hadn’t wiped off yet. She’d been crying too.
Keith’s heart nearly stopped. “Ronnie…”
“Hey,” she said softly, walking forward. “Thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth or joined a cult.”
He flinched a little, guilt darkening his face. “I deserve that.”

She stopped in front of him, arms crossed. “You ghosted me. After everything. You just vanished. You didn’t even let me yell at you — do you know how robbed I felt?”
Keith opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, eyes damp.
“I……. wasn’t in a good place,” he said quietly. “Everything fell apart. Lance...”
Ronnie blinked, her eyes glistening. “Of course, I know. I’m not an idiot, I loved you like a brother, you idiot. And you just left.”
Keith looked away, shame rippling through him. “I didn’t think I deserved any of you anymore.”
There was a pause. A long, fragile one.

Then suddenly — a sharp slap to the back of his head.
“OW!”
“That’s for making me cry over your emo ass,” Ronnie said, sniffling. “And for ruining my mascara. Do you know how expensive this eyeliner is?”
Keith stared at her, wide-eyed. “You slapped me.”
“Dramatic exits deserve dramatic entries. Now shut up and give me a hug before I slap you again.”
He barely had time to react before she was pulling him into a tight, desperate hug. He held her just as fiercely, eyes finally spilling over, face buried in her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I missed you so much.”

“You better have,” she said, voice wobbling. “I’ve been carrying this emotional baggage like a single mom in a Lifetime movie.”
Keith laughed through his tears, pulling back to look at her.
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
“I upgraded,” she sniffed. “Now I cry in couture.”
They both smiled. Bittersweet. Real.
Behind them, the wind rustled through the trees again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The café was tucked into a quiet corner of the cemetery district — quaint, slightly vintage, with warm wood tones and the comforting hum of conversation and clinking cups. Keith sat across from Ronnie in a cozy booth by the window, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of tea he hadn’t quite sipped yet.
Ronnie was stirring her iced oat latte with a dramatic swirl, sunglasses perched on her head, her expression unreadable. Keith watched her, bracing himself.
Then, suddenly, she set the straw down and arched a brow. “So. You ghosted me.”
Keith flinched. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I did.”

Silence.
Ronnie stared at him for another beat. Then, in the driest tone possible, she said, “You do realize I had to find out from gossip blogs that you’d moved continents? You didn’t even leave a dramatic voicemail or a cryptic text. Rude.”
Keith choked on a laugh. “I deserved that.”
“You deserve so much more,” she said, softer this time, her sarcasm melting into something more genuine. “But seriously… you okay?”
Keith nodded, almost too quickly. “I’m—getting there. Better than I was. That time in my life just… it broke me a little.”
Ronnie’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t let it fall into sadness. Instead, she leaned forward with a grin. “Well, you're lucky you're cute. Otherwise, I’d still be mad.”
Keith smiled, surprised by the warmth swelling in his chest. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, dumbass.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I'm still mad you blocked me though. Who else was gonna send me unsolicited dog memes at 2AM?”
Keith laughed, genuinely this time, and let his shoulders relax. “I was scared you’d hate me.”
Ronnie scoffed. “Keith, you could slap me with a fish and I’d still be your best friend. You vanished. It sucked. But I figured you had your reasons. That’s all I needed to know.”
Keith blinked fast, swallowing down emotion. He didn’t deserve this grace. But gods, he was grateful for it.
Ronnie sat back and took a triumphant sip of her drink. “So. Tell me everything. Where have you been? What are you doing? Are you still allergic to small talk?”

Keith gave a soft snort. “I moved to Seoul. I accidentally started a company. I haven’t tripped over my own feet in months, so personal growth.”
“You started a company?” Her jaw dropped. “Like, a real one? With offices and employees and free snacks?”
“Venom Entertainment,” he said with a sheepish grin. “It’s small. I manage a few groups now. Nova 5 and Oblivion.”
Ronnie's eyes practically lit up. “Wait. No way. You're the Keith behind Oblivion? I thought they were a myth. I thought their CEO lived in a floating tower and wore only black turtlenecks and eyeliner.” She was being utterly sarcastic.

“I do wear a lot of black,” he deadpanned.
Ronnie burst into laughter, and just like that — it was like no time had passed. The years, the pain, the distance — all of it seemed smaller now.
They talked for hours. About Seoul, about acting, about how Ronnie had almost gotten into a fight with a director who didn’t know her lines. About Keith’s girls, and their chaotic dance rehearsals. Ronnie shared updates about Romelle, her career, how her mom's passing had shifted her entire world.

They didn’t talk about the things still too tender to touch. Ronnie didn’t ask about Lance. Keith didn’t bring up the darker days. They just... reconnected. Laughed. Cried a little. Shared dessert.
And as the sky outside turned a soft dusky pink, Keith looked at Ronnie across the table — her smile wide, her eyeliner just slightly smudged from happy tears — and felt something settle deep in his chest.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith had planned to stay in America for a couple of days max.
That stretched into two full weeks — partly due to back-to-back press rounds for Lotor’s album and partly because of Ronnie. After their emotional reunion at the café, she refused to let him vanish again. They talked daily — sometimes in person when she was free, sometimes late at night over FaceTime. She sent memes. He sent her dance rehearsal clips. They fell back into their rhythm effortlessly, the ache of lost time softened by shared laughter and sarcastic commentary about everything from celebrity drama to how Keith still hated decaf coffee with a passion.

In between, Keith handled business. He flew back and forth from LA to New York for meetings, shot performance recaps for Oblivion’s next single, and still managed to remotely coordinate Nova 5’s chaotic comeback in Seoul. He barely slept — but he didn’t mind. His girls were thriving, and Lotor’s fanbase was exploding across platforms.
But what really threw him?
The notification that popped up while he was half-asleep on a red-eye back to Korea.
💙 @Lance.Mcclain just followed you.

Keith blinked at the screen. Sat up. Stared.
His heart did a weird little skip.
He tapped the notification. Sure enough, Lance had followed him from his main account — the verified one with the millions of followers, the ocean-blue checkmark.
Keith stared at the tiny profile photo for longer than necessary. Then locked his phone and tried not to overthink it.
That… didn’t work.
The next morning, OblivionFever(a fan account Venom started) posted a TikTok duet of Lance — shirt tucked up, forehead glistening with effort — absolutely nailing the latest Oblivion challenge.

And he tagged Venom Entertainment.
#OblivionCrushChallenge
#VenomEnt
The comment section was pure chaos.
@BabyMermz: WAIT. Is this Lance promoting his EX’s company?! I’m seated.
@glitteridiots: THE WAY HE HITS THAT BODY ROLL?? He’s not over him 😭
@LotorBaby: okay but if this means Nova 5 is coming to the US?? THANK YOU, LANCE.

By the time Keith touched down in Seoul, bleary-eyed and nursing a caffeine addiction, Lotor had already filmed not one, but two duet TikToks with Lance.
The first had been harmless enough: a playful side-by-side where Lance botched Lotor’s signature spin, tripped, and laughed it off like a golden retriever who’d just knocked over your favorite lamp. But the second?
The second one had energy.
Flirty, unhinged, viral energy.
By the time Keith had peeled his coat off and opened his inbox, Venom Entertainment had already received an email from Echo’s PR team. A sponsorship offer.
With Lotor as the face of a new Echo capsule line.

Keith had barely read the subject line when Axca barged into his office, tablet in hand, vibrating with gossip.
“Okay, so, get this—Lance’s people want Lotor for the campaign. Echo. Big rollout. Billboard-level visibility. I’m talking Times Square, baby. Oh! And they wanna use the Snow Bunny concept from your winter shoot.” She flopped dramatically into one of the chairs, eyes gleaming. “You have to say yes. Like, I’ll physically throw you into the deal if I have to.”
Keith blinked. “The Snow Bunny concept? Like… the bikini one?”

“Yes.”
“Fluffy boots?”
“Yup.”
“The sunglasses—”
“KEITH.”

It was a huge deal. Echo was thriving. Keith would’ve been a fool to say no — and maybe, okay, a tiny part of him felt warm at the idea of Lance promoting Lotor, of Lance seeing what Venom had built, what Keith had built. But mostly, he told himself it was just smart business.
When he told Lotor about the campaign, Lotor had squinted suspiciously and gone, “Your ex wants to put my face on headphones?”
Keith shrugged. “Your face sells.”
“… Touché.”

The Echo x Lotor campaign was a blinding success. Lance’s team came up with a stunning chrome-silver design, inspired by the sharp edges of space and the snowy softness of that infamous snow babe’s photoshoot.
The shoot went viral within hours. Lotor in a silver bikini, white fur boots, thick silver eyeliner and glossed lips?
Keith nearly dropped his phone.
Allura, who was watching from the monitors in LA, let out a choked sound like she'd been punched in the sternum by Cupid himself.
“Oh my stars,” she whispered, hand over her heart. “I’m in love with a god.”

Lance side-eyed her. “You’re already in love with him.”
“Yes, but now I’m in love with this version of him,” she whispered reverently. “Silver Lotor.”
Axca popped a bubble with her gum. “So, same man. Just oiled.”
But the surprises didn’t stop there.
A few weeks after the Lotor campaign dropped, another email landed in Keith’s inbox — this time for Nova 5.

Lance’s team wanted to do a vibrant Echo capsule in partnership with them, leaning fully into their cyberpunk aesthetic. Each girl got her own custom color: neon violet, laser pink, toxic green, electric cyan. It was bold, flashy, very Nova.
Keith reread the email three times. Stared at it like it might morph into a prank. And when he finally looked up at Axca, she was already halfway through a victory dance.
“I TOLD YOU,” she said. “I told you he was soft-launching his way back into your life via capitalism.”
Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s not—”
“Baby, he’s sponsoring your artists. That’s not subtle.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “He’s just being nice. Me and Ronnie made up.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m just an intern.”
Still, he couldn’t lie — seeing Nova 5 on Echo billboards, glowing with the confidence they’d worked so hard to earn, it made something tight and warm bloom in Keith’s chest. The girls were talented, no doubt about that, but Lance had helped crack them open to the world. His clout turned eyes. His shoutouts pulled attention.
And now? Now they had their first wins on Music Bank.
Both groups. Oblivion and Nova 5.

When the trophy was handed to Nova on live TV, the girls had screamed, collapsed into each other, and immediately FaceTimed Keith — crying and smudged and radiant.
“We won,” Misa sobbed, mascara down to her chin. “Boss, we won! Are you proud of us?!”
Keith was in a car at the time. He grinned so hard it hurt.
“Always,” he said. “I’m always proud of you.”
And somewhere in the chaos — in between the confetti and the celebration posts — he spotted it.
A familiar username liking their win on Instagram.

💙 @lance.mcclain liked your post.
Keith's heart stuttered. Just a second. Just a blip.
But he swallowed it down.
It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself. He’s just being supportive. Like… a good friend would be. A very rich, powerful, annoyingly attractive friend.
He was fine.
He was totally, absolutely, probably fine.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“He didn’t have to sponsor the entire rollout,” Keith muttered under his breath during a strategy meeting, eyes fixed on the mockups.
“He did,” Axca said. “And he sent croissants. The expensive ones. From that stupid little Parisian place you like.”
“... Damn him,” Keith whispered.
Axca smirked. “Your ex is unhinged.”
Kinkade popped his head into the studio. “The fans made a hashtag.”
“Which one?”
“#SilverLineToMyHeart,” Kinkade said with a straight face, before bursting out laughing. “Also #LanceGoesVenom and #NovaCrushInMyVeins.”

Keith groaned and buried his face in the script he was reviewing.
But the truth was — he didn’t hate it. Not as much as he expected.
Whenever he was back in the States now, he found himself bumping into Lance more often. Sometimes it was at press junkets. Sometimes on set on Lotor’s music video’s(Lotor invited Allura and in turn Lance came) . Sometimes entirely by accident — like when he stepped into a rehearsal studio in LA and found Lance sprawled out on the floor, groaning in pain after trying to master one of his routines.
They were awkward at first. Stilted. Careful.
But Lance never pushed. He was always respectful. Cordial, even.
Still funny.

Still infuriatingly charming.
And slowly — very slowly — Keith began to let himself laugh. Just a little. The kind of laugh that stayed cautious around the edges, like it didn’t trust its own arrival.
They didn’t talk about the past. Not yet. The words sat between them, delicate and waiting. But they talked. About the groups. About the whirlwind of international promotions. About how Lotor had become weirdly obsessed with sour candy and now kept a whole stash of Warheads hidden in his dressing room behind a fake book titled The Art of War and Wardrobe. Keith talked about Nova’s new EP. Lance talked about the next drop from Echo.
That was when he brought it up. Casually. Too casually.
“So we’re doing this new limited line,” Lance said one afternoon, sprawled on the floor after Lotor was done shooting like he had all the time in the world. “Something special. Something red.”
Keith tilted his head. “Red?”

“Yeah. We’ve done silver, we’ve done neon, so this one’s gonna be bold. Sleek. ” He raised an eyebrow. “A knock out.”
Keith blinked. “...Is this a fragrance ad or a headphone drop?”
Lance just grinned. “Why not both?”
The idea came together fast after that. Lance wanted Keith — Keith — to model for the campaign. Something about giving Echo x Venom a face that wasn’t a rookie idol or a celebrity. Something about “showing the CEO behind the music.” Something about “Not hiding it in those oversized jackets.”
Keith had groaned, deeply, into his hands. “I don’t model.”

“You literally direct half the shoots.”
“That’s different.”
“C’mon. It’s one day. I’ll send you the concept. You’ll look hot. I promise. It'll be great.”
Somehow, somehow, Keith found himself doing it. A boxing-themed campaign. Deep red lighting. A barely-there crimson compression set that looked painted on and left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Matching gloves. Bandages on his fingers. His hair sweat-tousled and hanging in his eyes. Axca nearly passed out on set.
“You’re a menace,” she whispered, clutching a clipboard like a crucifix. “This is thirst-trap warfare.”
Keith had blushed so hard he nearly combusted.

But it turned out good. Really good. He’d directed it himself — moody backlighting, slow-drip sweat, industrial vibes that screamed both Venom and Echo. He filed the photos in the vault, vaguely assuming they’d drop sometime in March.
Then Valentine’s Day happened.
Keith woke up to seventeen missed calls, three trending hashtags, and one FaceTime from Lotor and Axca screaming in stereo.
“KEITH.”
“GET ONLINE. RIGHT NOW.”
“WHY ARE YOU HOT? WHY DID NO ONE WARN US?”
And there it was.

Lance had posted the campaign.
Not just on Echo’s official account (which would've already been wild) — but also on his own personal Instagram. The one with millions of followers and a fanbase that treated his posts like scripture.
The caption was simple:
💥 "Knockout."
Echo x Venom. Limited Valentine’s Drop.
Featuring: The man behind the madness — @k.kogane

#EchoVenom #ValentinesHit #RedForDanger
Keith stared at his phone in stunned silence as the comments rolled in:
THE ABS HAVE ABS.
Who let him be CEO AND hot?
Veronica WHO. I’m switching lanes.
I want to be the sweat on his neck.
Echo sponsored my thirst.

Does this mean they’re back together?!?
It was chaos. Pure, delicious chaos.
Ronnie and Lia had already done their own campaigns for the Valentine’s drop — cheeky, flirty little pink and pearl-themed spreads — and fans had loved them. But this?
This was a full-body blow.
Ronnie called , sipping wine at 10 a.m. “You absolute menace. Even I screamed.”
Keith groaned and sank into his couch, face on fire. “I didn’t even know he was dropping it today!”
Lotor flopped beside him, scrolling through the tag. “Honestly, it’s art. Iconic. The red gloves? The glare? You look like you could kill me or kiss me and I’d say thank you either way.”
Keith glared at him. “You’re not helping.”

Axca, with zero shame, was already making it her lock screen. “I am helping. I’m supporting the brand.”
Meanwhile, somewhere in LA, Lance was probably sipping something expensive, completely satisfied with himself.
Keith’s heart fluttered traitorously as he refreshed the post for the third time.
He was being ridiculous.
It was just a campaign.
A strategic drop.
A smart move.

It doesn’t mean anything, he told himself again, even as his cheeks stayed pink and warm.
But he couldn't stop his lips from curling.
Just a little.
He was still cautious. Still guarded.
But for the first time in a long time, something began to thaw.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Nyma had never been particularly sentimental.
She was too pretty for that. Too wild. Too clever. She liked nice things, expensive things, things that shimmered and clinked and whispered you are better than everyone else when she wore them. Her life had always moved fast — planes, penthouses, photographers calling her name like a prayer. People fell for her. People wanted her. And Lance?
Lance had always been the pretty boy exception.

They’d danced around each other for years. On and off. Always in the same rooms, the same clubs, the same after-parties lit in gold and danger. He’d flirt, she’d flirt back. He’d vanish, she’d let him. But they circled. Because back then, Lance was a playboy, the kind of man who didn’t stay but always returned — with a grin that made people forgive the fact that he didn’t really mean it.
And Nyma had always thought he’d eventually come back to her.
Sure, there were others. Little flings. Pretty mistakes. But none of them lasted. And when things got serious, she told herself, when he finally got tired of running, he’d remember her — the girl who never asked too many questions, who understood the game, who looked good on his arm and in every headline.
But now?

Now he didn’t even look her way.
Now his whole Instagram feed was Echo campaigns and thirst traps of Keith Kogane.
Keith.
That slut.
She scrolled through the red boxing campaign for the hundredth time, fingers shaking. 48 million likes. The reposts had gone viral on Twitter. TikTok was already filled with people re-enacting the look, the pose, the snarl.
And Lance — Lance — had posted it himself. Smiling emojis. Flirty captions. A casual "Venom never looked this good" under a close-up of Keith's gloved hands.
It made her sick.

Because Echo wasn’t just successful — it was a behemoth.
It had started off as a small project, a cute little side hustle for Lance to feel creative with after alongside his music career. But then it exploded. The headphones were sleek. Customizable. Affordable. Cool. Celebrities wore them. Athletes. Idols. Kids.
And now?
Echo was everywhere.
Echo was global.
Echo was money.
Lance was closing in on billionaire status, and he wasn’t even trying.

And Keith — Keith, who she had watched slink around like a forgotten dog a few years ago — was thriving right beside him. His company was exploding. His artists were topping charts. His face — leaner now, sharper, more photogenic than it had any right to be — was in campaigns she should’ve had.
It felt like watching someone take the life she was supposed to have and wear it better.
And Nyma… Nyma was fading.
Her bookings had slowed. A few brands had dropped her. Whispers of her being “hard to work with” were trickling louder now — no thanks to a few snubbed PR girls and one unfortunate meltdown backstage at Paris Fashion Week.

And the money? It wasn’t coming in like it used to.
Not fast enough for the penthouse. The stylists. The skincare. The dinners that had to be posted, the outfits that had to be seen, the life that had to be believable. She’d tried the influencer thing. The lifestyle brand thing. Nothing stuck.
Not like Echo.
Not like Keith.
She threw her phone across the room. It landed facedown on plush carpet. Her assistant didn’t even flinch anymore.
“It’s always that freaking omega,” she hissed, pacing now, fingers twitching at her temples. “He’s everywhere. He just… he won’t go away.”
Her voice cracked — not in anger, but something else. Something thin and jagged and ugly.

She had waited too long. She had assumed too much. Lance had been her fallback plan, her golden ticket, her easy endgame.
But now?
Now he looked at Keith like the sun rose and set in his orbit.
Now he was building an empire — with someone else.
And Nyma was slipping.
No spotlight. No backup plan. No one in her corner.
Just cold tile under bare feet and the realization that she had never mattered as much as she thought she did.
She tried everything.
The next Echo event? She wore red. Keith’s red. Tight and dangerous, hair slicked back, cheekbones high enough to cut diamonds. She showed up fashionably late with a PR date on her arm and a camera-ready laugh.
Lance was there.

He saw her. She knew he saw her. His eyes swept over the crowd with that easy charm, hands in his pockets, grin soft — but they slid right over her like she was just part of the décor.
No second glance.
No wave.
Not even a “Hey, Nyma.”
She nearly choked on her champagne.
“Maybe he didn’t see you,” her date offered awkwardly, trying to salvage the silence as Nyma fumed beside him.
“Oh, he saw me,” she snapped. “He just thinks he’s clever.”
Because maybe — just maybe — if she got close enough again, reminded him who she was, reminded him what they had, he’d remember. He’d crack. He’d slip. He’d—
But nothing.

She posted a photo of them together from two years ago. Captioned it “miss these nights 💋”
Radio silence.
She sent a cryptic tweet: “Some of y’all really forgot who kept your bed warm before your PR dreams came true.”
Nothing.
No likes from him. No unfollows. But still, nothing.
He was deliberately ignoring her.
The final straw came at the launch party for the new Echo x Neon5 collab. The girls looked amazing. Keith was there, poised and polished in tailored black. Lotor made a dramatic entrance, glitter and eyeliner and a silk crop top, snapping selfies with fans.
And Lance —

Lance spent the whole night laughing with them.
He stood next to Keith like they were best friends again. He leaned close to whisper something into Lotor’s ear that had the omega snorting, and he hugged each of the Neon5 girls like they were his nieces.
He didn’t look at her once.
And it burned.
It burned.
She made one last desperate move. Waited until he was getting a drink alone at the bar and slinked over, all sultry voice and fake concern. “Long night?” she purred, fingers ghosting near his sleeve. “Thought you’d have said hi by now.”
Lance didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even play polite.

“Hey,” he said, vaguely. Then turned back to his drink. “Excuse me. I’m waiting for someone.”
Someone?
Keith?
The word slammed into her chest like a car crash.
Nyma stood there for a heartbeat too long. Then another. Her mouth opened — but Lance was already gone, weaving through the crowd with his glass, smiling at someone else.
She left early.
Alone.
Again.

—
She barely made it into her apartment before the mask cracked. Her heels hit the wall. The dress was halfway down her thighs before she ripped it off. Her bathroom mirror didn’t lie — the contour was perfect, her eyes fierce, the body still deadly.
But no one wanted it.
Not anymore.
Not when Keith Kogane could post a blurry gym selfie and send the internet into cardiac arrest. Not when Lance McClain could make a dumb little joke on TikTok and have a million fangirls calling him "CEO boyfriend."
Not when she—once the queen of it all—was now getting ghosted by sponsors and sent reminders from her agent about “being more flexible on set.”

She’d built herself into a brand. An icon. She used to walk into rooms and own them.
Now she was lucky to be tagged in photos.
She collapsed onto her designer rug, makeup smudged, mascara streaking down her cheeks. Her phone buzzed in the corner. A notification from Instagram.
Another post.
Another picture.
Keith. In sweats. Completely casual .With Echo headphones and his signature smirk.

And Lance in the comments.
🔥🔥🔥
“Unfair. Blocked. Reported. Arrest him.”
Over 800,000 likes.
Nyma curled in on herself. Shoulders shaking. Rage and grief tangled in her chest like thorns.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
She was supposed to win.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith knocked back the rest of his drink like it owed him money.
Across the room, Lance floated through Ronnie’s party like he was the goddamn prom king—effortless, charming, beautiful in that irritating, completely unfair to the rest of us mortals way. His laugh cut through the low buzz of conversation like music, his hand brushing the back of someone’s shoulder here, flashing his smile there. People ate it up.
Keith hated it.
And, okay, maybe hated was a strong word. He despised it. Slightly worse. His jaw clenched as Lance leaned down to whisper something in Allura’s ear that made the alpha snort-laugh into her champagne. Lotor’s highlighter glittered under the lights, making him look like a fairy and a threat.

“This is Ronnie’s night,” Keith reminded himself aloud like a prayer. “This is about Ronnie. Ronnie and her incredible, gory, soul-shattering movie. Not Lance’s perfect teeth.”
Ronnie had directed her first film. Directed. Not starred in. Not co-wrote. Directed. It was called The Substance, and it was the kind of raw, bloody, socially-charged body horror no one ever expected from the sweetheart of the McClain family. But Ronnie had turned out something bold and brutal—a gut-punch of a movie about beauty, identity, and the impossible standards placed on omegas and women.
She also starred in it. As the lead. Who slowly melted into a sentient puddle of goo under the pressure of public scrutiny. Literally. The prosthetics were award-worthy. The scream she gave when her face started sliding off? Still ringing in Keith’s ears.

And honestly? It was art. It was weird and gross and brilliant. Keith was proud of her.
Which was why he needed to stop laser-beaming death glares at her twin.
“Okay, enough.” Axca appeared out of nowhere like the stylish gremlin she was, snatching the drink out of Keith’s hand with a glare that mirrored his own. “You look like you're about to stab someone with a cheese knife. Breathe.”
“I’m fine,” Keith said, voice tight. “Just—need some air.”

“Right,” Axca said, unconvinced. “Try not to drown in the pool.”
Keith slipped away before she could interrogate him further, escaping the low hum of post-movie chatter and industry buzz. Most of the big names had already left—agents, producers, that one actor from the reboot of Space Pirates who kept calling him “chief” for some reason.
Out by the pool, the night was cool and calm. The lights reflected off the water in gentle ripples, the leftover energy of the party fading into the background. Keith kicked off his heels and sat at the edge, dipping his toes into the water with a sigh of relief.

He brought the bottle with him. Not the fancy stuff from the bar, but the deep red Ronnie had tucked into the gift basket in his dressing room. Chocolate notes, just the way he liked it. A quiet grin tugged at his lips as the flavor hit—sweet, rich, familiar.
“She remembered,” he murmured, heart softening. Ronnie always remembered.
But even the warmth of her wine couldn’t fix the mess in his chest.
He was... in a mood. A specific, irritable, vaguely wine-soaked kind of mood. The kind where every emotion was tangled in another and the only thing he knew for sure was that Lance was ruining his night by existing.
He couldn't deny it anymore. Lance was clearly trying to send a message—without ever actually saying the words.
Following him again on Instagram? Subtle.

Dropping a surprise Echo x Venom campaign with Keith as the face, released on Valentine’s Day? Come on.
Putting it on both the Echo official account and his personal one? With the caption, “Red’s never looked this good.” That man had nerve.
Sure, the photos were hot. He looked hot. A red workout set, the fabric barely-there and sinfully snug, matching gloves, sweat glistening at his temples. He looked like a walking thirst trap in a boxing ring. The campaign did numbers—it nearly broke Venom’s site.
But the timing. The branding. The intent.

Why?
Why now? Why act like the world’s most supportive ex-boyfriend when Lance had been the one to walk away? The one who’d shut him out, ignored his calls, left him bleeding metaphorically and literally?
Keith was still in therapy. Still trying to understand why he'd let himself be treated like that. Why he'd frozen instead of fighting back. Trauma was a hell of a drug—it made you think you deserved it.
He’d come so far. Rebuilt himself from the ashes. Rewired his brain to prioritize peace over people-pleasing.
And yet—
And yet—

His stupid heart still skipped a beat when Lance looked at him for more than three seconds. Still did double flips when Lance’s laugh echoed too close. Still yearned.
It was pathetic.
He wasn’t mad at Lance, not really. Not anymore. He was mad at himself.
Mad that no matter how much he knew better—he still felt it.
Still loved him.
Lance’s timing was annoyingly perfect.

One second, Keith was stewing in his own spiraling thoughts, his toes rippling through the pool water, his heart chewing itself apart in silence—and the next, Lance was there. Like some hallucination Keith had conjured from the mess in his chest.
“Thought I’d find you out here,” Lance said lightly, his voice warm, like nothing was wrong. Like Keith wasn’t seconds away from unraveling. “You looked like you were two seconds from setting the dip table on fire.”
Keith didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
Instead, he tilted the wine bottle up for another swig. “Maybe I should’ve,” he muttered. “Would’ve been more productive than coming to this party.”
Lance chuckled like that was funny, like they were still them, and then—because he was Lance, always trying to fill silences with words that sounded nice but meant nothing—he added, “You always do this. Disappear when things get too loud. So I figured…” He trailed off, his smile uncertain. “Why are you out here alone, Keith?”

That was it. That was the moment Keith snapped.
He turned to face him, eyes glassy, face flushed from the wine and heat and heartbreak. His voice was low at first, almost too calm. Too precise. “What is this, Lance?”
Lance blinked. “What is what—?”
Keith didn’t let him finish.
“No,” he said, standing abruptly, water splashing around his calves. “Don’t play dumb. What is this? You broke up with me. You left. You ignored my calls, Lance. I spent months walking on eggshells, thinking I did something wrong, begging you to talk to me—and now what? You drop a thirst trap of me on Valentine’s Day and act like we’re fine?”

Lance opened his mouth, searching for something to say, but Keith barrelled on, voice rising with each breath, each word laced with betrayal.
“I know I should’ve told you about the blackmail. I know I wasn’t honest, and that’s on me. I admit that. But I didn’t deserve—” Keith’s voice cracked, the tears welling before he could stop them. “I didn’t deserve that. I didn’t deserve to be treated like garbage. Like I meant nothing to you.”
His vision blurred. The bottle slipped from his hand and rolled somewhere behind him, forgotten. He wiped at his face, angry with himself for crying. “Never mind. I can’t— I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He moved to leave, but Lance stepped in front of him, catching his wrist gently.
“Keith, please—wait. Don’t walk away. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I swear to God, I— I still love you. I never stopped.”
That did it.

Keith let out a laugh. A horrible, broken, shattered kind of laugh. The kind that had too much history behind it, too much pain to sound like anything human.
“You love me?” he repeated, yanking his arm from Lance’s grip. “That’s rich. That’s really fucking rich.”
Lance flinched, but didn’t move.
Keith stepped forward, emotion boiling out of him now—his voice sharp and ragged. “Did you love me when you forgot my heat and left? Did you love me when I was bleeding and sick and calling you for help and you turned your goddamn phone off?”
Lance’s lips parted. His throat bobbed, but he had no words. No defense.

Keith shoved him—not hard, just enough to feel like he had some control. “Did you love me then, huh? You don’t even know what I went through! Do you even get how much I needed you? How much I broke trying to keep myself together while you iced me out like I was nothing?”
He hit Lance’s chest again. And again. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it broke Lance all the same.
Keith’s fists balled weakly against his chest before falling away as he collapsed into sobs. Ugly, gasping, body-wracking sobs that shook both of them. “I tried so fucking hard to hold on. I tried so hard to understand, to wait, to forgive, and you—” he hiccupped, “—you didn’t even care.”
Lance didn’t say anything. He just held him. Tight. Unmoving. Anchoring.

Keith buried his face in Lance’s chest, sobbing into the soft material of his jacket as Lance whispered over and over again, voice cracking with each repetition:
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me. I was angry and broken and stupid. I’m so sorry, Keith. Please. I’m so fucking sorry.”
And under the sound of Keith’s crying, under the hum of the pool lights, beneath the weight of everything unsaid—something in both of them cracked open.
Keith broke.
Not in a theatrical way—but in the way people do when they’ve held it all in too long. His legs gave out. His breath stuttered. He collapsed fully into Lance, letting gravity and exhaustion and heartbreak do what they’d been aching to do for months.
Lance caught him.

He dropped to the wet tile with him, knees scraping against the cold stone, but he didn’t let go. His arms locked around Keith like he was a lifeline—like if he loosened his grip for even a second, Keith might slip away for good.
Keith sobbed. Deep, hollow, gut-wrenching cries that didn’t sound like him at all. His chest shook with the force of it, his fingers digging into Lance’s shirt like he hated him, like he needed him, like he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. His makeup smudged, his breath came in hiccups, and still—he cried.
“I’m sorry,” Lance whispered against Keith’s temple, over and over like a mantra. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
Keith’s sobs slowly softened. The kind of exhaustion that comes after breaking down took over. His limbs were heavy, his eyes swollen, his voice hoarse. And for a moment, all he could do was sit there in silence, curled into Lance like he wasn’t sure who else he could fall apart in front of.

“I—I need you to know something,” Lance murmured finally, voice trembling as he pulled back just enough to cup Keith’s face. “Something I should’ve said a long time ago.”
Keith didn’t speak. He just blinked at him, eyes glassy.
Lance swallowed. “After you disappeared,” he said quietly, “I… I found a box of pills in your drawer.”
Keith stiffened. His lips parted, but no words came.
“They were for miscarriage,” Lance went on, voice raw. “And I—I didn’t understand at first. I had to google them. And when I did…” His voice cracked. “I—I dropped my phone. I couldn’t breathe. I—I sat on the floor of the bathroom and sobbed until I couldn’t anymore.”

He looked at Keith, eyes red. “You were calling me. You needed me. And I ignored you. You were going through that, and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there when you lost our baby.”
Keith squeezed his eyes shut, breath stuttering again.
“I blamed you for everything because I couldn’t deal with my own shit. When my mom got sick… and then I found out about dad’s affair, and his secret kid, and how he lied to her for years— I started seeing him in everyone. I was so fucking angry. I thought you were going to lie to me the same way he lied to her.”
He exhaled shakily, forehead pressed to Keith’s. “I was scared you’d hurt me the way he hurt my mom. And I hated him so much that I—I pushed that hate onto you. I told myself you’d betray me, too, so I wouldn’t feel stupid when you did.”

Keith let out a quiet, broken noise. But he didn’t pull away.
“I got help,” Lance said softly. “Therapy. I’ve been going for over a year. Every week. Working through the mess in my head so I wouldn’t wreck everything again.”
Keith’s voice was barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought it was too late,” Lance admitted. “And maybe it is. Maybe you won’t ever forgive me. But I needed to say it. You deserve that much.”
He hesitated, then added, “I have an apartment in L.A. I use it sometimes when I want some alone time. If you… if you don’t want to go home like this, if you need a place to breathe—it's yours. No strings.”
Keith hated how well Lance knew him and his hand trembled slightly against his chest.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to. I just—I want to be someone who deserves it, even if you never give it to me. I’ll wait, Keith. For as long as it takes. And if it never happens, I’ll still be proud that I loved you.”
Keith wiped at his face again. This time slower. More deliberate.
“I need time,” he said finally. Quiet. Honest.
“I know,” Lance said. He nodded. “Take all the time you need.”
And for the first time in months—Keith believed him.
Keith didn’t say anything for a long time.

He just sat there, holding the bottle of wine loosely by the neck, his breath shaky, face still damp with tears. Lance waited. He didn’t press, didn’t plead. He just sat beside him, quiet and still.
Finally, Keith exhaled.
“…Okay.”
It was barely a whisper. But Lance heard it like a thunderclap.
“Okay?” he asked softly, careful not to break the moment.
Keith nodded. “Take me there. I—I don’t want to go home tonight. Shiro will hound me.”
And so they left.

The drive was quiet—not awkward, not cold—just heavy. The silence wasn’t empty; it was full. With guilt. With love. With unspoken apologies and memories. With all the things they’d said—and all the things they hadn’t.
Keith sat curled in the passenger seat, arms around his knees, his phone lighting up as he texted Axca:
“I’m okay. Going with Lance. I’ll call tomorrow.”
The reply was immediate:
“Got it. Just let me know if you need anything. I’m here for you.”
Keith huffed a soft, tired laugh.

When they got to the apartment, Lance unlocked the door and stepped inside first, flicking on a small lamp. The place was clean, minimalist—clearly not lived in often. But it still smelled like him. Warm cedar, crisp air, and something subtly ocean breeze. Keith breathed it in without meaning to. It hit him like a weighted blanket.
“Here,” Lance said quietly, walking over to a small dresser in the corner. He pulled out a pair of soft joggers and a big hoodie. “They’re old but comfy. Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll leave out some food and water.”
Keith nodded. The words didn’t come easily anymore, but he appreciated that Lance didn’t seem to expect them.
Lance turned to him once more before he left. “I’m not gonna hover,” he said. “If you want to stay the night, that’s okay. If you want to leave before I get back tomorrow, that’s okay too. I just… I’m really glad you let me take you here.”

Keith’s throat tightened. But all he managed was a small nod.
And with that, Lance left him alone.
The shower was heaven.
Keith stood under the hot stream longer than he needed to, letting the steam soothe his sore muscles and puffy eyes. When he stepped out and dried off, he pulled on the joggers and hoodie. It was comically big on him. The sleeves swallowed his hands, and the scent of Lance hit him full force.
Alpha. Familiar. Safe.

God, he hated how safe it made him feel.
The kitchen had a plate of leftovers, gently reheated. Nothing fancy—just pasta and garlic bread. But Keith devoured it anyway. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until that moment. He drank two full glasses of water. Then a third.
After eating, he padded around the space in Lance’s socks. The apartment was simple, a couch with a throw blanket, a coffee table with half-read scripts, and a corner shelf with half-dead plants. Lived-in, but barely. He found a small drawer in the dresser, curious, and tugged it open.
Inside were a few things Lance had clearly forgotten—some socks, a pair of glasses, a tiny tin of mint lip balm… and one hoodie that looked well-loved and slightly faded. The back had a cracked print from some old tour Keith couldn’t place.

He pulled it out. It was warm. It smelled like memories.
Keith didn’t even realize he’d laid down until his head hit the pillow.
Didn’t even register the tear sliding down his cheek as he curled into himself, hugging the hoodie to his chest. He was already asleep before it reached his jaw.
And for the first time in what felt like forever—he slept. Really slept.
No dreams. No nightmares. Just breath and quiet.
Wrapped in the scent of the one person he couldn’t decide whether to love again—or run from entirely.

Chapter Text

Keith hadn’t slept that well in ages—honestly, it was suspicious how good the sheets at Lance’s place were. But good sheets didn’t erase the fact that he’d cried so hard the night before his nose was still swollen. He wasn’t about to face Lance like that. Not after sobbing into the man's chest like a broken Disney princess. And definitely not without an answer to give him.
Lance wouldn’t have pressured him. He knew that. Lance had said as much, and Keith believed him—mostly. But it still didn’t make the knot of shame in his chest any easier to untangle. He just felt...raw. Peeled open and left out in the sun.

So, in typical coward fashion, he’d sent a text at the crack of dawn:
Keith: Thanks for letting me crash. Had to go. Let’s talk later. I just... need to breathe a bit.
And then he bolted.
Well, okay, he didn’t bolt. He Uber’d—determinedly but with dignity, thank you very much—to Axca’s hotel. He needed a few work things from her anyway. Schedules, contracts, the stylists’ receipts she kept hoarded like a dragon nesting on gold. He needed to work get his mind off yesterday. He’d grab the files, say thank you, and disappear without her prying.
What he was not expecting, however, was for the hotel room door to swing open and reveal Veronica —Ronnie freaking McClain—standing there in nothing but a hotel sheet haphazardly tucked under one arm and holding her phone in her hand.

They both froze.
“…Keith?” Ronnie blinked, phone mid-air.
“…Ronnie?” Keith said slowly, eyes wide. “What the hell?”
“Okay,” she said, immediately dropping the phone like it was evidence in a murder trial, “before you say anything—I thought you were room service. And in my defense, I am starving.”
Keith stared. “Are you wearing a sheet?”
“Technically, I’m wearing nothing,” Ronnie sniffed, straightening it over one shoulder.

Keith’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Then realization smacked him in the face like a rogue boomerang.
“Oh my God. Are you—are you sleeping with Axca?”
From somewhere inside the suite, there was the sound of a hairdryer stopping abruptly. Then a muffled “Shit” and frantic shuffling.
Ronnie winced. “Okay, ‘sleeping with’ is such a... loaded term. I prefer ‘collaborating closely on personal development.’”
“RONNIE.”

She gave him a sheepish shrug and the guiltiest smile he’d ever seen. “In my defense, you slept with my twin. I feel like we’re even now.”
Keith reeled back like he’d just been whacked in the face with a frying pan. “That is not how math works!”
She held up her hands. “I don’t make the rules, Keith. I just conveniently ignore them.”
Keith lifted one hand slowly, face deadpan. “So. You’ve been sneaking around. Sleeping with my assistant. My incredibly competent assistant.”
From inside the room, Axca’s voice called out, “He’s not wrong.”
Keith muttered something about needing holy water, stepped inside briefly to grab the files from Axca’s desk, then turned to Ronnie.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see anything,” Keith said, backing out the door. He made vague jazz hands “I need to —recover from… whatever this is.”
Ronnie flashed him a thumbs-up. “Thanks, babe. Appreciate the privacy.”
As the door clicked shut behind him, Keith stood in the hallway, blinking in disbelief. Then he pulled out his phone and shot off a message:
Keith: You have the day off. Also, I’m happy for you. But I am absolutely never unseeing that. Ever.
As he slipped his phone back into his jacket, he paused, eyes narrowing in thought.

Had there been signs? All the hushed giggles when Axca and Ronnie passed each other backstage? The time he found them arguing about pineapple pizza and suddenly breaking into laughter? The way Axca once called Ronnie “a chaotic little starfish” and then looked like she wanted to die on the spot?
Keith groaned. “How the hell did I not notice?”
Maybe he’d just been too busy putting out fires in his own life to realize his two closest allies were...lighting their own fireworks in secret.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the city through the open balcony doors. The morning sun slipped in like a secret, casting golden light across the hardwood floor. Allura stood barefoot in one of her oversized shirts—half-buttoned, just enough to be indecent. Coffee steamed gently on the kitchen island, untouched. Her eyes were on him.
Lotor sat on the rug, guitar in his lap, bare feet tucked under him. He looked like he didn’t quite belong to this world—moonlight in a boy’s body, soft silver hair messy, voice low as he hummed through a new melody.
When he finally looked up, he startled a little. “Were you just... watching me?”
Allura smirked. “Mmm. I like the view.”

He flushed—still so easy to fluster, despite being a Grammy nominee and headlining artist now. But what struck her wasn’t the fame or the new confidence when he performed. It was the quiet.
The stillness.
There was a time Lotor couldn’t breathe without overthinking every exhale. A time he’d read too far into a glance, a late text, a shift in her tone. He’d once stalked her Instagram stories obsessively. Accused her of seeing someone else when she had dinner with a male client. Installed a location-sharing app on both their phones “just in case.”
And yet now...
Now he smiled more. He sang all the time, even when no one was listening. He’d apologized to her—really apologized—after his album listening party. Drunk, mascara smudged, voice hoarse from crying.

"I used to hate myself so much I thought you had to hate me too. I didn’t trust you because I didn’t think anyone could actually love me.”
"You were never the problem,” Allura had told him, cupping his cheeks, eyes fierce. “But you were hurting—and hurting me. And now... look at you.”
Since working under Keith, Lotor had bloomed like spring after war. Keith didn’t coddle him. He challenged him. Gave him agency. Pushed him to write about the real stuff—the ugly, the broken, the buried. And now, his new music was raw and honest and so devastatingly good it made Allura tear up the first time she heard track four.
He’d named it “Constellations.” It was about her.
And today, like most mornings now, he was playing new melodies just for her—without tension, without fear.

Allura stepped off the tiles, walked over, and dropped to her knees beside him. “You’re lighter now,” she murmured, leaning in close. “You don’t carry everything like the sky’s about to fall.”
He looked at her for a moment, the shy tilt of his smile making her heart ache. “You’re why I tried,” he whispered. “And Keith... he showed me how not to hate myself. I didn't even know I was allowed to be happy.”
She leaned her forehead against his, noses brushing. “Well, you’re not just happy,” she said. “You’re annoyingly radiant. Do you know how hot it is that you started journaling? Meditating? Eating carbs?”
He laughed, genuinely—his chest shaking under the thin tank top he wore. “I love carbs now. I love me now.”
“Mmm.” She kissed his cheek, then his jaw. “You’re still a dramatic little omega.”

“You like it.”
“I do,” she purred, climbing into his lap. “But I love the new you more.”
He dropped the guitar gently to the side as her hands slid under his shirt. “I’ve been working on another song,” he whispered, voice low. “For you. I thought I could... test it out. See how you feel.”
“Later,” she said, lips brushing his. “Right now, I want to hear what your mouth can do without a guitar.”
Lotor grinned, emboldened by the weight of her in his lap, the glint in her eye. She kissed him, slow and deep, hands tangling in his hair as he exhaled into her. And for the first time in a long, long time, there was no fear in his touch.

Just want.
Just love.
Just them.
At least there was one happy couple.
Back in his home, Lance stared at the text Keith had left him that morning: short, polite, careful.
Thanks for letting me crash. Had to go. Let’s talk later. I just... need to breathe a bit.
He hadn’t said why he left. Not that Lance needed a reason.

He remembered the way Keith had clung to him—like a man dangling off a cliff—and then the way he’d crumpled into sobs so deep, Lance had been scared he’d break. He almost did break. His mind wouldn’t stop flashing back to Keith’s tear-strained face, the shaking in his shoulders, the raspy voice as he tried to explain… and then stopped.
He knew.
Lance knew what Keith had tried to do.
That Shiro had found him barely breathing. That if he hadn’t been discovered when he was, there would be no Nova 5. No new start. No late-night couch sessions. No Keith at all.
And Lance didn’t know whether to bring it up or bury it.

He felt guilty. For not noticing. For not being there. For walking away when Keith had needed someone most.
But despite the ache in his chest, there was also this stubborn, stupid, completely delulu belief—call it confidence, call it love, call it plain McClain arrogance—that he could fix this. Fix them.
He was going to try.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The next week, the internet exploded:
“Lance McClain to Headline Coachella”
“Lotor Confirmed as Guest Performer”
“Nova 5 Slated for Rising Star Stage!”
Suddenly, the desert wasn’t just dust and heat. It was electric.

When Lance hit the stage that night, the crowd was already roaring.
He wore custom sheer navy with glowing silver threads that caught the light like stars. His performance was cinematic—a seamless blend of sharp, intricate choreography and aching, emotional vocals. He opened with a fierce dance anthem, followed by a mid-set acoustic ballad so raw people sobbed into their phone cameras.
Then came his unreleased single: a heartbreak anthem.
By the time he hit the final chorus, standing in a solo spotlight with desert wind in his hair, the crowd was screaming.

“Lance McClain has cemented himself as the greatest performer of our time,” the headlines read the next morning. “A legend. A storm. A star reborn.”
Lotor’s set the following night was hypnotic—ethereal staging, haunting vocals, and a live strings section for his new song Constellations. Fans threw flowers, screamed his name, and chanted his lyrics like gospel.
Nova 5 lit up the small stage like it was the main event—tight, razor-sharp choreo, haunting harmonies, and a surprise remix of one of Keith’s favorite sad-boy anthems. Keith watched from the wings, stunned. His babies were killing it.
But what stunned him more was the VIP treatment.

Lance had given him all-access passe. Axca and Ronnie were with him the whole time—hand in hand, drinks in the other, being chaotic and very obviously in love. At one point, they drunkenly danced on a rooftop lounge while chanting Lance’s lyrics at the at the top of their lungs.
Keith was floored.
He’d never seen Ronnie with anyone—ever. She used to call relationships “government surveillance with kissing.” And Axca? Axca had said she “Doesn’t date.”
But now they were twirling under LED lights, whispering into each other’s ears, giggling at nothing. It was bizarre. It was adorable. It was so stupidly wholesome that Keith couldn’t stop smiling.
Lance didn’t push. Not once. He didn’t bring up the breakdown. Didn’t ask for answers. He just… hovered. Close but not invasive. Safe.
And Keith let himself relax, just a little.

They even bantered again. Lance had nudged his sunglasses down to stare dramatically at Keith’s outfit—head-to-toe black silk—and quipped, “I see Nova 5’s stylist is a war criminal.” Keith had snorted into his drink.
It wasn’t a fix.
But it was something.
By the final night, the six of them found themselves together on a private rooftop overlooking the desert lights. Ronnie and Axca were curled up on a lounge chair, giggling over a bottle of tequila. Lotor and Allura slow danced barefoot on the warm stone. Lance sat beside Keith, legs touching, no pressure, just warmth.
The music from below drifted up in soft waves. Laughter. Distant bass. Wind.
Keith glanced around at them—his people. He felt like someone who had survived the blast. Someone who still had time. Lance leaned over, offering him a gummy from his pocket. “They’re watermelon,” he whispered. “You like those.”

Keith took one, chewing slowly.
Their hands didn’t touch.
But neither of them moved away
The rooftop got quieter.
Most of the city-sized party had moved to afterparties, neon-drenched tents, and influencer-only villas. But here, above it all, was just the warm hush of wind and the hum of tired laughter.
Keith sipped from his drink, legs stretched out, shoulder still gently brushing Lance’s.

“I never thought I’d see Ronnie in a relationship,” he said suddenly, a soft grin curling at the corner of his mouth.
Lance laughed into his wrist. “Please. She’s one drunken karaoke away from proposing. I saw her make Axca a bracelet out of glowsticks.”
Keith mock-gagged. “Gross. Love. Vomit.”
“You used to write poetry about me when we were writing music.”
“That was fake poetry. For branding.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “You rhymed ‘Lance’ with ‘chance’ and ‘romance’ like five times.”
Keith rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, actually smiling—that kind of unguarded one that made him look 17 again.
Lance tilted his head, his expression soft. “It’s good to see you like this.”
Keith looked down, expression faltering for a second before he nodded. “Yeah. It’s good to feel like this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Elsewhere, across the festival grounds—
Nyma stood just outside the luxury compound’s security perimeter, clutching her expired press pass like it was going to change anything.
She had tried everything to get in. Told the guards she was part of Lotor’s glam team. Claimed to be Lance’s assistant. Even tried to flirt with a bouncer—only to be laughed off like a joke.
And then she saw them. Through the fence.
Keith and Lance. On a rooftop. Together.
They were laughing.

Laughing like they hadn’t ruined her life. Like they hadn’t stolen everything from her.
Her nails dug into her palms. Her lipstick smudged under her teeth. She watched until her eyes burned, until her jaw ached from grinding.
Security eventually noticed her and shooed her off the grounds.
She left without a word, walked for nearly an hour until her feet blistered, and finally got into a rideshare without checking the name.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When she got home, she poured herself vodka straight into a chipped mug. Her apartment was dark. Messy. Windows covered in newspaper. There were magazines torn up on the floor—ones with Keith on the cover. With Lance. With Nova 5.
She scrolled for hours. Forums. DMs. A group chat called “midnight conspiracies .”
Most of it was noise. But there were a few people who claimed they “knew people.” People who could do things.
Her hand hovered over one name in particular.
No photo. No bio.

Just a DM history that chilled her when she re-read it.
“It’s amazing. I’ve used it before.”
“I’ve done exactly what I wanted.”
Nyma’s lips curled into a slight, manic smile. “Good.”

She started typing.
Vaguely. Carefully.
Nothing that could tie back to her, nothing that said what she wanted done, just hints.
Just enough to start the clock ticking.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The event was the “Celestia Gala”—a private industry mixer hosted in a luxury penthouse overlooking the city skyline. Exclusive but intimate. The kind of room where million-dollar contracts got signed between champagne toasts and stolen glances. Perfect for networking, soft launches, and—if Keith had it his way—confessions.
Keith stood in front of the full-length mirror in his suite, one gloved hand smoothing down the bodice of his dress.
Black silk kissed his skin like sin, tight at the waist and flaring at the hips with just enough volume to command attention. Red embroidery coiled across the fabric like flames—bold, elegant, and just a little dangerous. His hair, now grown to the middle of his back, had been flat-ironed into a glossy cascade with a delicate braid tucked behind one ear and fastened with a ruby pin. His makeup was smoky, sharp, flawless. His nails were painted a mirror-finish black tipped in red.

He had been dreading this night for weeks.

Every time the thought crept in—Lance’s easy laughter, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the warmth of his presence like sunlight breaking through clouds—he had shoved it away, burying it under excuses and distractions. But denial could only last so long.

Now, standing in Ronnie’s living room, the weight of it settled over him like a heavy cloak. He had taken his sweet time, turning the truth over in his mind, examining it from every angle, hoping for a different answer. But there was no escaping it.

He was, unfortunately, hopelessly, stupidly in love with Lance.

The realization should have been freeing, but instead, it coiled tight in his chest, equal parts exhilaration and terror. Love wasn’t supposed to be this inconvenient, this reckless. Yet here he was, heart laid bare, no more excuses left.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to run from it anymore.

If this was love—messy, consuming, terrifying—then fine. He would meet it head-on. He would stumble through the uncertainty, the awkwardness, the fear of rejection, because Lance was worth it.

“Lance is going to lose his mind,” Axca said from behind him, already dressed in a satin suit with a plunging neckline and dramatic gold eyeshadow. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
Keith smirked. “If I’m going to tell Lance I want to do couples therapy, I might as well do it in a look.”
“You’re gonna wreck him.”
“...I hope so,” Keith muttered. “In a healthy way.”
Ronnie appeared in the doorway a moment later, wearing a sculptural deep blue gown that made her look like a space-age goddess. “Okay, first of all, what the hell is this Met Gala slay going on in my living room?”

“Fashion,” Keith said simply, picking up his phone and slipping it into a red clutch.
“Second of all,” Ronnie said, grabbing his hand as they walked out together, “are you really going to talk to him tonight?”
Keith nodded once. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it. If we’re gonna do this again, it has to be real. I want therapy. I want rules. I want it right.”
Ronnie gave his hand a squeeze.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The venue was already humming with low music, ambient lighting, and carefully curated elites. Echo’s soft launch corner was tastefully lit with violet neon. Allura, powerful in white and gold, was mid-discussion with a luxury audio brand rep. Lance, beside her in a dark suit with subtle star embroidery, looked every inch the cultural icon he was being marketed as. His hair was artfully tousled. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass.
But when he saw Keith?
His brain short-circuited.
Keith entered like a stormcloud dipped in fire and velvet. Every step was grace. Every flick of his hair a murder weapon. Lance literally stopped mid-sentence, jaw slightly slack, eyes locked like a hawk. Allura blinked at him.

“Hello?”
“Huh?” Lance tore his gaze away. “Yeah—uh, sorry. I was just—what were we saying about distribution?”
But he kept looking. Glancing. Watching.
Keith felt it. Every stolen stare. It made his skin buzz and his chest ache.
They hadn’t had a second alone yet, but Keith kept rehearsing the words: I’m willing to try—if we do therapy.
He was even… hopeful.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The night unfurled like silk.
Keith laughed with Axca, danced with Ronnie, posed with Nova 5. Lotor joined their little group later, casually lounging with a champagne flute and complimenting Axca’s eyeliner while Allura and Lance worked PR rounds.
Lance still hadn’t said a word to Keith. But he looked. God, he looked like he needed to.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it felt close.
Eventually, people drifted. Ronnie went to find a charger for her phone. Axca got pulled into a conversation with a producer. Keith ended up alone at the bar, swirling a cocktail and staring at his reflection in the glass.
“Keith?”

The voice was smooth, practiced—the kind of tone reserved for boardrooms and backroom deals. Keith turned, his grip tightening slightly on his glass, to see an older executive from one of the major streaming platforms standing beside him. The man’s suit was impeccably tailored, his cufflinks glinting under the low amber glow of the bar lights. His smile was polished, corporate, but his eyes remained cold, detached.

“I’m flattered you came tonight,” the man said, tilting his head just enough to feign sincerity. “You’ve really turned into quite the phenomenon.” His gaze flicked to Keith’s nearly empty glass. “Mind if I buy you another?”

Keith forced a tight smile. “I’m good, thanks.” He downed the rest of his drink—something bitter, something strong—and set the glass back on the bar with a quiet clink.

And then.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him, sudden and violent. The world tilted, the ambient chatter of the party warping into a distant hum. His vision blurred at the edges, shadows creeping in like ink spilled across his sight. His limbs—why were they so heavy?—felt like they were moving through wet cement.

Something was wrong.

His pulse pounded in his ears, too fast, too loud. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled slightly beneath him. The bar stool scraped against the floor as he staggered back.

“I—sorry,” he muttered, his tongue thick and uncooperative. His breath came shallow, uneven. “I need the—bathroom—”

But even as he said it, he knew.

Something was very, very wrong.

From across the room, Lance’s gaze locked onto Keith—just as he swayed, his fingers gripping the edge of the bar like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Lance’s spine went rigid, his muscles tensing before his mind had fully processed the danger. Instinct—pure Alpha instinct—flooded through him like ice water. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the hum of the party, the clink of glasses, the meaningless chatter of executives and socialites.

He was already moving.

“Excuse me,” he said abruptly, brushing past Allura and their startled company without a second glance. His voice was tight, clipped. “Something’s wrong with Keith.”

Keith barely made it to the hallway before his knees gave out. The walls blurred, the floor tilting beneath him like the deck of a sinking ship. His breath came in ragged gasps, his skin clammy, his thoughts sluggish.

Then—a hand clamped around his wrist.

“I’ve got you,” a low voice purred—slick, possessive.

Keith’s stomach lurched. It wasn’t Lance.

The scent hit him first—an unfamiliar Alpha, his pheromones thick with dominance, his grip bruising. Keith’s vision swam as he tried to focus on the man’s face: sharp features, a cruel twist to his mouth, eyes dark with intent.

The Alpha yanked him closer, fingers digging in. “You’re coming with me.”

Panic spiked through Keith’s veins, sharp and electric. “No—get off me—” He twisted, but his limbs were leaden, his strength sapped. The man only tightened his hold, dragging him toward a side door—

Then—

“HEY!”

Lance’s voice thundered down the hall, raw with fury.

Keith barely had time to register the blur of motion before Lance slammed into the Alpha like a storm breaking. There was a sickening crack as Lance’s fist connected with the man’s jaw, sending him crashing into the wall. The impact rattled a framed painting loose—it hit the ground with a shatter of glass.

Keith collapsed to the floor, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His vision swam, but he could still make out Lance’s silhouette—tense, trembling with barely leashed rage, his chest heaving.

“Touch him again,” Lance snarled, voice low and deadly, “and I’ll break more than your face.”
Axca and Ronnie came running seconds later, their heels skidding against the polished marble as they took in the scene. Lotor wasn’t far behind, his usual composed expression fractured into something sharp and dangerous.

Keith was slumped against the wall, his breathing ragged, his pupils blown wide. His skin had taken on a sickly pallor, sweat beading at his temples as he struggled to keep his eyes open. When he tried to push himself up, his arms gave out instantly—he couldn’t even stand.

"Oh my god—" Ronnie dropped to his side, her hands hovering over him before she carefully pressed two fingers to his pulse point. His heartbeat was too fast, erratic. Her face darkened. "He’s been drugged."

The words hit Lance like a physical blow. His vision tunneled.

"CALL THE COPS!" Axca screamed, already yanking out her phone, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.

The man—now dazed, blood dripping from his split lip—tried to crawl backward, his movements jerky with panic. " I didn’t even want to do it! I swear—"

"WHAT?" Lance roared, surging forward and hauling the man up by his collar, shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. The scent of fear rolled off the Alpha in waves, sour and acrid.

The man whimpered, his resolve crumbling. "Nyma! Nyma paid me! I—I didn’t know it’d go like this—"

Lance’s entire body shook with the force of his rage. His grip tightened, knuckles white. "I’m going to find her. I’m going to—"

"Lance." Lotor’s voice was a whip-crack of authority as he stepped between them, one hand pressing firmly against Lance’s chest. "You’re an Alpha. You can’t.You’ll end up in jail."

For a heartbeat, it looked like Lance might shove past him anyway—his breath came in sharp, furious bursts, his eyes wild. But then Axca’s voice cut through, cold and precise:

"Cops are two minutes out."

The man’s face went ashen. "No, no, wait—I’ll tell you everything! Just don’t—"

Too late. The distant wail of sirens pierced the night.

And Lance—Lance had never felt so powerless in his life.
While chaos erupted around them - Ronnie swearing colorfully, Axca barking orders at security, Lance vibrating with barely-contained rage - Lotor simply handed his champagne flute to Ronnie with the elegant precision of a man passing off a priceless artifact. He took a moment to straighten his jacket sleeves, the fabric whispering against his wrists like falling silk.

"Hold this, would you?" he murmured to Ronnie, as if asking her to watch his drink while he used the restroom. "I'll only be a moment."

Then he strolled toward the crowd like a panther sauntering through a garden party, his polished Oxfords clicking rhythmically against marble. The sea of partygoers instinctively parted - some out of respect, others out of primal self-preservation.

Nyma, the idiot, was trying to disappear near a pillar, her wide eyes darting toward the exits.

"Nyma!" Lotor called, his voice dripping with saccharine cheer as he waved like they were old friends. "Darling! You look absolutely edible tonight!"

The crowd froze.

Nyma turned slowly, her smile twitching like a faulty neon sign. "Oh. Uh. Hi...?"

Lotor closed the distance with predatory grace, his grin never wavering. "Just wanted to say hello before the police arrive," he purred, tilting his head with mock concern. "You know how paperwork gets so tedious after these little... incidents."

Nyma's perfectly contoured face went sheet-white. "What-?"

CRACK.

Lotor's fist connected with her jaw with the clean, efficient sound of a walnut splitting. Her head snapped back so violently her designer earring went flying, embedding itself in a nearby fruit display.

"Oh SHIT," Ronnie whooped, nearly dropping the champagne flute as Nyma staggered backward.

Lotor didn't give her time to recover. He followed up with a three-hit combination so smooth it looked choreographed - right cross, left hook, devastating uppercut - each impact landing with surgical precision.

"HOLY SHIT!" Axca screamed, now using her phone as a cheering baton. Across the room, Allura stared at him with the measured approval of a tennis match spectator.

The crowd erupted. Someone's phone flew into the air. A waiter instinctively ducked behind his tray.

Nyma hit the floor with all the grace of a sack of wet flour, her carefully styled hair now splayed around her like a tragic halo. She groaned, one hand fluttering weakly toward her surely broken nose.

Lotor stood over her, calmly adjusting his cuffs with the air of a man who'd just finished a mildly satisfying crossword. "Omega doesn't mean weak, darling," he corrected sweetly, before glancing at the stunned security team. "She's all yours."
The crack of Lotor’s fist connecting with Nyma’s jaw echoed through the ballroom like a gunshot. Lance stood frozen, his Alpha instincts still coiled tight—right up until the moment Nyma hit the floor. A strange mix of shock and vicious satisfaction flooded him. He wanted to shake Lotor’s hand.

But then Keith made a small, broken noise beside him, and every other thought evaporated.

Keith was slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow and uneven, his pupils blown so wide his violet irises had nearly disappeared. His fingers twitched against the marble floor as if trying to find purchase, but his muscles refused to cooperate. When Lance dropped to his knees in front of him, Keith’s glassy eyes struggled to focus.

"Hey—look at me," Lance murmured, cupping Keith’s fever-hot face. His skin burned under Lance’s palms. "You with me, samurai?"

Keith’s lips parted, but all that came out was a slurred, "M’fine," the word dissolving into a weak cough.

Lance’s stomach dropped. "Yeah, that’s convincing," he said, already sliding one arm under Keith’s knees. Without hesitation, he lifted Keith bridal-style, ignoring the gasps and flashing phone cameras around them. Keith was alarmingly light in his arms—all lean muscle normally, but now limp as a ragdoll, his head lolling against Lance’s shoulder.

"Lance—" Keith mumbled, his voice thick and slow.

"Shhh, I got you," Lance whispered, tightening his grip as he shouldered through the crowd. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the chaos behind them. "Just hang on, okay? We’re getting you help."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The hospital’s fluorescent lights made Keith look even paler against the sterile white sheets. Lance hadn’t left his side—not when they’d hooked him up to IV fluids, not when the nurses took his vitals, not when the doctor—a no-nonsense Beta with sharp eyes and a clipboard—finally stepped into the room.

"Good news," the doctor said, flipping through the chart. "The drug isn’t lethal. Bad news? It’s a heat inducer laced with a neuromuscular suppressant—specifically designed to incapacitate Omegas." He paused, his expression darkening. "Given the dosage, he might go into a dry heat within the next few hours. He’ll need close monitoring."

Lance’s grip on Keith’s hand turned crushing. "You’re telling me someone engineered this—"

"To make it easier to take advantage of Omegas? Yes." The doctor’s mouth thinned. "We’ll flush his system, but he’ll be out of it for a while. When the heat symptoms hit, he shouldn’t be alone."

Keith stirred weakly, a faint whimper escaping his lips. Lance leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. "I’m not going anywhere," he vowed, low and fierce.

His phone buzzed—Allura, for the fifth time. He typed a quick reply with one hand: He’s stable. Docs say he’ll be ok. She’d relay it to the others; none of them needed to see Keith like this, trembling and vulnerable under the hospital’s too-bright lights.

—

Outside the ER, Allura exhaled sharply as Lance’s text came through. "Keith’s stable," she announced, tucking her phone away.

Ronnie, pacing like a caged tiger, finally stopped. "Thank fuck."

Axca was already dialing, her voice clipped. "Marlowe? We need you. Attempted kidnapping, drugging—yes, a heat inducer." She locked eyes with Lotor, who was calmly wiping Nyma’s blood off his knuckles with a monogrammed handkerchief. "Press every charge possible."

Lotor pocketed the handkerchief. "I do hope Nyma enjoys her new lawsuit. And her broken nose."

The cop taking their statements groaned. "Mr. Sincline, you realize assault charges—"

"Are unlikely to stick," Lotor finished smoothly. "My parents own the building your precinct leases. Shall we discuss how many community donations it would take to make this… disappear?"

The cop shut his notebook with a resigned sigh.

—

Back in the hospital room, Keith’s fingers twitched against Lance’s palm. His breathing had evened out, but his skin still burned. Lance thumbed away the sweat at Keith’s temple, his chest tight.

"You’re safe," he murmured, more for himself than Keith. "I’ve got you."

Somewhere in the city, Nyma was being booked into a cell. Somewhere else, a powerful lawyer was drafting lawsuits. But here, in this quiet room, the only thing that mattered was the steady rise and fall of Keith’s chest—and Lance’s silent promise to tear apart anyone who ever hurt him again.

Chapter Text

The nurses came in silently, like ghosts in pale blue. One gently pried Keith’s hand from Lance’s as the other began unfastening the crumpled remains of his clothes, her voice kind but clinical as she asked Lance to step out for a moment. He refused.
“I’m not leaving him,” he said, and something in his voice—raw, barely controlled—made the nurse hesitate.
They compromised. Lance turned his back as they changed Keith, jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides. He heard every rustle of fabric, the IV being adjusted, the low beep of the machines tethered to Keith’s arm. When he finally turned around, Keith was small in the sterile white gown, swallowed whole by the hospital bed. His lashes were damp. His hair was sweat-matted and stuck to his forehead.
The doctor entered briskly.

“We flushed most of the drug from his system,” he said, scanning the chart. “Lucky you got him here so fast. If it had reached full saturation…”
Lance didn’t let him finish.
“What happens now?” he asked.
The doctor exhaled slowly. “That depends on how his body metabolizes the remains. He could either enter a dry heat—symptoms without full hormone trigger—or a complete one. We’ve stabilized his vitals, but his readings are still irregular. His body’s confused. It’s trying to defend itself from something it thinks it wants.”
Lance’s jaw ticked. “How long until we know?”
“A few more hours. Maybe less. For now, he needs to rest. You should go home, Mr. McClain.”
“No.”

The doctor gave him a look—part pity, part protocol. “If he goes into heat, we’ll sedate him. He’ll be safe. But if it’s dry, he’s going to be irritable, panicked, potentially aggressive. You being here could either calm him… or trigger him. Especially if he imprints on you while disoriented.”
Lance sat anyway. Pulled the chair up and took Keith’s hand again.
“I’m not leaving.”

The doctor didn’t argue. He just noted something on the chart and left.
Time slowed into molasses. Nurses came and went. The beeping steadied. Lance barely blinked, afraid he’d miss something if he did. He wiped Keith’s face every time it got too damp. Held his hand like it was a lifeline—like if he let go, Keith might float away.
The fluorescent lights hummed softly above them. A world away from the chaos they'd just survived.
Keith stirred again—this time with a groan, weak and guttural. His fingers curled around Lance’s. His lips moved, parched and uncertain.
“Lance…”

Lance surged forward. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re at the hospital. It’s over.”
Keith’s eyes opened slowly—cloudy and disoriented, pupils blown wide. “It hurts.”
“I know, I know.” He brought Keith’s knuckles to his lips. “They flushed the drug out. You’re going to be okay.”
Keith blinked up at him, and for one fragile second, he looked so young. So lost. “What happened?”

Lance nodded, jaw tightening. “ I’m not sure Nyma had something to do with it. She’s in jail. Axca handled it, so did Lotor.”
That got a faint, choked laugh from Keith, but it ended in a wince. “He always did have a flair for drama.”
“He punched her. I’d let him punch her again if I could.”
Keith closed his eyes, pressing into the pillow. “I’m so tired…”
“You can rest. I’ll be right here.”

Keith didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Moments later, a nurse returned with new readings. She glanced at the monitor, then at Lance.
“His body’s starting to shift,” she said quietly. “We’ll know which direction it’s going soon. But you should prepare—he might go into heat before morning.”
Lance didn’t move. Just tightened his hold.
Let it come, he thought. Let it burn through them both if it had to.
He wasn’t leaving.

Lance waited until Keith drifted into another fevered doze before stepping into the hallway and pulled out his phone. One call to his assistant. Another to the hospital board. And then, finally, a quiet but firm conversation with the on-call administrator.
“I want him moved,” Lance said, his voice low but carrying the weight of someone used to getting what he wanted. “Private suite. Best care. And get a specialist one who, specializes in heat responses patients. Triple their usual fee, I don’t care.”
“Sir, the regular wing is—”
“I’ll buy the whole floor if I have to. Make it happen.”

And just like that, things moved quickly. A team arrived in under ten minutes, quietly transferring Keith to a private elevator while Lance walked beside the gurney, gaze hard enough to part oceans. The new suite was more like a luxury hotel than a hospital room—polished wood floors, ambient lighting, a sound-dampening system, and a recliner that looked more expensive than most people’s rent. The bed adjusted silently, and the temperature control could be fine-tuned to Keith’s comfort.
When they settled Keith into fresh sheets—plush, breathable, and softer than anything from the general ward—Lance finally let himself sink into the recliner. He peeled off his blazer and loosened his tie, every muscle in his body screaming in exhaustion.

But he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Not until Keith opened his eyes again.
It happened about an hour later, with a low groan and a dry cough. Keith shifted against the sheets, sweat-stuck and sore, blinking up at the softly lit ceiling like he wasn’t sure where he was.
Then he turned his head—and saw Lance.
Lance was out of the chair in a second, at his side, hand on his arm. “Keith?”
Keith blinked again, lips quirking tiredly. “We really know how to ruin a night out, huh?”

Lance let out a breathy, shocked laugh. His eyes were glassy. His hair was a mess. His shirt was wrinkled and damp with old stress-sweat, but his smile was nothing short of radiant. “You’re awake.”
Keith groaned and shifted. “Barely. Everything hurts. Especially my stomach. Feels like I got kicked by a centaur.”
“They said the cramps were a side effect of the drug.”
“Fantastic.”
Lance eased back onto the chair, still leaning close. His fingers brushed Keith’s wrist, like he couldn’t stop touching him now that he was lucid.

“They moved you. I called in a specialist—she’s the best. I got you out of that freezing room. This one has blackout curtains and real food and apparently aromatherapy? I don’t even know, I just signed things.”
Keith stared at him, a little dazed, eyes still foggy from the crash of the drugs and the chaos that came before. But when he smiled—slow, crooked, and fragile—it was like watching something wounded reach toward the sun.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” he murmured. His voice was raspier than usual, low from strain, but the words held something more: disbelief, gratitude, and the bitter edge of someone who hadn’t expected to be protected ever again.

Lance’s breath caught. He gave a soft, choked laugh, the sound half-broken. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red from exhaustion and a storm of emotion he hadn't dared let himself feel until now. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I did. Because the thought of you—alone, hurting, drugged, scared—Keith, it nearly killed me. I don’t want you to ever be in that kind of pain again. Not if I can help it. Not ever.”
Keith blinked quickly, lashes damp. He turned fully toward him despite the dull throb in his belly, his whole body aching. And then he said it, raw and low, the words pulled from the deepest part of his chest.
“Lance…”
Lance leaned in, instantly, breath held. “Yeah?”

Keith’s eyes searched his—aching, cautious, but open in a way he hadn’t been in so long. “I want to work it out,” he whispered. “I want… us. Still. God, I’m still so stupidly in love with you. I tried to stop—I tried to get angry enough, hurt enough, to forget—but it didn’t go away.”
Lance’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, face crumpling slightly.
“But,” Keith added, voice trembling, “I can’t go back to pretending. We can’t just sweep it under the rug. I need… I need to rebuild from the bottom. I want to try again. But only if we do it the right way. Therapy. Real couples therapy. We talk. We face everything. Even the ugly parts.”
There was a beat of silence, charged and sharp—then relief broke across Lance’s face like sunlight after a hurricane. He reached for Keith’s hand, cradled it like it was something holy, then brought it to his lips, kissing it with reverence.

“Of course,” he whispered, voice thick. “God, Keith—yes. I’ll do whatever it takes. That’s such a small price—I’d sit through a thousand sessions if it meant getting even a sliver of you back.”
Keith exhaled shakily, a tiny smile tugging at his lips, watery and tired but so deeply sincere. “I don’t want you to make it up to me, Lance,” he said. “I don’t want guilt or grand gestures. I just want you to love me. Honestly. Every day. Even when it’s hard.”
Lance let out a shaky breath and leaned in, gently pressing their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut as though the contact was enough to anchor him.
“I already do,” he said, voice cracked open with truth. “More than anything. And I won’t let you forget it again.”
Keith’s heart twisted in his chest. He let himself feel it this time—the hope, the fear, the raw love still burning beneath everything. Their kiss was slow, a quiet promise between them. Not frantic or perfect. Just real.
When they pulled apart, Keith blinked against the sting in his eyes, breath shaky.
Lance brushed a thumb over Keith’s cheek.

A soft knock on the door drew their attention. Dr. Choi entered, glancing between them with a raised brow but choosing not to comment.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I’ve reviewed your readings, Keith. It’s unfortunate but you’re going into a dry heat.”
Keith groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course I am.”
Dr. Choi offered a sympathetic smile. “We can administer a hormone treatment to shift your body into a full heat instead. It’s easier to manage, and safer overall. But you’ll need an alpha present, someone you trust.”
Keith gave Lance a long look—measuring, steady. Then he nodded. “I trust you.”
Dr. Choi inclined her head. “We’ll begin the induction in the next thirty minutes. It’ll take a few hours to kick in. You’ll be fine to head home before it peaks.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dr. Choi gave them a final once-over, her voice gentle but brisk. “I’ll give you two a moment. The hormone dose has been administered, and based on Keith’s baseline, symptoms will start manifesting within the next few hours. He’ll be increasingly sensitive—temperature, touch, scent. Keep him hydrated. Comfortable. And above all, calm.”
She glanced at Keith with a faint smile. “You’re not alone, okay?”
Then she turned on her heel and left, the quiet click of the door softening behind her like punctuation.
Lance stood still for a moment, watching Keith shift in the bed, the flush already creeping along his throat. He was pale, tired, and achingly beautiful in a way that made Lance’s chest hurt.

“Keith…” he said, voice low. “Are you really okay with me taking care of you through this? You don’t have to—if there’s any part of you that’s unsure, just say so. I’ll still be here. Just not in that way.”
Keith blinked slowly, his eyes steady despite the haze. “Lance.”
Lance braced himself.
“I wouldn’t have asked you to take me home if I didn’t want you with me,” Keith said, voice thick. “I trust you. I want you there. Not just as the alpha who can help—but as you. You’re the only person I want near me right now.”
Lance’s breath caught, eyes burning. He reached forward and brushed a damp curl off Keith’s forehead. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Then I’ll make sure everything’s perfect.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
And he did.
Lance flew into action the second he stepped back into his penthouse, his hands buzzing with purpose. But he wasn’t alone for long.
Ronnie was already kicking off her heels in the foyer, her usually-flawless curls tied up in a practical bun. “Where do you need me?” she asked, voice clipped, eyes burning with concern.
“Allura’s downstairs with a car full of supplies,” Lotor called out from the kitchen, unpacking two tote bags like a man on a mission. “She bought every cooling blanket and comfort snack in a three-block radius.”
Axca arrived last, dressed in all black as usual but shedding her jacket as she entered. She looked around the penthouse with a tactical eye. “Where’s he nesting?”
“Guest room,” Lance said. “I stripped it already. I want him surrounded by things that feel like him.”

Together, they worked like a well-oiled machine. Ronnie fluffed and arranged the pillows, layering textures—velvet, jersey, plush faux fur—just the way Keith liked. Lotor lit soft candles and adjusted the lighting to a golden amber glow that softened every edge. Allura filled the minifridge with cold packs, electrolyte drinks, yogurt and ice cream.
Axca brought in a small humidifier and Keith’s favorite room spray from his studio office.
And through it all, Lance remained silent, focused, pouring all of his anxious energy into perfecting the space. Every hoodie laid out. Every blanket tucked just so. Keith’s favorite pair of socks—soft gray with tiny embroidered stars—folded neatly on the nightstand.

When everything was done, the others lingered for a moment in the living room, watching Lance check the thermostat for the third time.
Axca stepped forward, her voice softer than usual. “Lance.”
He turned.
She held his gaze. “Take care of him. Like really take care of him. Not just because you’re the only alpha he’ll let near him right now, but because you want to.”
Lance’s throat tightened. “I do.”
Axca nodded once, sharp and sure. “Then you’ll be fine.”

They left without visiting Keith. No one pushed to see him—every one of them understood. Keith’s instincts were fragile now, delicate and raw beneath the influence of the hormones. And Lance, wound tight with protectiveness, didn’t want anyone triggering Keith’s defense mechanisms—not even their closest friends.
When the door finally clicked shut behind them, the apartment felt still. Sacred.
Lance changed into soft sweats and a plain cotton tee, scrubbed his hands like he was prepping for surgery, then grabbed the keys.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
By the time he returned to the hospital, Keith was groggy but stable, swaddled in a blanket and dressed in the soft clothes Lance had brought—charcoal sweats, a zip hoodie, socks.
“You ready?” Lance asked gently, cradling his arm behind Keith’s shoulders as he helped him sit up.
Keith’s mouth was dry, but the smirk still curled on his lips. “Barely,” he rasped. “But if I’m gonna combust, I’d rather it be at your place than on hospital linens.”
Lance chuckled, unable to resist pressing a kiss to his temple. “Let’s go.”

He led him out of the hospital, steady and slow, each step feeling like they were crossing a threshold—not just into Lance’s car, but into something they’d both been afraid to name for too long.
A new beginning. A real one.

The drive home was a blur of soft music, warm glances, and Lance’s hand resting steady on Keith’s thigh. Keith leaned into the window, heat rolling under his skin in heavy, slow waves. The hormone shot was doing its job. Every nerve ending was tingling. Every breath tasted like Lance.
By the time they reached the private garage beneath Lance’s building, Keith was flushed and restless. His pupils were blown wide, and his legs barely held him when he stepped out.
Lance didn’t even give him the chance to stumble.

He swept Keith into his arms without a word, holding him tightly against his chest as the elevator dinged open.
Keith blinked up at him, a dazed smile tugging at his lips. “This feels familiar.”
Lance huffed a laugh, adjusting his grip. “Yeah, well. The last time I carried you out of a party, there were cameras flashing, paparazzi yelling and I’m pretty sure Lotor was wiping Nyma’s blood of his knuckles.”
Keith laughed—soft and wrecked. “Romantic.”
“I thought so,” Lance said, his voice low. “But this? This is better.”

The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse, and Lance stepped inside like he was carrying something sacred. The lights were low. The air smelled of lavender and cedarwood. The nest was waiting.
But they didn’t make it there.
Not right away.
The moment the door clicked shut, Keith leaned up and kissed him—hungry, desperate, tasting like heat and longing and every apology they hadn’t spoken yet. Lance stumbled back against the wall, still holding him, the kiss deepening with the kind of intensity that only comes after nearly losing someone.
Clothes became a problem fast.

Keith tugged Lance’s hoodie off one-handed, fingers fumbling at his shirt while Lance blindly worked the hem of Keith’s hoodie up and over his head. They were both breathless, laughing and gasping between kisses, shedding layers with frantic need.
“I’m sorry,” Lance panted against Keith’s jaw, kissing down his neck. “I’m so fucking sorry for everything—”
Keith silenced him with another kiss, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. “Don’t talk. Just do.”
They barely made it into the nest—half-naked, skin flushed, limbs tangled. Lance laid Keith down gently, but the second Keith hit the blankets, he was pulling Lance on top of him again, lips seeking, hips already moving with instinct.
Heat wasn’t coming anymore.
It had arrived.

Keith whimpered against his mouth, hands scrabbling at Lance’s back. “Please.”
That one word undid him.
Lance kissed him like he was trying to memorize his soul—slow, reverent, but quickly losing control. They didn’t speak much after that. Everything they needed to say was in the way they moved together, in the way Keith gasped Lance’s name like it was a prayer, in the way Lance held him like he’d never let go again.
It wasn’t polished or slow.
It was desperate, real, full of aching want and unspoken promises. Keith burned, and Lance anchored him.

Lance ran his hands up and down Keith’s perfect, soft body. Tracing every curve and dip and swell. He covered Keith and kissed away his worries.
“I love you, Keith,” He breathed against his scent gland before latching on with his mouth sucking. Keith cried out, the scent of his slick and arousal thick in the air.
Keith sucked on his in return and rolled his hips against him. Slick smeared over Lance’s abdomen, Keith’s cock pressing and seeking as eagerly as his. Lance wrapped his hand around it and held it as Keith bucked lightly into it.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Lance said breathlessly, “I’m going to keep you safe, keep you happy.”
Lance pulled Keith’s knees up, hooked them over his shoulders. Keith whimpered, his soft tits bouncing sweetly as Lance rutted his hard cock against Keith’s wet pussy, up against his cock. Keith was soaking wet, panting with want.

“Lance” Keith gasped, his hands found Lane’s thighs and sent chills up his spine. He needed to be closer. Lance bent low, folding Keith in half under him as he nuzzled close. “Show me.”
Lance kissed him. He felt the depth of his need in that moment, drinking in every soft whimper that escaped Keith’s lips. His mouth moved with care, gentle but desperate, pouring all the love he’d been holding back into the kiss. Their connection ignited instantly—hot, aching, and overdue. They had been apart too long.

“Your making me lose my mind,” Lance huffed against Keith’s open mouth. Keith’s fingers were clawing into his back, his ankles crossed behind him. “I’m never letting you go again.”
As Keith clung to him, pliant and trusting, Lance eased them down, letting his fingers stroke slow lines over warm skin. Keith's scent was everywhere—lavender and vanilla—and it wrapped around Lance like a tether. He kissed along Keith’s jaw, his throat, and when Keith’s fingers tangled in his hair, Lance had to pause for just a second.
He pressed a kiss to Keith’s shoulder and reached blindly into the drawer beside the bed. His movements were practiced, quiet. Keith didn’t notice—too focused on the drag of lips over his collarbone, the way Lance’s hand traced along his spine.

Lance didn’t mind. He preferred it this way.
The slick packaging crinkled softly in his palm. Not just any kind—he’d ordered them himself. Specially made to stretch with his knot. He wasn’t going to be reckless with Keith. Not again. Not after what had happened.
He rolled it onto his cock with slow precision, steady breaths anchoring him. This wasn’t just about want. It was about care. About showing Keith that this time, he’d protect him in every way he could.

Lance pressed his cock into Keith’s slick entrance and moaned as he opened up for him. Keith was wet and tight, gripping his cock with an urgency that set Lance to work. He pounded into his omega, opening him up wider, working his slick into a foam over his folds, pressing deeper and deeper, seeking the sweet spot for him to unload.

“Lance, Lance, alpha…” Keith was moaning brokenly, his tongue rolling over his lips. His cock spurted with his first orgasm, slick dripping over his perky tits as Lance fucked him. “Fuck me ….”
“I know my love,” Lance growled and snapped his hips hard and fast. Keith squealed and shook, another orgasm gushing around Lance’s cock as his knot began to beat its way inside. “You’re such a good omega. So beautiful.”
Lance broke into a moan as his knot popped inside of Keith’s tight pussy. It felt too soon—too much, too fast—but he’d been without Keith for so long, and the intensity of it hit him like a wave.
“Fuck,” Keith gasped, cheeks wet with tears as his pussy tightened and gushed again. His cock was leaking slick between them, making their embrace slippery. “Yes, fuck, Lance, fill me…”

Lance pushed on. He frantically rocked his hips, pulling on his knot and tormenting it until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. Lance came with a shout, his balls tightening close and emptying into the latex.
Keith latched his lips to Lance’s scent gland, sucking down hard as if he were bonding him. Lance whimpered and matched it, biting Keith’s scent gland lightly for a second before going lax and lapping his tongue over Keith’s glands instead. His cock was pumping load after load into Keith, it had been too long since Lance had let his knot pop so he had a lot to give.
“I love you,” He said again, voice shaking.

Keith didn’t answer right away. His breathing had slowed, warm and steady against Lance’s chest, and when Lance looked down, he found Keith already drifting—eyes half-lidded, lashes fluttering before finally going still. Exhaustion had taken him, softening every edge. He looked peaceful in a way Lance hadn’t seen in ages, like the weight he’d been carrying had finally slipped off his shoulders, even if just for tonight.
Lance held him closer, heart aching and full all at once.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance woke up slowly, blinking against the early morning light seeping through the curtains. The world was still quiet—just the hush of wind outside and the rhythmic rise and fall of Keith’s breathing against his chest.

Keith was draped over him, warm and sprawled like a very grumpy housecat, hair mussed, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. And God, that scent , sweet and grounding.

Lance tucked his arms more firmly around Keith, daring the universe to make him move. If this was what heaven felt like, he’d die here gladly—preferably with Keith’s stupidly perfect scent clinging to him like a taunt. Because, honestly, how dare Keith smell this good after everything? How dare he be this warm, this soft, this Keith-shaped after months of being gone? It was rude. It was criminal. Lance had spent too many nights missing the weight of him, the way his breath hitched when he was half-asleep, the way his stupid hair tickled Lance’s chin like it was personally mocking him for ever thinking he could live without this.

Keith shifted slightly in his sleep, nose brushing Lance’s collarbone. Lance sucked in a quiet breath, because even half-dead from exhaustion and heat, Keith somehow managed to make something as simple as breathing feel like seduction.

Eventually, Keith stirred, mumbling something against his skin that might’ve been “morning” or “move and die.”

“Hey,” Lance whispered, voice rough with sleep but touched with awe. “You alive?”

Keith lifted his head, blinking at him blearily. “Barely. You’re… obnoxiously comfy. Don’t ever move.”

Lance exhaled dramatically. “Wasn’t planning to. I’ll cancel my whole life if it means I get to be your pillow.” His fingers traced lazy circles on Keith’s back, like he could memorize him through touch alone. “Also, you smell stupidly good. It’s offensive. You’re making it hard to be a gentleman.”

Keith snorted and dropped his head back on Lance’s chest with a groan. “I’m in heat and half-dead. We’ve already had sex three times. The gentleman ship has sailed and sunk.”

Lance grinned. “Yeah, but I’m romantic about it.”

Keith sighed, long-suffering. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you,” Lance said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “owe me so many cuddles.”

Keith grumbled, but he curled closer, and Lance decided—just this once—he’d let him win.
Their peace was shattered by the aggressive buzzing of Lance’s phone, rattling against the nightstand like an angry hornet. Keith groaned, lifting his head just enough to glare in its general direction. “If that’s Ronnie again, tell her I’m alive and I’ll kill her myself if she doesn’t stop worrying.”

Lance stretched one arm toward the phone, nearly dislodging Keith in the process—earning himself a warning growl—and squinted at the screen.

RONNIE: Is he okay? How is he doing??
RONNIE (0.2 seconds later): Tell him we love him and we hope he's okay.

Lance smirked and typed back one-handed, his thumb moving with the speed of a man who had zero patience for interruptions.

LANCE: He’s glowing, alive, and threatening murder if you don’t stop texting. The nest survived. Updates later, go away.
Lance tossed the phone back onto the nightstand with the dramatic flair of a magician finishing a trick, grinning down at Keith, who lay sprawled across the bed like a man who had just lost the will to live. His face was half-buried in a pillow, one eye cracked open in a baleful stare, as if seriously weighing the pros and cons of suffocation versus continuing this conversation.

“You know,” Keith muttered, voice muffled by the pillow, “your psycho ex literally tried to drug me. Like, full-on ‘dissolve this in his drink and hope he doesn’t notice’ kind of drugging. What the hell was she thinking? I told you she was bad news.” He lifted his head just enough to shoot Lance a look that could curdle milk. “ Did you listen? Nooo.”

Lance shifted, wrapping an arm around Keith’s waist and hauling him closer in a move that was equal parts apology and territorial claim. “In my defense,” he said, pressing a kiss to Keith’s temple, “she seemed normal when we were dating.”

Keith groaned, letting his forehead thunk against Lance’s collarbone. “Oh, great. So now we know your type is ‘deceptively functional until they try to poison your ex.’ Good to know.”

Lance squeezed him tighter, his voice dripping with exaggerated sincerity. “I’m so sorry, babe. She’s going to jail, and I will never—and I mean never—even breathe near an ex of mine again.”

Keith sighed, long-suffering, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“But,” Lance added, raising an eyebrow, “this coming from the man who sang like an actual angel at that party and never told me he could even carry a tune.”

Keith’s lips curled into a smug smile as he dragged his fingers down Lance’s chest, enjoying the way his breath hitched. “You never asked.”

“You sang Safety Net like you lived it,” Lance accused, eyes narrowing. “And with Kinkade, of all people.”

Keith burst out laughing, the sound warm and bright against Lance’s skin. “You thought I had a thing with Kinkade?”

“Well, it sounded like you did!”

Keith pressed a kiss to Lance’s shoulder, still shaking with quiet laughter. “He’s asexual and aromantic. Literally allergic to romance. He likes composing and eating carbs. That’s it.”

Then, cheeks flushing a delicious shade of pink, he added, “Plus… I wrote Safety Net about you. About how it felt when I was falling in love.”

Lance blinked. “Well, damn.” He exhaled dramatically. “Then who do I get to be jealous of now?”

Keith smirked, shifting up to press a slow, teasing kiss to his mouth. “No one. You already won.”

Lance hummed, pulling him back in. “Damn right I did.”

And then, because he could, he rolled them over, pinning Keith beneath him with a grin. “But just to be safe, maybe don’t go singing love songs with anyone else. My heart can’t take it.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but his arms wound around Lance’s neck anyway. “Shut up and kiss me, loser.”

And so he did.
They spent the rest of the morning in their bubble—napping, making out lazily, then eventually crawling out of bed when Lance’s stomach growled loud enough to startle Keith awake.

“Was that your stomach or a dying whale?” Keith mumbled, squinting up at him.

“That, my love, was the sound of a man who needs to feed his omega,” Lance declared, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “And since someone got roofied last night—”

“Oh my god, once,” Keith groaned, throwing an arm over his face.

“—I am now legally obligated to be insufferably attentive.”

And so, Lance cooked shirtless , flipping pancakes with unnecessary flair while Keith sat at the counter, wrapped in Lance’s hoodie, stealing sips from his coffee mug like a smug little thief.

“You have your own mug,” Lance pointed out, pouring more batter.

“Yeah, but yours tastes better,” Keith said, taking another deliberate sip. “Weird how that works.”

Lance gasped, clutching his spatula like a sword. “Is this revenge? Are you poisoning me with psychological warfare?”

Keith smirked. “Maybe.”

They bickered playfully over music choices while curled up on the couch later, Keith scrolling through his phone with his feet in Lance’s lap.

And when the sun dipped lower, painting the room in warm gold, they found themselves tangled up in sheets again—slow, familiar, no rush.

“You good?” Lance murmured, fingers tracing Keith’s ribs like he was memorizing him.

“Mmm. Better than good.” Keith arched into the touch, sighing. “You don’t have to keep checking on me, you know. I’m not made of glass.”

“False. You are precious and delicate,” Lance said solemnly, kissing his collarbone. “And I will be wrapping you in bubble wrap for the foreseeable future.”

Keith snorted. “Try it and lose a limb.”

Lance grinned, rolling them over. “Worth it.”

There was soft laughter, long kisses, and touches that said I missed you. I love you. I’m staying this time.

No apologies. No promises needed.

Just them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
The rest of Keith’s heat passed in a blur of soft touches, shared baths, slow mornings, and Lance keeping him fed, hydrated, and doted on. Three days of tangled limbs and whispered jokes, naps in sun-drenched sheets, and music humming low in the background. Keith had never felt more loved—or more sore.
By the fourth day, his fever had broken and the sharp edges of his heat had dulled into something manageable. He stretched under the covers and groaned dramatically.
Lance, holding a smoothie and a plate of toast, raised a brow. “You sound like you fought in a war.”
“I did, actually. ” Keith muttered, dragging a pillow over his face. “And where the hell did you learn that thing with your hips—”
Lance just grinned. “Trade secret, baby.”

By mid-morning, Keith was back in his usual clothes, hair messy but clean, hoodie way too big and clearly stolen from Lance. He kissed Lance goodbye at the door—soft, slow, lingering.
“Go,” Keith said, nudging him toward the elevator. “Before I drag you back into bed again.”
“I’m not afraid,” Lance quipped. “I just don’t think my downstairs neighbors can take another night of you screaming my name.”
Keith blushed scarlet and smacked his chest. “Go.” Lance made it out of sight just as Lotor opened the door dramatically, arms wide. “Look who didn’t die!”
Ronnie wolf-whistled from the couch. “There he is!”

Keith rolled his eyes and dropped into an armchair. “Can I just have one peaceful entrance without being heckled?”
“No,” Axca replied flatly, handing him a drink. “Welcome back. You look blissed out.”
“I am blissed out,” Keith said, sinking into the cushions with a ridiculous little smile. “I feel…really fucking happy. It’s weird.”
Lotor raised a brow. “Weird because of Lance?”
“Weird because it feels real this time,” Keith said, staring into his cup. “We’re doing the work. Like, couples therapy, boundaries, all of it. And he’s just…he’s different. More solid.”
Ronnie smirked. “Yeah, well, he better be.”

Keith snorted.
Everyone laughed, and for a few moments, the room felt light—warm. Keith curled up, sipping his drink, soaking in the peace of it all. Of being with his people.
Then Axca, ever the queen of impeccable timing, casually spoke up.

"Hey, Keith," she said, scrolling her phone without looking up, voice deceptively light. "I'm super happy for you, I really am ,but what exactly are you going to tell Shiro?"

The silence was instant.

Like a needle scratching off vinyl.

Lotor froze with a chip halfway to his mouth. Ronnie slowly looked up, eyes wide. Even Axca blinked, as if surprised by her own bluntness, and finally glanced at him.

Keith's smile died on his face.
His chest tightened. However happy he was now, it didn’t change one thing: Shiro would never look at Lance again without seething.

Chapter Text

The air in the room turned thick after Axca’s question, like the universe itself had pressed pause. Even the hum of the refrigerator in the next room seemed to quiet, as if holding its breath.

Keith blinked, his fingers tightening around his wine glass—too tight, he realized, when the stem gave a tiny, protesting creak. He loosened his grip, exhaling slowly. He hadn’t expected this question. Not tonight. Not when he’d spent the last hour pretending his biggest problem was whether he would be taking Lance in the kitchen or the living room.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted, voice rougher than he intended. “I don’t know how to look him in the eye and say, ‘Hey, by the way, I’m back with Lance. Surprise.’ After everything.” He swirled the wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid cling to the sides like regret.

Axca tilted her head, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “He’s your family. He deserves to know.”

“I know that,” Keith muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “But—Christ, Axca, I owe him. When everything blew up—when the blackmail hit, when Lance left me—I was a wreck.” His throat tightened, and he stared into his wine like it might hold answers. Or at least a decent distraction.

He swallowed hard. “You already know about the miscarriage,” he said quietly, the words brittle. “But that wasn’t the end of it. It didn’t stop there.”

Axca’s frown deepened. “Keith… what are you—”

He cut her off with a look so raw, so broken, that her words died on her lips.

“I wasn’t okay,” he said, louder now, like ripping off a bandage. “I was so far gone, I didn’t think the hurt would ever stop. And I was tired—so damn tired—of pretending I could glue myself back together.” His breath hitched. “So… I tried to end it. I tried to kill myself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was vacuum-sealed. Even the clock on the wall seemed to hesitate before ticking again.

Lotor’s wine glass hit the table with a soft clink, his lips parted in stunned silence. Axca had gone statue-still, her fingers frozen mid-reach. Ronnie looked like she’d just been handed a live grenade.

Keith barreled on before he lost his nerve. “I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to be treated like cracked porcelain. And it wasn’t Lance’s fault. Not entirely. Yeah, he hurt me. But I stayed. I let guilt scream louder than my own damn instincts. I thought I deserved it. That if I just held on a little longer… maybe things would magically fix themselves.” He barked a humorless laugh. “Spoiler alert: they didn’t.”

Ronnie made a small, wounded noise.

Keith’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t know how to ask for help. So I just… kept taking sleeping pills until I couldn’t feel anything. Shiro found me just in time.” His fingers trembled around the glass. “And I think… I think it broke him a little too.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Lotor leaned forward, his usually steady hands shaking as he reached out. “Keith,” he rasped, voice rough with disbelief. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”

Keith’s smile was thin, fragile. “Didn’t want to be a burden. You all looked at me like I was surviving. Like I was strong. I couldn’t ruin that.”

“You idiot,” Axca snapped, but her voice cracked halfway through. “We would’ve burned the world down if we’d known. You’re not a burden. You’re family.”

Keith swallowed hard, his vision blurring.

Then Ronnie shifted beside him, her voice barely audible. “I knew.”

He turned to her so fast his neck protested. “What?”

“Not everything,” she admitted, her eyes glistening. “But Robert told me… something.”

Keith’s stomach dropped. “He what?”

Ronnie held up her hands. “He didn’t spill your secrets. But when you vanished, I was losing it. I called him because I didn’t know who else to ask. He just said you’d had a breakdown. That Shiro found you in time. That you were safe, but… barely.”

Keith stared at her, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“I didn’t say anything because… hell, I didn’t know what to say,” Ronnie whispered, guilt etching lines into her face. “I thought maybe you’d gone to Korea to heal. That you needed space. When I saw you at Mom’s grave, I didn’t bring it up because I was terrified of dragging you back into that darkness.”

Keith’s breath stuttered. “You knew? All this time?”

“I was scared,” she admitted, tears spilling over. “Scared that saying it out loud would break you all over again.”

A beat. Then, hoarsely: “Does Lance know?”

Ronnie nodded. “I told him. We were in therapy together, and I—I couldn’t hide anything from him.” Her voice wavered. “And Keith… he shattered. I’m not making excuses for him, but… he kept saying, ‘I wasn’t there. He needed me, and I wasn’t there.’”

Keith’s composure fractured. The tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. Ronnie pulled him into a hug, Axca’s arm locking around his shoulders like a vice. Lotor crouched in front of him, his usual composure nowhere in sight, eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m so sorry, Keith,” Axca murmured, her voice thick.

He just nodded, his throat too tight for words. Lotor wordlessly shoved a box of tissues into his lap (because of course Lotor had designer tissues). Axca rubbed his back in slow, steady circles, her touch grounding.

Eventually, when the storm of tears had passed and only shaky breaths remained, Ronnie sniffled and asked, “So… what now?”

Keith dragged a hand over his face, exhaling. “I have to tell Shiro. I can’t hide this from him.” He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “God, he’s gonna murder Lance!”

Axca snorted. “I’ll bring the shovel.”

A weak laugh escaped him—half sob, half surrender.

Lotor smirked. “I’ll handle the alibi.”

And just like that, the weight in the room lightened—not gone, but shared.

Keith took a shaky breath and wiped his face with the back of his hand, letting out a slow, shuddering breath. The weight of his confession still hung in the air, but the tightness in his chest had eased—just a little.

Axca leaned back, crossing her arms. “Alright. So we’re telling Shiro. How? Because if you just drop this on him like a live grenade, he will hunt Lance down.”

Lotor nodded solemnly. “And I, for one, do not want to be the one explaining to the police why there’s a crater where Lance’s house used to be.”

Keith groaned, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know. Maybe… ease him into it?”

“Ease him into it?” Axca repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Keith, this is Shiro. There is no ‘easing’ into this.”

Ronnie, who had been quietly twisting the hem of her sleeve, finally spoke up. “Okay, but Lance isn’t all bad.”

Axca and Lotor turned to her in perfect, disbelieving unison.

“Really?” Axca deadpanned.

“He did leave Keith at his lowest,” Lotor added, voice drier than the wine they’d abandoned.

Ronnie held up her hands. “Look, I’m not saying what he did was okay—at all—but he’s been wrecked with guilt. You didn’t see him after I told him. He barely slept for weeks.”

“Good,” Axca muttered.

“Axca,” Ronnie scolded, though there was no real heat in it. “He’s, my twin. And yeah, he’s an idiot, but he’s trying.”

Keith sighed. “Guys, I just need Shiro to not kill him.”

Lotor tapped his chin thoughtfully. “We could frame it as a… temporary reconciliation. Test the waters. Shiro might be less homicidal if he thinks it’s not permanent.”

Axca snorted. “You mean lie?”

“I prefer the term ‘strategic omission.’”

Keith shook his head. “No.I’m not lying absolutely not.”

Silence settled for a moment before Ronnie perked up. “What if I talk to Shiro first? Soften the blow?”

Axca narrowed her eyes. “You mean emotionally manipulate him with your ‘sad puppy eyes’ tactic?”

Ronnie grinned. “Exactly.”

Keith huffed a laugh despite himself. “That might actually work.”

Lotor sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if this goes south, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ before helping hide the body.”

Axca smirked. “I’ll bring the bleach.”

Keith groaned. “Please stop joking about murdering my boyfriend.”

“Ex-almost-boyfriend,” Axca corrected.

“Future boyfriend,” Ronnie countered, sticking her tongue out.

Keith buried his face in his hands. “I regret everything.”

Lotor clapped him on the shoulder. “Too late now. Operation ‘Don’t Let Shiro Murder Lance’ is officially underway.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*
If there was one thing Lotor insisted on doing now that Keith was no longer dying inside (his words, not Keith’s), it was a sleepover.
And apparently, sleepovers in their world included tequila, face masks, and Lotor forcing everyone to listen to Venus in Retrograde while he gave a live commentary of what each track meant on a spiritual level.
“You don’t understand,” Lotor said dramatically, draped over Keith’s lap like a fainting Victorian widow. “Track five is about the duality of being an Aquarius moon with abandonment issues.”

“I’m begging you to be quiet,” Axca groaned, lying face down on the plush carpet. Naturally, Lotor had slathered serum on her face during one of his "drunken esthetician" episodes. She hadn’t moved since.
Keith was doing his best to teach Ronnie a TikTok dance, which was going about as well as expected for a lady whose hips had the flexibility of an old tree trunk.
“You’re embarrassing me Keith!” Ronnie muttered, trying and failing to mimic his footwork.
“You’re doing great, sweetie,” Keith chirped, sipping from a glass of pink wine and filming her suffering anyway. “This is going in the group chat.”
By midnight, someone had made nachos (Ronnie), someone had started crying to the song "Moonlight Siren" (Lotor, obviously), and Keith had quietly decided that he would rather die than drink again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith woke up to the sound of Lotor whispering "don’t panic" while trying to make black coffee using a Nutribullet.
“I said don’t panic,” he hissed again as Keith stumbled into the kitchen. “Everything’s under control.”
“You put beans in a smoothie blender.”
“Everything’s under control.”
Axca was perched at the kitchen island, sunglasses on indoors, sipping something green and judgmental. Ronnie was still on the couch with an ice pack on her face like she’d been personally attacked by tequila. Which, in fairness, she had.

Keith pressed his palms to his eyes. “I hate all of you.”
“That’s valid,” said Ronnie, without opening her eyes.
Once the worst of the groaning died down and Keith managed to brush his teeth without throwing up, he walked back into the living room and cleared his throat.
“So, um. Just a heads up,” he said, holding his mug like it was shielding him from incoming bullets, “Lance is coming by in a bit.”
Axca lifted her sunglasses, her bloodshot eyes already judging. “Why.”
“Because we’re trying to fix things. And I—I really want this to work out.”
Lotor peeked out. “And you want us to be nice?”

“Yes.”
“Like nice nice?” Axca said slowly, as if the word itself was offensive.
“Just…civil.”
Lotor snorted. “Same thing.”
Keith gave them both a look. “Please?”
They exchanged a glance. Lotor shrugged.

“Fine. I’ll behave,” he said. “But if he breathes in a way, I find suspicious, I’m out.”
“I promise not to throw anything,” Axca added.
“Thanks,” Keith muttered. “That means the world.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The doorbell rang fifteen minutes later. Keith opened the door to find Lance standing there, borderline too handsome holding a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers and two neatly packed packages.
“These are for your friends,” Lance said, giving Keith a soft smile. “I figured bribery might be my best shot.”
Keith blinked. “You brought gifts?”
“Obviously.”

Lance stepped inside cautiously like the apartment might bite him. He offered the flowers to Lotor and Axca.
Axca stared at the flowers like they might explode. Lotor sniffed them. “Fine. You may live—for now.”
“Great, Let’s go!” Keith said, grabbing Lance by the hand before Lotor and Axca broke character.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Being with Lance felt like breathing after a long time underwater. They cooked together—well, Lance cooked, Keith chopped onions while crying very dramatically—and the apartment was filled with the kind of warm silence that only came when two people knew each other’s rhythms.
After dinner, they curled up on the couch, half-watching something on Netflix that neither of them was paying attention to. The scent of garlic still clung to Lance’s shirt. Keith didn’t mind.
Later, after a long, quiet shower together (Lance washed his hair for him; Keith nearly fell asleep standing up), Keith dried off and finally said, “I need to talk to Shiro.”
Lance looked over, his expression softening. “Yeah?”

Keith nodded, towel-drying his hair. “Privately. I just… I’m not ready to talk about everything yet. Not with you. Not yet.”
His chest tightened as he said it, but it was the truth. He wanted to tell Lance about the worst night of his life. About the pills. About Shiro finding him. About how close it had gotten. But… he didn’t have the tools to navigate it. Not yet.
And for now, he was just happy Lance was here. With him. Trying.
“I get it,” Lance said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Take your time.”
Keith exhaled slowly. “He’s not your biggest fan.”

“Shiro?”
“Yeah. He might try to stab you. Gently.”
“I’ll be armed with gifts, an apology,” Lance said, grinning. “And body armor.”
Keith laughed despite himself.
Then Lance perked up and grabbed his phone. “Actually, I’ve been looking into therapists. I figured we could go through a few options together? Read reviews, see who fits?”
Keith’s heart twisted in his chest. That was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to him.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’d like that.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith slumped in his office chair, glaring at his monitor like it had personally offended him. Work wasn’t happening. Not when his brain kept replaying the disaster of that party—the dizziness, the way the room had tilted, the cold panic when he realized something was very wrong.

Shiro had found out, of course. Because Axca knew, and Axca worked with Marlow, and Marlow was Shiro’s lawyer, and—well. The chain of concern had reached its inevitable conclusion. Keith had managed to fend off the worst of Shiro’s fretting with a “Just need some time,” and, bless him, Shiro had backed off. For now.

Small mercies: the guest list had been airtight, so Nyma’s arrest hadn’t hit the gossip rags yet. But Keith knew it was only a matter of time before someone spilled, and when they did, it’d be with the subtlety of a fireworks show.

Shiro’s daily check-ins had been… a lot. Not suffocating, just persistent, like a very concerned human Roomba bumping into his emotional walls. Today, though, Keith was finally leaving Lance’s penthouse—where he’d been hiding, healing, and eating suspiciously good omelets—to face the music at Shiro and Adam’s.

He missed Kosmo. And, okay, fine, he missed Shiro too. Band-aid moment. Rip it off.

Besides, he and Lance had their first therapy session tomorrow, and Shiro deserved to know. Keith wasn’t religious, but as he parked outside the house, he muttered a quick prayer to whatever cosmic entity might be listening: Please let him understand.

The second Keith stepped out of the car, a blur of black fur barreled into him like a freight train with a wagging tail.

“Oof—hey, Kosmo,” Keith wheezed, barely staying upright as Kosmo tried to lick his face off. “Missed you too, you overgrown dust mop.”

Shiro appeared in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, dressed in what Keith called his “casual dad” aesthetic—soft sweater, worried eyebrows. The man radiated anxiety like a space heater pumped out warmth. Keith could practically taste it in the air. Guilt twisted in his gut.

Shiro took a visibly steadying breath. “Hey, kiddo. You good? Hospital? Food? Are you—”

Keith cut him off with a hug. “Breathe, Takashi. I’m fine. Hospital checked me out, no permanent damage. Just… a really shitty night.”

Adam poked his head out from the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon like a peace flag. “Welcome back, trouble. You hungry?”

Keith detoured to hug him too, Shiro trailing behind like a nervous shadow. Kosmo trotted after them, tail thumping against the cabinets.

“—because Axca said you were fine,” Shiro was saying, words tumbling out like he’d been holding them in for weeks, “but then you vanished, and I didn’t know if you were actually fine or just ‘Keith fine,’ which, historically, means ‘bleeding in a ditch’—”

Keith dropped onto a kitchen stool and braced himself. “I disappeared,” he corrected, “because I was at Lance’s place. All week.”

Silence.

Shiro’s grip on his coffee cup turned dangerous. For a wild second, Keith wondered if he’d need to duck.
He didn’t look up. Just let it hang there.
“He helped me. Took care of me.”
There was a pause. Then the faint crack of Shiro’s coffee cup shifting a little too hard against the marble. He hadn’t smashed it. Yet.
When Keith did look up, Shiro’s jaw was clenched so tight it could’ve carved diamonds.
“Oh,” Shiro said. The kind of “oh” people said before flipping a table.

“Shiro,” Adam warned gently from the kitchen.
“I’m fine,” Shiro said through his teeth. “Totally calm. Just trying to visualize a peaceful forest instead of this idiot omega going back to the guy who—”
“Okay!” Keith held up both hands. “I know how it sounds.”
“It sounds like you checked yourself out of the ER and into a murder-suicide pact.”
“I didn’t!” Keith snapped, but then sighed. “Look. I’m not… I know I can’t explain all of it. Not yet. But we’re going to therapy. Together. Our first session’s tomorrow.”
That made Shiro pause. Really pause.

Keith saw the calculation happening in his head. All the fury and protectiveness slowly reshuffling around that new information. A cautious sort of hope peeking through the wreckage.
“We found a therapist,” Keith continued. “Actually, Lance found a list. We’ve been going through reviews and picking one together. So it’s not just lip service.”
Shiro stared at him for a long beat. His expression didn’t flicker—just that heavy, unreadable mask Keith had only seen a handful of times, usually reserved for war zones and boardrooms. Then, with a slow breath through his nose, he rubbed a hand down his face and dropped onto the couch beside Kosmo, who immediately flopped his heavy head on Shiro’s thigh like he could sense the emotional storm coming.
“You’re really serious about this?” Shiro finally asked, voice low, cautious.

“I am,” Keith said quietly. “I don’t expect you to be okay with it. But I… I just need you to trust me. I’m not running blind into this. We’re both trying this time.”
Shiro let out a short, humorless laugh—sharp and disbelieving.
“Trying?” he echoed. “Keith, the last time you ‘tried’ with him, you ended up in a hospital bed. The time before that, you were crying in my damn kitchen after he left you like you were disposable. And before that, he blamed you for something you had no control over and treated you like—like trash. And now you’re telling me he’s magically better?”
Keith flinched but held his ground. Shiro rarely raised his voice. When he did, it meant the volcano under all his usual composure had started to crack.
“I know what happened,” Keith said. “I know what it looked like. But it wasn’t just him. I made mistakes too. I hid things. I shut him out. I let him believe things that weren’t true because I thought I deserved the blame.”

“And that right there—” Shiro pointed at him, eyes burning. “That’s exactly why I’m scared, Keith. Because even now, after everything, you still carry the guilt like it’s your burden alone. And he lets you. He always lets you.”
There was a long silence.
Adam, sensing the temperature rising, quietly disappeared into the hallway, taking Kosmo with him. The dog gave Keith a reluctant nudge on his way out, like a little canine “good luck.”
Shiro leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. He looked tired. Not just today-tired, but soul-tired. Like he'd been holding this fear in for far too long.
“You know I love you, right?” he asked, voice softer now, but rougher around the edges.
Keith nodded. “I know.”
“I would do anything to protect you. I already have. I saw what losing you did to Adam. To me. So when I found out you'd been drugged, when you disappeared, I—I thought—” He cut off, jaw clenching. “And then to hear that you were with him…”

He turned to look at Keith directly, his eyes glassy now.
“Do you love him that much?” Shiro asked. “Do you really think Lance is worth that kind of love, Keith?”
Keith felt the air punch right out of his chest. The question wasn't angry—it was scared. It wasn’t about Lance. Not really. It was about him.
Keith swallowed hard, blinking fast.
“I do,” he whispered. “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know he hurt me. But… he also saved me. When I couldn’t stand myself—when I thought no one would ever look at me the same—he did. And I saw him cry when he thought he’d lost me. Not out of guilt. Out of grief.”

He looked up, voice steady despite the emotions clawing at his throat.
“I don’t know what the future looks like. But I want to try. Not because I’m desperate. Not because I’m weak. But because I still love him, and I believe—really believe—that he’s finally ready to meet me halfway.”
Shiro exhaled, long and low, like something heavy was leaving his lungs.
“You sound like you mean it,” he said. “You sound like you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” Keith replied. “This time, I do.”
Another long pause. Then, finally, Shiro nodded, slow and resigned.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he said, still not looking entirely at peace. “I still don’t trust him. But I trust you. So if this is what you want… then I’ll try.”
Keith’s shoulders sagged with quiet relief, eyes stinging.
“I just need time,” Shiro added, standing to grab a tissue and blowing his nose with the elegance of a wounded walrus. “And I reserve the right to break his kneecaps if he screws up again.”
“Fair,” Keith said with a small, watery smile.
“And I’m not sharing Kosmo on weekends.”
Keith let out a soft laugh, the kind that melted just a bit of the tension in the room.
“We’ll negotiate.”

Keith stayed the night.
It wasn’t planned. But when Adam made his famous chicken stew and Shiro put on an old sci-fi movie they all used to love, it just sort of happened. They stayed up late laughing at the terrible graphics, with Kosmo curled between Keith’s legs on the carpet like a protective log. When he finally dragged himself upstairs to his old room, the house felt warm in a way it hadn’t in months.
The next morning, Keith padded downstairs in one of Adam’s oversized hoodies and socks that kept slipping down his heels. The smell of fresh coffee and eggs hit him before he even turned the corner into the kitchen.
Adam was at the stove, humming under his breath and flipping something in a skillet.
“Morning, troublemaker,” Adam said without turning. “Coffee’s fresh. Mug’s still where you left it.”

Keith chuckled as he grabbed his usual chipped navy mug. “You’re not still mad I broke the handle?”
“I am still mad,” Adam said dryly.
Keith snorted, settling at the island. For a few minutes, they just existed in silence—Keith sipping coffee, Adam plating food, Kosmo flopped under the table like an enormous footrest. It was comforting. Normal.
Then Adam slid a plate of eggs and toast in front of him.Adam sat down across from him, calm and steady in a way that always made Keith feel like the world wasn’t ending—even when it was.
“I’m not going to press,” Adam said. “But I want you to know… you’re loved, Keith. Deeply. Not just by Shiro. By me. By Kosmo, even if he’s bad at expressing it. You don’t owe us an explanation. But you do owe it to yourself to put yourself first this time. Not Lance. Not Shiro. You.”

Keith’s throat tightened. He stared down at his plate, vision blurring just slightly.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I… needed that more than I thought.”
Adam reached over and gave his hand a quick, firm squeeze. “We’re here. That hasn’t changed. Even when you run, Keith—we’ll be here when you stop.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith checked his phone for the third time in five minutes, leaning against the discreet service entrance of Le Cœur Noir. The Michelin-starred restaurants' back alley smelled faintly of truffle oil and dish soap, a far cry from his old college burger joint haunts.

A blacked-out Escalade rolled up silently, its tinted window lowering just enough to reveal Lance in a baseball cap and designer sunglasses that probably cost more than Keith's monthly rent.

"Your chariot awaits, mullet," Lance murmured, popping the locks. The scent of lemongrass and chili paste immediately flooded the car as Keith slid inside.

"Since when do you do takeout from places that require reservations six months in advance?" Keith asked, buckling up as the car pulled away smoothly.

Lance adjusted his sunglasses. "Since the chef owes me for that viral TikTok of me eating his duck confit. Also—" He produced two embossed containers from a thermal bag. "—the paparazzi don't stalk the dumpster side of restaurants."

Keith snorted, cracking open his container to find perfect pad see ew. "So this is how the other half lives. Bribing me with illegal parking and stolen Michelin meals?"

“Google said comfort food,” Lance shot back, chopsticks already moving. "I'm just following instructions." The car turned into a private parking garage beneath a high-rise. "Besides, my penthouse has a better view than any park."
(Now in Lance's Dining Room):They ate perched on barstools at Lance's absurdly large kitchen island, the city lights twinkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Lance had been vibrating with nervous energy all evening, fingers drumming against marble countertops between bites.

Finally, he blurted: "So. Shiro."

Keith swirled his noodles deliberately. "Wants to murder you slightly less than yesterday."

Lance's chopsticks froze mid-air. "That's... progress?"

"Mm. Upgraded you from 'dumpster fire' to 'controlled burn.'" Keith smirked at Lance's grimace. "He'll come around. Eventually."

Lance set down his food, suddenly serious. "I know I don't deserve—"

"Stop." Keith nudged his knee against Lance's. "This isn't about deserving. It's about doing the work." He gestured to the therapy binder on Lance's counter—the one they'd painstakingly compiled together. "That starts with not assuming you'll fail."

Lance exhaled sharply, shoulders dropping. "Old habits."

"Yeah, well." Keith stole a bite of Lance's mango sticky rice. "Break them."

Lance's laugh echoed off the high ceilings. "Noted." "Damn right." Keith licked coconut milk off his thumb. "And you're buying Shiro that apology whiskey. The scary expensive one he pretends he won't drink."

Lance groaned but pulled out his phone to order it immediately. Keith hid his smile in his iced tea.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The office smelled faintly of chamomile tea and old books—warm and safe, like a memory. Everything in the room seemed deliberately chosen for calm: the muted earth tones, the angled chairs designed to foster conversation rather than confrontation, even the soft buzz of a white noise machine somewhere near the baseboards. Between Keith and Lance sat a low table with a tissue box and a neatly stacked pad where Dr. Ellis occasionally scribbled in quick, looping shorthand.
The therapist leaned forward slightly in his chair, voice even and grounded. “Before we begin, I want to acknowledge something. You’re both here. That’s the first brave step.”
He let the silence stretch just long enough to settle.

“Keith, your intake form mentioned PTSD symptoms—nightmares, hypervigilance. Lance, you noted guilt and avoidance patterns. Today isn’t about fixing. It’s about witnessing each other. Are you both okay with that?”
Lance nodded quickly, like he was afraid of overthinking it. Keith’s fingers tapped a quiet, erratic rhythm against his jeans. He paused, stilled them. “...Yeah.”
Dr. Ellis offered a reassuring nod. “Good. Let’s start with grounding.” He turned to Keith. “Can you name three things you hear right now?”
Keith blinked, caught off guard. He tilted his head slightly, listening. “The... white noise machine. Traffic outside. Lance’s breathing.”
“That’s somatic awareness,” the doctor said. “It helps us stay present when we’re talking about hard things.”

He turned to Lance next. “You mentioned guilt. Let’s unpack that. What do you think you’re actually responsible for?”
Lance’s throat worked. “I... I didn’t answer his calls when he needed me. He had a miscarriage.” His voice cracked, ragged. “My dad had just set fire to everything we were, and I was so angry. I pushed it on Keith. I made him carry it.”
Keith flinched, just slightly. Not enough for most people to notice—but Dr. Ellis did.
“Pause,” he said gently. “Lance, notice your body. Shoulders tight? Jaw locked?”
Lance startled at the prompt. Then he exhaled, long and shaking. “...Yeah.”
“That’s shame, manifesting physically. Breathe into it. Now: what’s true? Did you know about the miscarriage when you ignored those calls?”
“No.” Lance’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Then that guilt is grief wearing a mask. You’re mourning the chance to have been there. But hindsight isn’t accountability. It's loss.”
Keith was quiet, staring down at his hands like they might hold answers.
Dr. Ellis shifted his gaze. “Keith. You mentioned not being ready to talk about the attempt. That’s okay. But can we talk about what happened after? When Shiro found you?”
Keith’s breath hitched. His voice was low and flat. “I woke up in the hospital. Shiro was crying. I’d never seen him cry before.” He swallowed. “He said, ‘You don’t get to leave me.’”
A soft, broken sound escaped Lance—almost like a gasp or a sob he’d swallowed wrong.

Dr. Ellis’s gaze flicked to Keith’s clenched fists. “You’re dissociating. Ground yourself. Name five colors in the room.”
Keith’s eyes moved slowly across the space. “Blue couch. Yellow pillow. Your... your green pen. Lance’s black shoes. The brown bookshelf.” His shoulders eased a fraction.
“Good. Now,” Dr. Ellis said, “What’s one thing you wish someone had said to you that night?”
Keith went very still. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet it was almost a breath. “...It’s not your fault.”
Lance moved like he wanted to reach for him, but stopped. “Keith—”
Dr. Ellis lifted a hand. “Stay with that, Lance. What’s coming up for you?”

“Ronnie hired Robert,” Lance blurted out, raw and unfiltered. “We thought you just needed space. But then the report came back, and it had hospital records and I wanted to die, Keith. Because what if you had—” His voice broke. “And I wasn’t there.”
Keith trembled but didn’t look away.
“This,” Dr. Ellis said, his voice soft but anchored, “is the work. Lance, you’re confronting helplessness. Keith, you’re hearing his grief—but not absorbing it as your fault. That matters.”
Neither spoke. The air in the room was thick with truth.
“For next time,” Dr. Ellis continued, “I want you both to write a letter. Not one to send. Just something that says what you needed then but couldn’t say.”

Keith finally looked at Lance, something fragile in his expression. “...I’ll try.”
Lance nodded, blinking fast. “Me too.”
Dr. Ellis offered a rare smile. “Then we’re done for today. Remember—healing isn’t a straight line. But you showed up. And today, that’s enough.”
As they rose, Lance’s pinky brushed Keith’s—a tentative question without words. Keith hesitated, then hooked his own around it in silent reply.

Chapter Text

Keith was managing.
Barely.
Life had become a relentless cycle of trans-Pacific flights, boardroom negotiations, and the quiet chaos of managing two idol groups and Lotor on top of that. Shiro checked in daily—always with that carefully neutral tone that meant he was this close to staging an intervention. "How’s therapy?" he’d ask, stirring honey into his tea like it held the secrets of the universe. "Any breakthroughs?"

Keith would grunt something noncommittal. Because therapy with Lance was…

Complicated.
There were good sessions where Lance made Keith laugh, or Keith made Lance cry (always a win), and bad ones where Keith considered going back to Korea and ghosting everyone with a dramatic exit montage set to Adele.
Sometimes they were even doing therapy long-distance—Keith holed up in Seoul, and Lance on an iPad in LA, desperately trying to remember the difference between vulnerability and oversharing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Therapy session #:(Miscarriage)
Keith sat curled up in the chair, eyes distant. Lance was stiff, visibly tense.
Therapist: “Keith, can you walk Lance through what you were feeling during that time?”
Keith: “I was scared. I was alone. I kept calling you, and you didn’t answer. And then it was just… gone. And I still didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. But I did. I blamed you, even if I didn’t want to.”
Lance: (quietly) “I was so angry… I didn’t even know what you were going through. I didn’t know I was leaving you to go through that alone.”
Therapist: “And now?”
Keith: (looking at Lance) “Now I just need to know you’d be there next time.”

Therapy session #: (Keith’s attempt)
Setting: Rainy day session. Both are quieter than usual. Lance holds a tissue.
Lance: “The thought that you were hurting that badly and I didn’t even see it—”
Keith: “I didn’t think you’d care.”
Lance: “God, Keith—”
Keith: “I thought you hated me. You were so cold. You looked at me like I ruined your life. And maybe I did. But I didn’t know how to exist in a world where you didn’t love me.”
Therapist: “Lance, how does it feel hearing that now?”
Lance: “Like someone’s clawing my heart out. And I don’t know if I deserve forgiveness.”
Keith: “I’m not asking you to fix it. You can’t. I forgive you. That’s all.”

Therapy Scenario #: Lance’s Emotional Disconnection
Setting: Joint session via video call. Therapist is on screen with both of them.
Keith: “You shut down. When things got hard you just ….pushed me away.”
Lance: “I thought I was protecting you. That if I didn’t let myself feel, I wouldn’t lash out or make it worse.”
Keith: “But you did make it worse. I needed you to talk to me. Not vanish emotionally.”
Therapist: “Lance, can you identify what emotions you were avoiding?”
Lance: (pauses) “Shame. Rage. Guilt. Like… if I opened my mouth, all of it would spill out and drown both of us.”
Keith: “I get that but you need to talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind and what you’re thinking.”
Lance: I will I promise.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
But in all of that, something was shifting. Things were slowly—delicately—starting to feel stable. And that was new.
Lance was no longer someone Keith tiptoed around. He was starting to become someone Keith could lean on without fear of collapsing. Keith felt safe enough to bring something up outside of therapy. A terrifying, foreign concept.
The video call connected with its familiar chime, Keith's tired face appearing on Lance's screen. Seoul's neon glow filtered through Keith's apartment curtains as he settled onto the couch, still damp from his shower. The oversized hoodie he wore - one of Lance's - smelled faintly of sandalwood and salt, a comforting reminder of home.

Lance lounged shirtless on his California couch, afternoon sunlight gilding his skin. "You wouldn't believe the day I've had," he began, launching into a story about studio mishaps. Keith listened, letting the familiar cadence of Lance's voice soothe him.

When the story ended, silence settled between them. Keith took a steadying breath.
"Lance... do you ever think about the miscarriage?"

The question lingered in the digital space between continents, quiet but heavy. Lance’s playful expression faded into something softer, more serious.
"Yeah," he said after a pause, his voice gentler now. "I do. Sometimes more than I’d like to admit." He tilted his head slightly. "What’s going on, baby?"

Keith’s fingers fidgeted with the hoodie’s drawstrings, tugging them through restless hands.
"I've been... wondering if something’s wrong with me. With my body." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "What if I can’t carry a pregnancy to term? What if I never can?"

Lance leaned forward, closing the emotional distance through the screen, eyes locked on Keith’s like he could will the pain away.
"Hey, hey—look at me."

Keith did. Slowly. Wary. Vulnerable.

"Keith," Lance said, his tone full of quiet conviction, "I love you. Not your ability to carry. Not what your body can or can’t do. Just... you. That’s always been enough for me." He exhaled, like he’d been holding those words back until they were needed.
"If we want kids someday, there are so many ways to make that happen—adoption, surrogacy, whatever feels right. But none of that changes how I feel about you. Okay?"

Keith blinked rapidly, his throat tight.
"Would you..." he hesitated, eyes flicking down. "Would you come with me? To get checked out? I know it’s not exactly—"

"Fun?" Lance finished, lips quirking gently. "No. But yeah, of course I’ll come. You don’t have to go through any of this alone, not anymore. I’ll be there. Every step. I promise."

A fragile hope bloomed in Keith's chest. "Even the awkward ones where they make you give a sample?"

Lance grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Especially those. I'll even buy you ice cream after."

Keith huffed a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," Lance agreed softly, "but I'm yours."

The connection between them thrummed with quiet understanding - no jokes needed, no defenses up.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It took another two weeks, three schedule rearrangements, and one near breakdown on Keith's end before Lance finally convinced him to take a weekend off.

They flew upstate to Eden Valley Fertility and Wellness, a discreet sanctuary tucked between rolling hills and vineyards that catered exclusively to clients who valued privacy as much as platinum-level care. The moment they stepped inside, the scent of lavender and freshly brewed chamomile tea wrapped around them, the tension in Keith's shoulders easing just slightly.

A receptionist with a voice like warm honey greeted them. "Mr. Kogane, Mr. McClain—welcome. Dr. Park is ready for you in the Orchid Suite."

Keith arched a brow at Lance. "Orchid Suite? Are they going to offer us a couples' massage next?"

Lance grinned. "Don't tempt me. I could use a back rub after the week I've had."

The suite was more intimate than pretentious—soft lighting, plush chairs, and a window overlooking a koi pond. No whale music, thankfully, just the quiet hum of the air filtration system. Keith sat on the edge of the chaise, fingers tapping against his knee until Lance reached over and stilled them with his own.

"You're okay," Lance murmured. "Whatever the tests say, we'll handle it."

Keith exhaled. "I know. I just—"

Before he could finish, Dr. Iris Park entered, her presence calm and steady. She shook their hands, her grip firm but kind. "Keith, Lance—thank you for coming in. I understand you're here for a full fertility workup after your loss?"

Keith nodded, throat tight. "I need to know if—if something's wrong."

Dr. Park's expression softened. "Let me reassure you right away—miscarriages, especially early ones, are heartbreakingly common. They rarely indicate infertility on their own. But we'll do a thorough evaluation so you have all the information you need."

Keith went first, lying back on the heated exam table as Dr. Park guided the ultrasound wand over his abdomen. The gel was warm, at least, but his breath still hitched when the monitor flickered to life.

"Ah," Dr. Park said, tilting the screen slightly. "I see something here—you have a retroverted uterus, Keith. It's nothing concerning, just means your uterus tilts backward instead of forward."

Keith tensed. "Is that... bad?"

"Not at all," she assured him. "It's a normal anatomical variation—about 20% of people have it. The only real difference is that if you do carry a pregnancy, you might 'show' a little later since the baby has more room to grow inward first. Otherwise, it doesn't affect fertility or health."

Lance, ever the opportunist, smirked. "So what you're saying is, I could knock you up and no one would even know for months? Sweet."

Keith shot him a glare.

Dr. Park chuckled. "Everything else looks perfect—hormone levels, ovarian reserve, no scarring or structural concerns. Your body is healthy, Keith."

The relief was so sudden it made his eyes burn.

Then it was Lance's turn.

The "sample collection room" was, as Lance described it, "the least sexy place on earth."

When he returned, he looked vaguely traumatized. "There was a mood lamp in there. And the magazines were all about yachting and stock portfolios. Who gets turned on by stock portfolios?"

Keith bit back a laugh. "Maybe it's an Alpha thing."

Lance groaned. "I feel objectified. And not in the fun way."

The next day, they sat across from Dr. Park in her sunlit office, the test results spread before them.

"Good news," she said, smiling. "You're both in excellent reproductive health. Keith—your retroverted uterus is just a quirk, not a concern. No signs of infertility or complications. And Lance?" She slid his report over. "Your sperm count and motility are, and I quote the lab tech, 'aggressively healthy.'"

Lance preened. "Damn right."

Keith rolled his eyes but couldn't fight his smile.

Dr. Park leaned forward. "Keith—I want to emphasize this again. Your miscarriage wasn't your fault. It doesn't mean your body failed. When—if—you're ready to try again, there's no medical reason you can't have a successful pregnancy."

Keith swallowed hard. Lance's hand found his, squeezing gently.
They walked out into the crisp afternoon air, the weight of uncertainty finally lifted. Keith breathed deep, the scent of pine and distant rain clearing his head.

Lance bumped their shoulders together. "So. We good?"

Keith huffed a laugh. "Yeah. We're good."

Lance grinned. "Cool. Now can we please find a restaurant? I need pancakes after being psychologically scarred by financial porn."

Keith laughed, bright and sudden, and let Lance tug him toward the car.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dr. Ellis’s office had been quiet that day, the screen split between Lance in L.A. and Keith in Seoul.

"So," Dr. Ellis had said, leaning forward. "Lance, you mentioned wanting to discuss something?"

Lance had hesitated—uncharacteristic for him—before blurting out, "I miss him."

Keith had stiffened.

"Miss what, exactly?" Dr. Ellis prompted.

"Just… him. The way he hums when he cooks. How he rolls his eyes at my jokes but laughs anyway. The way he—" Lance cut himself off, frustrated. "I’m tired of time zones and video calls. I want to wake up next to him."

Keith’s throat had tightened.

Dr. Ellis turned to him. "Keith, what are you hearing?"

"That he’s impulsive," Keith muttered, but there was no bite to it.

Lance groaned. "I’m not saying I’ll move tomorrow. I’m saying… I want to. If you want me to."

Keith had exhaled. "Your company—"

"Can be managed remotely. I’ve already talked to Allura. Most of my meetings are on Zoom anyway. And if I really need to be in L.A., I’ll fly back."

"You’d do that?" Keith asked, voice small.

Lance’s expression softened. "Yeah. For you? Obviously."

Dr. Ellis had smiled. "This sounds like a conversation worth continuing."
They had continued it—over late-night calls, during stolen moments between meetings, in hushed conversations under the covers.

"You’d really be okay leaving L.A.?" Keith asked one night, fingers tracing idle patterns on Lance’s chest through the screen.

Lance shrugged. "I’ve lived there my whole life. Maybe it’s time for something new." A grin. "Plus, imagine the look on the paparazzi’s faces when they realize I’ve vanished. Poof. Gone. No more ‘Lance McClain’s Gym Outfits Ranked’ think pieces."

Keith snorted. "You’re ridiculous."

"But you love me."

Keith didn’t deny it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith stood frozen in the doorway of his penthouse, watching as movers shuffled past him with boxes marked LANCE MCCLAIN – FRAGILE (like his ego) and ALPHA SUPPLIES (do not open – Keith, seriously). His brain short-circuited.
Just three months ago, they’d been sitting on opposite sides of a therapist’s screen, raw and hesitant, unpacking years of miscommunication. Now, Lance was here—in Seoul—barking orders at the movers in broken Korean while balancing an iced americano like he’d lived here for years.
Keith blinked. "Lance!?"
Lance turned, grinning. "Oh good, you're home! Where do you want my stuff to go?"
Now, standing in his penthouse surrounded by Lance’s boxes, Keith couldn’t help but marvel at how far they’d come.
Lance stepped closer, cupping Keith’s face. "Hey. We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready. I can wait. Or we can—"
Keith kissed him.

Lance melted into it, pulling him closer. When they broke apart, Keith rested their foreheads together. "I am happy," he admitted. "I just… thanks for coming all this way."

Lance grinned. "I’d do anything for you. You know that."
Keith rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Acxa, leaned against the kitchen island with a cup of tea, watching as Lance attempted to direct the movers with a mix of Korean and wild hand gestures.

"Annyeonghaseyo! Uh… gamsahamnida? Wait, no—mianhae—shit."

She sighed. "I miss Ronnie."

Keith smirked. "You video call her every night."

"Exactly. Now I have to hear this." She gestured to Lance, who was now attempting to charm the movers with a story involving a dog and an echo ad .

Keith laughed—bright, unguarded.

Lance turned, catching his eye, and winked.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Life in Seoul settled around them like golden hour light—slow, warm, and impossibly beautiful.

Lance, ever the eager transplant, had mastered the subway system within weeks, though not without sending Keith a blurry, panic-stricken photo of himself on the wrong line with the caption: “ I’M ON A TRAIN TO THE DMZ, SEND HELP.” He developed an unholy obsession with convenience store kimbap, stockpiling triangle sandwiches like a squirrel preparing for winter.

His camera roll became a shrine to Seoul’s neon heartbeat—steaming bowls of tteokbokki, rain-slicked streets at midnight, Keith half-asleep on the couch with a spreadsheet still open on his laptop, his hair tied up in a messy knot.

They ventured out sometimes with Kinkade and Acxa—rooftop bars where the city glittered beneath them, hole-in-the-wall soju joints where Kinkade, with his infallible talent for chaos, always picked the most dramatic trot ballads at karaoke. (“It’s about the emotional journey,” he’d insist, as Lance wheezed into his beer.) Once, in a dimly lit club, a scout recognized Lance mid-swig of his drink and slid a business card across the table. Keith had arched a brow. Lance had laughed, crumpled it into a crane, and flicked it at Kinkade’s forehead.

But the real magic happened at home.
It started quietly, as most precious things do.

Lance would hum under his breath while cooking, his voice rich and honeyed, weaving through the apartment like sunlight. Keith, who had never sung in front of him before—not really, not like this—found himself answering back from the kitchen, his voice a raspy, vulnerable counterpoint. The first time it happened, Lance had frozen, a spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Keith.”

“What?” Keith scowled, suddenly self-conscious.

Lance set the spoon down carefully. “Do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Sing.”

And Keith, despite the heat crawling up his neck, did.

It became their ritual. Lance’s voice—strong, technically flawless, devastatingly tender—anchored them. Keith’s, rough at the edges and achingly honest, curled around it like smoke. They wrote lyrics on napkins, hummed melodies into voice memos at 3 AM, turned a corner of the apartment into a makeshift studio with twinkling fairy lights and Lance’s ridiculous collection of vintage microphones.

One evening, Keith played a verse he’d been tinkering with—”I loved you even when I didn’t know how to say it / Even when the words were just bruises in my throat.”

Lance listened, silent, then responded with a chorus that punched the air from Keith’s lungs.

”You don’t have to forgive me yet , just let me love you in the meantime.”

Keith had to turn away, blinking hard. Lance didn’t tease him. Just pulled him close, pressed a kiss to his temple, and murmured, “We’re pretty good at this.”

Keith snorted wetly. “Shut up.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They bickered over lyrics like an old married couple.

“Moonlight is cliché,” Keith grumbled, scratching out Lance’s fourth attempt at a rhyme.

“Oh, sorry, Mr. ‘Your Eyes Are Like Storm Clouds’,” Lance shot back, yanking the notebook away. “At least mine doesn’t sound like a weather report.”

Keith tackled him. The notebook hit the floor. So did they.
The floor was unforgiving beneath them—cool and unyielding—but neither cared. Keith straddled Lance’s hips, victorious, his fingers locking around Lance’s wrists and pressing them into the hardwood. The weight of him was familiar, intoxicating, and Lance’s breath hitched despite himself.

Keith smirked down at him, dark hair falling into his eyes. "Moonlight’s still cliché."

Lance exhaled a laugh, tilting his chin up defiantly. "Yeah? And what’s your excuse? ‘Your eyes like storm clouds’—sounds like a damn meteorologist wrote it."

Keith’s grip tightened, just a fraction. "At least mine doesn’t sound like a bad pickup line."

"It was vulnerable!" Lance insisted, voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Raw. Emotional."

Keith’s gaze dropped to his mouth. "You’re something, alright."

Lance didn’t let him finish. He surged up, catching Keith’s lips in a kiss that burned through every unspoken thing between them It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and heat and Keith’s surprised gasp as Lance flipped them, pinning him now, hands sliding under his shirt.

Keith arched into the touch, fingers twisting in Lance’s hair, pulling just enough to make him groan. Their breaths tangled, frantic, as clothes were shoved aside—too many layers, not enough time. Lance’s mouth found the sharp line of Keith’s jaw, then lower, teeth scraping over his pulse point.

Keith shuddered. "Still—" His voice was wrecked already. "—still a terrible lyric."

Lance pulled back just enough to glare at him, chest heaving. "I swear to god, if you don’t shut up about the damn moonlight—"

Keith grinned, sharp and breathless. "Make me."

So he did.

This time, the kiss was slower, deeper—less about winning, more about this, about them. Keith’s hands slid down Lance’s spine, anchoring him close, and for once, neither of them had anything left to argue about.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The first light of dawn spilled into their Seoul apartment, painting the walls in streaks of honey-gold. Keith sat hunched on the couch, cradling a cup of tea he’d forgotten to actually drink, let alone sweeten. The TV flickered silently in front of him, some early-morning news program scrolling headlines he wasn’t processing.

Lance emerged from the bedroom like a disheveled sleep deity—shirtless, hair sticking up in five different directions, one sock mysteriously missing. He blinked at Keith, then at the abandoned tea, then back at Keith.

"You’re up early," he said, voice still rough with sleep.

Keith didn’t look away from the screen. "Shiro called."

That got Lance’s attention. He straightened, suddenly awake. "What’s wrong?"

Keith exhaled through his nose and finally set the mug down. "Nyma took a plea deal. Four, maybe five years. Drugging, conspiracy, intent to harm. All of it."

Lance’s shoulders dropped a fraction. "So… no trial?"

"No trial. No testimony. She confessed first thing this morning."

"Good," Lance muttered, crossing the room to plop down beside him. "Saves us the hassle of watching her try to lie her way out of it in court."

Keith’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "I filed a restraining order too. Just to be safe."

Lance snorted. "Oh, so you do listen to me sometimes."

"Don’t let it get to your head."

"Too late." Lance draped an arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing Keith’s shoulder. "What’d Shiro say? She put up a fight?"

Keith’s jaw tightened. "Not really. Just sat there like the whole thing was beneath her. No remorse. No nothing.”

"Classy," Lance drawled. "Real mature for someone who tried to roofie a guy and then got busted."

This time, Keith did smirk. "Yeah, well. She’s lucky attempted assault wasn’t added to the list. I didn’t feel like dragging it out."

Lance studied him for a second, then nudged his knee with his own. "You okay, though? Like… actually?"

Keith leaned into him, just slightly. "I’m good. Better now that it’s over."

"And… you feel safe?"

Keith turned his head just enough to meet Lance’s gaze. "I feel safe with you."

Lance’s grin was slow, smug. "Damn right you do."

The news had shifted to some segment about cherry blossoms blooming early—"A sign of hope!" the too-cheery anchor chirped—but neither of them paid attention. Keith let his head drop onto Lance’s shoulder, and for the first time that morning, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Lance pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Also, your tea’s cold."

"Yeah," Keith muttered, closing his eyes. "I know."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Shiro stood at the back of the courtroom like a protective specter in a well-tailored suit, arms crossed, jaw set in what Keith affectionately called his "Disappointed Dad" expression. He’d flown in just for this—Keith had insisted it wasn’t necessary, but Shiro wasn’t about to let some wannabe femme fatale slink out of justice without supervision.

Nyma looked like she’d walked straight out of a villainess fashion spread—blazer sharp enough to cut glass, hair perfectly tousled, expression colder than a Seoul winter. She signed the plea deal with the bored grace of someone signing a coffee receipt.

Four years.

Shiro’s eye twitched.

"That’s it?" he muttered under his breath. "For roofies and attempted kidnapping? She should be serving time in a medieval dungeon."

The judge droned on, but Shiro wasn’t listening. He was too busy mentally drafting a very strongly worded email to the DA about sentencing guidelines. Maybe with bullet points. And cited legal precedents.

When court adjourned, Nyma turned—just slightly—and her gaze locked onto Shiro’s.

And then she smirked.

Shiro’s grip on his bicep tightened to the point of pain.

A hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Breathe, Captain America," Adam whispered, materializing beside him like the chaotic court-appointed guardian angel he was. "You can’t yeet her into the sun. Yet."

Shiro exhaled through his nose. "I wasn’t going to—"

"You were doing the eye thing." Adam mimicked Shiro’s murder-glare. "The ‘I love Keith and I will end you’ thing."

Shiro rolled his shoulders back. "I just wanted to make sure she actually got into the squad car."

Adam snorted. "You stood here like Batman in a courthouse for three hours. Admit it—you live for this protective dad stuff."

Shiro didn’t dignify that with a response. (Mostly because it was true.)

Outside, he pulled out his phone and called Keith and gave him all the details.

Satisfied, he slid his phone away and adjusted his tie. Justice wasn’t always poetic. But it was something.

And if Nyma so much as Googled Keith’s name in the next four years?

Well. Shiro had other dad skills.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Shiro’s thumb hovered over his phone screen, the glow casting sharp shadows across his face in the dim apartment. Twitter was a mistake. Instagram was worse. Every platform had become a minefield of hot takes and bad faith arguments since #NymaPleaDeal started trending.

He scrolled past the headlines with mounting irritation:

"Former Model Nyma Pleads Guilty in High-Profile Drugging Case"
"Sources say she showed 'no remorse' during sentencing."

"Another PR Nightmare for Lance McClain?"
"Industry insiders question his judgment—again."

And then, the crowning jewel of bad journalism:
"Why Do Hot Guys Always Date Psychos? We Asked 5 Therapists."

Shiro’s eye twitched.

The comments were a special kind of hell.

"Keith Kogane has the worst taste in men."
"Lance collects red flags like they’re limited-edition Pokémon cards."
“Can’t imagine dating a guy whose ex tried to get someone assaulted.”

Shiro snapped his phone shut before he could be tempted to reply with something legally inadvisable.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The soft hum of the air conditioner did little to cut through the tension. Keith sat on the edge of the bed, a towel draped around his neck, hair still damp from the shower. Water droplets traced paths down his collarbone, disappearing beneath the loose fabric of his shirt.

Across the room, Lance was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by wires and a mixing board he’d been tinkering with for days. His fingers hovered over the knobs, but his usual focus was absent.

A beat of silence. Then—

"So… how does Shiro actually feel about me?"

His voice was quiet, too casual, like he was asking about the weather and not the tension between him and Keith’s overprotective brother figure.

Keith exhaled through his nose, rubbing the towel against the back of his neck. "Shiro’s not exactly subtle, Lance."

"So he hates me."
"Yeah. Kind of."

Lance finally looked up, meeting Keith’s gaze. "Fair."

Keith tilted his head. "But he doesn’t get to decide who I forgive. Or who I want to try again with."

Lance swallowed, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the mixing board. "Do you think… he’d ever sit down with me? Not to like me. Just to talk."

Keith studied him—the way Lance’s usual bravado had softened into something raw, the way they’d both been putting in the work (therapy, communication, not storming out during arguments). How things finally felt… right.
"If I asked, he’d do it. For me."

Lance’s breath caught. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah." A pause. "But you better not waste it."

Lance pushed himself up, crossing the room in three strides. He cradled Keith’s face in his hands, forehead resting against his. "Not a chance."

Keith’s lips quirked. "Good. Because if you screw this up, I’m not saving you from Shiro’s ‘Disappointed Dad’ speech."

Lance groaned. "Ugh, that thing should be classified as a war crime."

Keith laughed—soft, real—and Lance kissed him, because he could. Because after everything, they were here.

Chapter Text

Keith never thought he’d see the day where he was the one chasing down Shiro, begging him to be the adult in the room. Not that he was shocked, exactly—Shiro had always been good at handling world-ending crises and battlefield politics, but when it came to personal conflict? The man could dodge accountability like it was Olympic sport.
The thing was, things had actually been great for Keith lately. He had Lance back. They were doing the work, showing up to therapy, and—miracle of miracles—their therapist had actually downgraded them from weekly sessions to once a month. A whole month without talking about his childhood trauma or “practicing vulnerability.” It was glorious.

Work had slowed down just enough for him to breathe. The girls were on a well-earned break, the Seoul office didn’t need him micromanaging, and Keith figured: why not come back to L.A. for the holidays? Normal people did that.
Of course, “normal” went out the window the second they landed.
Lance wanted to spend time with his family, which was fair, and Keith… Keith wanted something a little bigger. He wanted peace. He wanted honesty. And yeah, maybe he wanted to see if Shiro and Lance could sit across from each other without one of them grinding their teeth to dust.

But that required Shiro agreeing to meet Lance. And that? Was proving nearly impossible.
Keith’s first mistake had been staying with Lance instead of crashing at Shiro and Adam’s house. He thought it wouldn’t be a big deal. He and Lance lived together in Seoul. What was a couple weeks in L.A?
Shiro had answered that question with a stiff nod and a long look, the kind that said, I’m pretending to be okay with this for your sake but I am, in fact, dying inside.
Still, Keith had tried to set something up. A small get-together, something low pressure. Just a talk. But every time he brought it up, Shiro slid out of it like he was allergic to the entire idea.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Keith: “Dinner? Just the three of us. Adam’ll be there too if that helps.”
Shiro: “We’ve got an HOA meeting that night. Someone’s been putting their trash out too early and it’s turned into a whole thing.”
Keith: “You hate your HOA.”
Shiro: “Yeah, and that’s why I have to go. If I don’t show up, the raccoons win.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith: “Okay, Saturday brunch? I’ll cook. You like waffles.”
Shiro: “Adam’s aunt is coming into town.”
Keith: “You told me last week she was already here.”
Shiro (not missing a beat): “She came back. She forgot her charger.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith: “Then how about coffee? Public place, middle of the day, no pressure.”
Shiro: “We’re getting the roof inspected.”
Keith: “Isn’t that next week?”
Shiro: “The guy had an opening. Can’t risk a leak.”

By the third excuse, Keith was done. He let it go for a few days, stewed quietly through two dinners with Adam, and then—when Shiro tried to escape to the garage—Keith followed him, leaned against the doorframe, and said flatly, “You’re avoiding this.”
Shiro didn’t look up from his toolbox. “I’m busy.”
“You just reorganized that toolbox two days ago.”
“I missed a wrench.”

Keith crossed his arms. “I’m not trying to force anything. But this is important to me.”
Shiro finally looked at him, jaw tight. “I know. But you don’t understand—seeing him with you again after what happened—after what it did to you…”
Keith didn’t flinch. He met that gaze head-on. “I know you’re trying to protect me. But this isn’t about the past anymore. I’m better now. We’re better. And I’m not asking you to like him.”
Shiro went quiet.

Keith took a step closer, voice softening. “I trust you more than anyone. So if there’s something off—if you see something I don’t—I want to know. I want you to meet him because I trust your judgment. Not just as my brother, but as someone who’s always known how to see through bullshit.”
That made Shiro pause.
“I’m not asking you to play nice for me,” Keith added. “I’m asking you to tell me the truth. And the only way you can do that is if you actually sit down and talk to him.”
The silence stretched. Shiro stared down at the wrench in his hands like it might offer divine insight. Finally, he sighed.
“One hour. Somewhere neutral. No... therapy talk.”

Keith’s lips twitched. “Deal.”
“And if he pulls any of that fake charm—”
“I’ll stop him before he breaks into a dance number.”
Shiro gave him a withering look. “…Why are you like this?”
Keith shrugged. “Learned from the best.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance looked up from his laptop the second Keith walked into the penthouse, his brows rising when he saw the expression on his face.
“You look like you just talked someone off a ledge or threw someone off one,” Lance said, watching as Keith kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the couch like his bones had turned to soup.
Keith groaned and buried his face in a throw pillow. “Same thing, really.”
“…Was it Shiro?”
Keith rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “He said yes.”

Lance sat upright so fast his laptop almost took flight. “*Wait—*he agreed?!”
“Yep.”
“Like… to me? To a meeting? With me?” Lance’s voice went up an octave, his hands gesturing wildly.
“Yes, Lance. He agreed to meet you. Breathe.” Keith dragged a pillow off the couch and chucked it at him. “We’re doing dinner tomorrow night. Private room. No excuses.”
“Oh my god.” Lance stood, pacing. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got less than 24 hours to prove to your brother—who’s built like Captain America and hates my guts—that I’m a changed man and not emotionally bankrupt.”

Keith smirked, already pulling up a catering menu on his phone. “Technically he doesn’t hate your guts. He just... deeply distrusts everything about your existence.”
Lance paused. “So… progress?”
Keith grinned. “Absolutely.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The VIP section of Orchid—L.A.’s most exclusive rooftop restaurant—was reserved under Keith’s name, which was impressive considering the place usually required at least two Oscar nominations or a blood oath to get in. The space was all low-lit elegance: black marble tables, gold accents, and a skyline view so stunning it made Keith wonder if Shiro had picked this place specifically to remind Lance of his place in the food chain.

Subtle, Shiro. Real subtle.

Lance was already seated when Keith arrived with Shiro and Adam, looking unfairly good in a deep navy suit that probably cost more than Keith’s first motorcycle.

Adam, ever the peacemaker, lit up like a Christmas tree. “Lance! God, it’s been ages. Keith showed me the new Echo campaign—you looked incredible. That underwater shot? Art.”

Lance stood, shaking his hand with a warm smile. “Thanks, Adam. Coming from you, that means a lot. You look amazing.”

Shiro, meanwhile, remained standing like a sentinel in head-to-toe black, his expression carved from pure granite. If looks could kill, Lance would’ve been a chalk outline by the dessert menu.

“Takashi,” Lance said, dipping his head slightly.

“Lance,” Shiro replied, voice colder than the ice bucket next to them. “You look… alive.”

Keith choked on his mineral water.

Adam’s smile tightened into something resembling a hostage negotiator’s. “Welp! Let’s all sit before the staff thinks we’re staging a coup.”

They did.

The first ten minutes were agonizing. Adam valiantly tried to discuss L.A.’s unseasonable fog. Keith made a joke about traffic that landed with the grace of a lead balloon. Lance gripped his champagne flute like it was the only thing keeping him from spontaneously combusting under Shiro’s glare. The air between them was thick with alpha tension—sharp, electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Then Shiro leaned back, arms crossed. “So. Why now?”

Lance blinked. “Sorry?”

“You abandoned him,” Shiro said, voice low. “And now you’re back like nothing happened. So tell me—what’s different this time?”

Keith shot Shiro a look but stayed silent.

Lance exhaled, meeting Shiro’s gaze head-on. “I did.”

Shiro’s eyebrow twitched. “Not exactly a convincing resume. Words are cheap. Apologies even cheaper. How do I know this isn’t just guilt masquerading as growth?”

Lance didn’t flinch. “Because if it was guilt, I’d have sent a check and a Hallmark card and called it a day. I’m here because I chose to be. Because every version of my future that matters has Keith in it.”

Shiro’s eyes narrowed, searching for a crack in Lance’s resolve.

There wasn’t one.

“You broke him,” Shiro said, voice rough now. “I had to carry him out of our home. I held him when he didn’t want to wake up. Do you even understand what that did to him?”

Lance’s throat worked, but he nodded. “I do now. And I’ll carry that for the rest of my life. But I’m not here for absolution. I’m here to be better for him. No shortcuts. No ego.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The scent of alpha dominance—Lance’s storm and ocean breeze, Shiro’s cold steel and pine—clashed in the air. Adam, nearly chocking on the tension, subtly kicked Keith under the table and mouthed, ‘If they start growling, I’m throwing my drink.’

Finally, Shiro leaned forward. “So what’s the plan?”

Lance didn’t hesitate. “Love him unconditionally. Listen more than I talk. Show up, even when it’s messy. And spend every damn day proving I’m worth the second chance.”

Keith ducked his head, rubbing his mouth to hide the way his lips trembled.

Shiro studied Lance for a long moment. Then, with a slow exhale, the ice in his gaze fractured.

“Huh,” he said finally. “You’re incredibly stubborn.”

“Painfully,” Lance agreed.

“And kind of an idiot.”

“Allegedly.”

“…But not full of shit.”

Shiro reached for his glass and raised it. “Then for Keith’s sake—don’t make me regret this.”

Lance clinked his against it, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And just like that, the storm passed.
For now, Keith thought, watching Adam discreetly signal the waiter for another round. Definitely gonna need more alcohol for this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The valet had just pulled Shiro’s car around when Keith hooked an arm through his brother’s, their shoes crunching over the restaurant’s crushed-shell driveway. The night air was cool, smelling of salt and distant traffic, the kind of L.A. evening that made everything feel like the opening shot of a movie.

“See?” Keith nudged Shiro with his elbow. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Shiro exhaled through his nose, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “It was like fighting a very polite wolf. A wolf with excellent hair and a disturbingly good tailor.”

Adam, already halfway into the passenger seat, twisted to grin at them. “He did well, though. I liked his answers.”

Shiro paused, his sharp profile lit by the flickering valet stand lights. For a moment, he just stared at the ground, the way he always did when he was weighing his words like grenades. Then, quietly: “He meant them.”

Keith’s breath caught. “You really think so?”

Shiro nodded, just once. “I think he loves you. And I think he’ll fight for you this time.”

Something warm and bright unfurled in Keith’s chest, pressing against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

“But,” Shiro added, turning to face him fully, his dark eyes glinting with something that was half warning, half promise, “I’m still watching him like a goddamn hawk. And if he ever hurts you again, I will fly to Seoul, track him down, and turn him into a very handsome cautionary tale.”

Keith laughed, shaking his head. “That’s fair.”

Adam, now fully in the car, reached out to tug Shiro’s sleeve. “You’re such a softie.”

Shiro bristled. “I’m a Visionary.”

“You cried at that cat video last week.”

“It was a rescue, Adam! The little guy had one eye!”

Keith’s laughter spilled out, bright and unguarded, the last of the night’s tension finally dissolving into the ocean breeze.

In the distance, Lance’s car idled at the curb, headlights cutting through the dark. Keith could just make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat, waiting.

Things weren’t perfect. But for the first time in a long time, they were getting close.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Two days after the tense but weirdly cathartic dinner with Shiro and Adam, Keith was sprawled across Lance's couch like a contented cat. His hoodie was bunched up under him, and a bowl of strawberries sat balanced on his chest as he scrolled through his phone. The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, painting warm stripes across the living room.

His phone suddenly lit up with a Zoom call from Axca. Keith eyed it suspiciously before accepting, propping the device against a throw pillow that smelled faintly of Lance's cologne.

"Please tell me nothing's on fire," Keith said by way of greeting, popping a strawberry into his mouth.

Axca's face appeared, her usual deadpan expression intact save for one rebellious curl of dark hair that always escaped her otherwise impeccable ponytail. The Seoul office hummed quietly behind her, the familiar backdrop of their shared workspace. She took a slow sip from her ever-present iced Americano before responding.

"No fire," she said, setting the cup down with a quiet clink. "But you did get invited to something... significant. Forwarding it now."

Keith's laptop chimed from where it lay abandoned on the coffee table. He stretched to grab it, nearly upending his strawberry bowl in the process. The email header alone made him sit up so fast that fruit went flying - three perfect strawberries tumbling to the floor with soft thuds.

"Omegas in Leadership: Shaping the Future"
An Exclusive Global Summit
San Francisco | Next Month
Invitation Only

Keith skimmed the details with growing disbelief: keynote panels, executive networking, press interviews. His name listed alongside phrases like "creative director," and - most startlingly - "CEO."

"This is real?" he asked, voice cracking slightly.

Axca's mouth quirked in what passed for amusement in her world. "Unless I've developed a sense of humor you don't know about." She tapped her tablet. "They want you specifically for the 'Entertainment Leadership' panel. Possibly a roundtable on international influence too."

Keith ran a hand through his hair, the strands still damp from his earlier shower. "Shit. That's... that's actually a huge deal."

"You think?" Axca deadpanned, but there was a glint of pride in her dark eyes.

A grin spread across Keith's face as he grabbed his phone, hitting record on a voice memo. "Lance, cancel whatever we're doing next month. We're going to San Francisco. Start packing.'"

Axca snorted softly. "I'll handle the logistics and forward your prep materials. Try not to panic. Oh and Lotor’s been invited too."

"Remind me to buy you something obnoxiously expensive when I get back."

"I accept payment in spicy tonkotsu ramen and not having to talk before noon," she countered smoothly.

Keith blew her an exaggerated kiss before ending the call. He stared at the invitation again, then at the strawberries now decorating Lance's rug. With a sudden burst of energy, he sprang up from the couch.

"LANCE!" he bellowed toward the bedroom, voice echoing through the apartment. "I’M GETTING AN AWARD!"

Somewhere in the distance, a dish clattered in the kitchen, followed by Lance's long-suffering but affectionate sigh. "Why do I hear fruit hitting the floor?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Four Seasons suite smelled like expensive linen and jasmine tea, the afternoon light casting long shadows across the king-size bed where two omegas were holding court. Keith lay sprawled on his stomach, chin propped on one hand while the other flipped through fabric samples. Lotor sat cross-legged beside him, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he examined a jewelry mockup.

"You're doing the black leather Valentino, obviously," Lotor said without looking up from the emerald-cut sapphire he was inspecting.

Keith rolled a swatch of silk between his fingers. "I was thinking the Mugler for the panel—"

Lotor's head snapped up. " Absolutely not." He flicked the Valentino sketch toward Keith. "You want to look like you just walked out of a scandal and into a boardroom."

Keith snorted, reaching for his boba tea. The tapioca pearls stuck stubbornly to the bottom of the cup. "Fine. But only if you promise not to wear that silver Balmain that makes you look like an alien overlord again."

"Darling, I make no such promises," Lotor purred, sipping his own tea with infuriating elegance. "Allura's wearing a McQueen that looks like moonlight. I need to compensate."

Their laughter was cut short when Lotor's phone buzzed against the satin sheets. Keith watched as his friend's long fingers swiped the screen, then stilled. The shift in atmosphere was immediate—like someone had opened a window and let in a cold draft.

"Have you seen this?" Lotor asked quietly, turning the phone toward Keith.

The screen showed a forum thread titled "The Omega Problem." Keith's stomach dropped before he even read the first comment.

'Omegas in politics are a joke. Bet none of them are even properly bonded. Just wait till there 40 with cats.'

'Remember when omegas knew their place? Now they're out here "directing" and "leading" like they don't need alphas at all.'

'It's always the damaged ones who reject pups. No wonder birth rates are crashing.'

Keith's fingers tightened around the phone. The comments kept coming, each one uglier than the last. What struck him wasn't just the vitriol—it was the sheer number. Hundreds of replies. Thousands of upvotes. A whole underground chorus of resentment.

"Christ," Keith muttered, handing the phone back like it might burn him. "And we're about to waltz into an international omega leadership summit with full media coverage."

Lotor set the phone face-down on the bed. "We were always going to be targets. Now we're just making it easier for them to take shots."

Keith flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. The luxurious suite suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. "You ever think about just... not doing this? Staying home, ordering takeout, pretending we're normal people?"

"Every damn day," Lotor admitted, lying back beside him. Their shoulders brushed—a quiet solidarity. "But then I remember how much I love watching mediocre alphas squirm when I out-earn them."

Keith barked a laugh. "Still going then?"

"Still going," Lotor confirmed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Within a week of the Omega Leadership Summit announcement, online discourse exploded. What started as a few vague complaints under local news articles mutated into full-blown campaigns on fringe sites and social media platforms.
#OmegaPrivilege started trending on X (formerly Twitter) for three days straight before the platform stepped in. The tag was flooded with comments like:
“Why are we celebrating omegas when alphas have the highest suicide rate?”
“The government gives omegas free therapy and housing but no one helps us.”
“This is reverse oppression. Alphas used to lead, now we can’t even get dates.”

Screenshots went viral showing usernames like @TrueAlphaRising, @BreedOrGetOut, and @OmegaThreatDetector. Many of these accounts were suspended in waves as social media companies began cracking down under hate speech and harassment policy violations. Within four days, over 1,200 accounts were banned across three major platforms, and still, new ones kept popping up.
TikTokers began making sarcastic videos under the audio of someone whining, “Back in my day, omegas made sandwiches,” while twirling in couture or filming themselves leading corporate meetings. One user captioned their video:

“Omegas shouldn’t have rights 😩 unless it’s the right to ruin your whole life and look amazing while doing it 💅”
While progressive media celebrated this satirical pushback, conservative blogs and YouTube channels fanned the flames.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
✦ Article Excerpt – The New York Ledger
“The Alpha Loneliness Epidemic: Are We Looking at the Right Problem?”
A new study from the North American Social Dynamics Institute reports that alpha-identified individuals are increasingly citing feelings of isolation, lack of purpose, and rejection. 65% of surveyed alphas claim they struggle with dating due to “increased omega expectations,” such as emotional availability, egalitarian values, and shared household responsibilities.

Meanwhile, over 78% of omegas under 35 now hold higher education degrees, many in fields previously dominated by alphas. “I’m not looking for someone to ‘claim’ me,” one omega interviewee shared. “I’m looking for someone who can match me.”
The cultural shift has left some alphas feeling left behind, and instead of adapting, online forums suggest many are turning to resentment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
✦ Article Excerpt – BuzzLine
“Incel 2.0: Inside the Rise of Alpha Extremist Spaces”
What used to be niche rage forums have now become massive echo chambers. These new groups frame themselves as victims of the “Omega Agenda,” claiming they are systematically being “erased from relevance.”

Screenshots from threads include calls for “omega cleansing” and “reclaiming public spaces,” with subtle but violent rhetoric masked as activism.
“It’s always disguised as hurt,” says Dr. Yasmine Kwan, a social psychologist. “But hurt untreated turns into anger. And online, that anger can radicalize fast.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
From the Incel Forums:
“Look at those omega leaders. They’re all sterile or slutty. No real omega wants to raise a pup anymore.”
“It’s our fault. We let them read, get jobs, and now they think they’re men. Someone needs to remind them they’re not.”
“If you’re an alpha and you support omegas in power, you’re a traitor. You deserve to be neutered.”

“Let’s see how powerful they feel when someone finally puts them back in their place. Publicly.”
Even Reddit, which often blurred the line between free speech and hate speech, began banning subreddits linked to these groups. One was removed after members debated whether it was “acceptable” to protest the summit in person—with some explicitly mentioning weaponry.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith didn’t read the threads. He couldn’t. But his team did. And every day, Axca sent him filtered reports.
“Security’s doubling,” she said flatly over Zoom. “And yes, the venue has been screened twice. Everyone’s taking it seriously.”
Keith nodded, jaw clenched.

“Still going?”
Keith looked at her through the screen, eyes tired but steady. “Now more than ever.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Omega Leadership Summit was everything Keith had hoped for—and more than he deserved.

The venue was a cathedral of glass and ambition, its vaulted ceiling open to the bruised purple twilight, stars blinking through like scattered diamonds. Crystal chandeliers rained light over designer gowns and razor-sharp suits, the red carpet a river of crushed velvet beneath their feet. Cameras flashed like lightning, catching the event’s slogan emblazoned across the backdrop: "Lead As You Are."

It was the first time Keith had ever seen so many omega and female leaders gathered in one place—CEOs, activists, artists, scientists—not as tokens, not as novelties, but as equals. As power. The air hummed with it, electric and alive.

But what really sent the press into a frenzy was the sight of the alphas who had come to stand with them.

Lance, devastating in navy Tom Ford, his hand a steady warmth at the small of Keith’s back. Shiro, a storm in head-to-toe black, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Adam, who looked like moonlight given human form in his ivory suit.

"Are they… civil now?" someone whispered behind them.

"Maybe they’re just pretending," another murmured.

Keith didn’t care. Because for the first time in months, Shiro wasn’t glaring at Lance like he wanted to throw him into the sun. They were talking. Awkwardly, stiffly—but talking. And when Lance cracked a dry joke about designer omega fashion being "just expensive oppression," Shiro actually smirked.

It was more than Keith had ever hoped for.

—

When he took the stage, the applause was deafening.

He’d chosen white. Clean. Bold. Unapologetic.

The engraved glass award was heavy in his hands as he stepped up to the mic, his pulse a wild, fluttering thing in his throat.

"Three years ago," he began, voice steady despite the tremor in his fingers, "I was told I was too much. Too loud. Too aggressive."

A hush fell over the crowd.

"I was told I needed to be softer. Smaller. That I needed their approval to matter. That my ambition was a flaw, not a strength." He paused, letting the words settle. "But the truth is, I wouldn’t be here tonight without the alphas who did believe in me."

His gaze found Shiro in the crowd—his brother, his protector, the first person who ever looked at him and saw potential instead of a problem. Then Lance, who had fought his own pride to love him better.

"This isn’t about omega versus alpha. It’s about choice." Keith’s voice sharpened, carrying over the silent room. "The choice to lift each other up instead of holding each other back. The choice to lead—not in spite of who we are, but because of it."

The applause was thunderous. Lotor, resplendent in violet silk, whistled through his fingers. Shiro’s jaw was tight, his eyes suspiciously bright. Lance mouthed, "You killed that," grinning like he’d never been prouder.

Keith stepped off the stage, light-headed, euphoric—

—and that was when the first shot rang out.

Click.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then—

"GUN!"

The scream tore through the room like shattering glass.

Chaos erupted.

People surged toward exits, chairs toppling, champagne flutes smashing against the floor. Keith froze, his brain struggling to catch up—

—until he saw him.

The man in the security uniform. The gun in his hands. The rage twisting his face.

"KEITH!"

Lance’s voice was raw, desperate.

He lunged, tackling Keith to the ground just as the gunfire erupted—

—and the world dissolved into screaming.

Chapter Text

The first shot shattered the air.

Keith hit the ground hard, Lance’s body slamming into him like a human shield. His ears rang, his ribs screamed—what the hell just happened?

"Don’t move—" Lance’s voice was a ragged growl in his ear, his arms locking around Keith’s head.

BANG.

Another shot. Closer.

Screams erupted—real, animal terror—as people stampeded, chairs toppled, glass shattered. Somewhere, a woman shrieked, "HE’S GOT A GUN!"

Keith tried to twist, to see, but Lance’s grip was iron.

"Stay down!" Lance snarled, his breath hot and panicked against Keith’s neck.

Keith obeyed. His heart hammered so hard he could taste blood in his throat. The floor was cold beneath his cheek. The air smelled like gunpowder and horror.

"YOU DESERVE THIS!"

The gunman’s voice—slurred, furious—echoed through the hall.

BANG. BANG.

More screams. More running.

Then—silence.

A terrible, ringing silence.

Keith didn’t move. Couldn’t. Lance’s weight pressed him into the floor, heavy, too heavy.

"Lance?" Keith whispered.

No answer.

"Lance—?"

Still nothing.

Keith’s stomach dropped.

Then—shouting.

"DROP THE WEAPON! NOW!"

Cops.

Keith heard the scuffle—a grunt, a curse, the crunch of a body hitting the floor.

"GUN’S CLEAR! SUSPECT DOWN!"

The shooter was down.

Keith twisted, shoving Lance off him—

—and the world stopped.

Blood.

So much blood.

Lance’s navy jacket was soaked through, his chest a mess of red, his lips dripping crimson. His breath came in wet, shuddering gasps, his eyes glassy, unfocused.

"Oh my God—" Keith’s hands flew to Lance’s chest, pressing hard against the wound. "LANCE—!"

Lance’s body jerked, a choked gurgle escaping his lips.

"No no no—" Keith ripped off his own jacket, balling it up and shoving it against the bullet hole. The white fabric darkened to red instantly.

"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!" Keith screamed, his voice raw.

No one came.

Not yet.

The cops were still securing the scene. The ambulances were still seconds away.

Keith was alone.

"You’re not dying on me," he snarled, pressing harder. "You hear me? YOU’RE NOT DYING!"

Lance’s eyelids fluttered. His fingers twitched weakly against the floor.

"Stay with me—look at me—" Keith’s hands were slippery, shaking, but he didn’t let up. "Breathe, damn it—JUST BREATHE—"

Finally—sirens.

"OVER HERE!" Keith roared.

Paramedics rushed in, shoving him aside, but Keith fought back. "He’s bleeding out—you have to stop it—"

A medic yanked him away. "We’ve got him! Move!"

Keith staggered, his hands drenched, his vision blurring.

They worked fast—pressure bandages, oxygen, IV lines—but it felt like hours.

"Pulse is thready—"

"We need to load him NOW—"

The stretcher lifted. The ambulance doors slammed.

Keith didn’t remember getting inside.

All he knew was the scream of sirens, the stench of blood, and Lance’s fingers—cold, limp, slipping away.

"Don’t you dare," Keith whispered, his tears dripping onto Lance’s lifeless face. "Don’t you fucking dare leave me."

Keith remained rooted to the spot long after the swinging double doors of the operating room closed behind Lance. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t think. His eyes were fixed on the last place he’d seen him—barely breathing, pale, blood soaking through his clothes.
A nurse's voice pulled him back to the surface.
"Sir? Sir, I need to ask a few questions—does he have any allergies? Any medications? Can you fill out this form?"
Keith turned slowly, staring at the clipboard she was offering. His gaze dropped to his hands, still stretched out like he was trying to catch something. His fingers trembled. They were slick.
Blood.

It was everywhere. The pen slipped from his grasp as he suddenly registered the dark red smeared across his palms, dried on his hands. His white shirt was red too, dyed crimson from the chest up. He looked like he had stepped out of a warzone.
And he had.
He staggered back, vision blurring, and crumpled to his knees before he even realized he was falling. The hospital floor was cold, too bright, too sterile for what was happening inside him. He couldn't breathe. It was like someone was sitting on his chest. His lungs seized, air refusing to come in. His ears rang with phantom gunshots. Lance’s body collapsing onto him. The chaos. The screaming. The warmth of blood that wasn’t his.
He was dying. Or it felt like it.

"You're okay—hey, you’re okay—breathe, just breathe—" the nurse knelt beside him, grounding him with firm hands. She pulled a small injector from her belt and pressed it gently against his neck. The sedative hissed as it entered his bloodstream, and the edges of his panic started to dull, though his hands still shook violently.
He was helped to a chair in the waiting area just outside the operating wing. Keith sat slumped, soaked in Lance’s blood, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. Tears slipped silently down his cheeks, landing on his lap. He didn’t wipe them away. He didn’t care who saw.
The nurse came back after a while. "I’ll fill out the rest of the forms. Just tell me what you can. Full name? Any known allergies?"

Keith answered in a whisper, each word like dragging glass up his throat. “Lance McClain… no allergies… blood type’s O positive…”
His voice broke. The nurse patted his shoulder kindly. “If you’d like, we can get you some fresh clothes. A room to lie down in.”
“No,” he rasped. “I need to stay. I need to be here if… if anything happens.”
She didn’t push him. Just nodded and left him to his silence.
Keith leaned forward, elbows on bloodied knees, staring at the tiles. The memory played over and over in his mind like a broken reel. The flash of a gun. The way Lance tackled him to the ground. The sound of the bullet hitting flesh. Was it then? Was that when he was hit?

God, I should’ve done more. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve protected him.
His fists clenched. He barely noticed the tears anymore. They just kept coming, carving burning paths down his cheeks.
A hand suddenly rested on his shoulder—warm, familiar.
Keith flinched, turning his head.
“Shiro!”
His voice cracked as he immediately collapsed into his brother’s chest. Shiro didn’t say anything—just wrapped him up in his arms and held him tightly as Keith finally, completely broke down.
“He’s in surgery—Shiro, I don’t know if he’s okay—I didn’t know what to do—I couldn’t—”

He sobbed uncontrollably, words tumbling out between sharp, wet gasps. It didn’t matter if they made sense. Shiro understood.
“I know,” Shiro murmured. “I know. I’ve got you.”
Keith clung to him like a lifeline, his fists curled into Shiro’s coat. Eventually, the tremors eased. The storm inside began to still, if only slightly.
After a while, Shiro rubbed his back and finally spoke. “Lance is going to pull through. He’s too stubborn not to, remember?” His voice was calm but steady. “Don’t give up on him yet.”
Keith didn’t respond, but his breathing steadied.
Shiro hesitated, then added, “Adam got shot, too.”

Keith’s head snapped up, eyes wide with new panic.
“Wait—what?!”
“It’s okay,” Shiro said quickly, holding his hands up. “It just grazed him. Clean through the thigh. No major arteries. He’s fine—he’s already in a room, resting.”
Keith exhaled hard, almost choking on the sudden wave of relief that swept through him. He sank back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.
“Thank God,” he whispered.
But even with that small comfort, his heart refused to calm. Because Lance was still in surgery. And every second felt like a lifetime.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Shiro sat beside Keith in the dim corridor, their hands loosely intertwined—more like an anchor than comfort. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink too loudly. Keith was a wreck. Blood still stained the collar of his white shirt, now dry and cracked in places. His eyes were puffy and rimmed red, lashes clumped with old tears, and he hadn't spoken a word in nearly two hours.
He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t rested. The only thing Shiro managed was getting him to rinse the blood off his hands—hands that had trembled under the cold stream of water like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

And still, Keith stared at those double OR doors as if he could burn a hole through them. As if sheer force of will might make Lance come back out alive.
Shiro kept holding his hand, his thumb gently tracing slow circles into the back of Keith’s knuckles. The silence between them was thick, but not empty. It pulsed with grief, fear, and the breathless kind of hope that hurt to hold.
Then the doors finally cracked open.
“Lance McClain?”

The name barely hit the air before Keith bolted upright, knocking the chair into the wall behind him. He surged toward the doctor, breath catching in his throat.
“Here! I’m—he’s mine. I mean—Is he… is he okay?”
The words came out in a messy tangle, hoarse and raw.
The surgeon blinked at the intensity, then nodded slowly. “He’s stable. Surgery went well.”
Keith’s knees buckled. He staggered, and Shiro jumped to steady him, an arm around his waist.
“What was the damage?” Shiro asked, voice tight but steady—his military calm kicking in.

The surgeon glanced down at her clipboard and exhaled. “Gunshot wound to the upper right thorax. The bullet collapsed his lung—pneumothorax—but it missed the subclavian artery and the brachial plexus. No major vessels hit, no spinal trauma. We placed a chest tube to re-expand the lung and gave him a transfusion. Entry and exit were clean. He’s very lucky.”
Lucky.
The word lodged in Keith’s throat like glass.
“He’s… he’s really going to be okay?” Keith whispered, eyes glossy and wide.
The surgeon softened, tucking the chart beneath her arm. “Yes. He’s got a road to recovery ahead, but medically, he’s out of the woods.”

Keith’s breath shuddered as it left him. A sob tried to escape, but he bit it back.
“When can I see him?” he asked, the desperation in his voice barely concealed.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. He’ll still be intubated for a few more hours, so he won’t be conscious for a while.” She hesitated, then added gently, “When he does wake up, he’ll be in a lot of discomfort. Lung injuries are painful. But yes—he’ll recover.”
“Will he be able to breathe on his own again?” Shiro asked, glancing at Keith’s pale face.
The doctor gave a tiny smile. “Absolutely. He’s strong. Might not be singing ballads anytime soon, but yes—his prognosis is good.”

Keith’s legs finally gave, and Shiro guided him back down to the seat before he could collapse.
“Room 407,” the surgeon said as she walked away. “Two visitors at a time. He’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Silence fell again.
Keith leaned into Shiro, burying his face into his shoulder. His whole body shook with the silent sob that followed.
“He’s okay,” Shiro whispered, arms wrapping tight around him. “He’s okay.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Shiro leaned against the pristine glass of the VIP suite, arms folded, watching the way Keith sat—practically fused to the side of Lance’s hospital bed. His knuckles were white where he gripped the rails, his eyes locked on Lance’s pale face like looking away might make him vanish.
It had taken a quiet conversation, a favor pulled, and some billionaire muscle-flexing for Shiro to get Lance transferred to the private wing especially with the influx of injured people. The VIP suite was sterile, silent, —but it was also quiet, and safe. And Keith hadn’t let go of Lance for a second.
When the nurses gently ushered them out of ICU, Keith had moved like a ghost—silent, dazed, trailing beside the gurney as they wheeled Lance through the hallways. Now, even with Lance settled beneath warm blankets and a soft pulse monitor beeping beside him, Keith hadn’t so much as blinked away.

Shiro stepped forward, placing a warm hand on his shoulder.
“You should drink something,” he said gently, crouching beside the chair Keith had pulled flush to the bed. “Tea, maybe.”
“I’m not hungry,” Keith murmured, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Lance’s chest.
“I didn’t say food. Just tea.”
Keith didn’t respond.
Shiro sighed and stood, crossing the room to retrieve a delicate porcelain cup from the tray the staff had set earlier. Steam curled lazily from the surface as he handed it to him.
“Just a sip.”

Keith took it reluctantly, barely bringing it to his lips. He managed a few small gulps before setting it on the side table, hands retreating immediately to hold Lance’s. The tremble in his fingertips hadn’t stopped since surgery.
“I’ll get you something to eat,” Shiro said next, calm and measured.
“No.”
“Keith…”
Keith gave Shiro a weak look and an ever weaker answer “I can’t Shiro.”
Shiro exhaled through his nose. He could feel the wall going up, brick by brick. Keith looked drained—his skin pale, lips chapped, hair still matted with dried sweat and blood. His clothes were stiff with it. He looked like someone who’d just barely survived a battlefield, because, in a way, he had.

“You should shower,” Shiro tried again, softening his tone. “This suite has a good one. Big. Hot water. I can ask staff to disinfect everything so it’s clean when Lance wakes up.”
“I’m not leaving him.”
“You don’t have to leave the room. You can still hear him from the bathroom.” Shiro knelt again, voice dropping lower, more coaxing now. “You’ll feel better. You’ll think clearer. I’ll even get someone to bring you clean clothes.”
Keith shook his head. Then, slower, uncertainly, “I don’t… I don’t have my phone. I lost it. In the chaos. I haven’t told Ronnie.”
Shiro blinked. That was the opening.

“You should call her,” he said gently. “You know she’s probably losing her mind. She might already know, but hearing it from you would mean everything.”
Keith’s face twisted. His throat bobbed. “Fuck…”
Shiro moved quickly, reaching into his pocket and handing over his phone. “Use mine. I’ve got her number saved. And please—take five minutes. Shower. Get changed. I’ll stay with him. I won’t move an inch, I promise.”
Keith’s fingers hovered over the phone screen. For a moment he just sat there, frozen, caught between exhaustion and panic. Then he nodded. A tiny, fragile nod.
“I’ll… I’ll be fast.”
“That’s all I ask.”

Keith dragged himself to the suite’s private bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of the water started a few seconds later.
When he emerged, his skin was pink from the heat, and his damp hair curled slightly at the ends. He was in a set of spare clothes someone must’ve sent up—black joggers and a soft gray tee. He looked cleaner, but no less raw.
Shiro had stepped into the hallway to give him privacy.
Keith took the phone with shaking hands and moved to the wide windowsill, still in view of Lance. His thumb hovered over Ronnie’s name before he tapped it.
It rang once. Twice.
Then—

“Shiro? Please tell me something. I saw it on Twitter—Is it true? What’s happ—”
Keith’s voice cracked instantly. “Ronnie… it’s me.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, then silence.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Keith. Where are you guys? Is everything okay—talk to me.”
“Lance was shot. He’s okay. He’s stable now. Surgery went well.”
Another pause, followed by a sob she tried to cover with a breath. “Jesus Christ… I’ve been calling. I—I didn’t know if it was real.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith whispered, his voice trembling. “I lost my phone. Everything happened so fast.”
“How bad is it?” she asked, quieter now.
Keith swallowed. “Collapsed lung. He got shot in the chest. But… he’s going to recover. No permanent damage. He’s unconscious but breathing on his own now.”
“Where are you?”
“Private suite at Lenox Hill. Room 503. Shiro pulled strings.”
“I’m on my way,” she said instantly, no hesitation.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Keith hadn’t moved in hours. He sat rigid in the vinyl chair beside Lance’s bed, eyes locked on every rise and fall of Lance’s chest. The soft whir of machines filled the silence. If Keith let himself breathe too deeply, he was afraid he’d miss a change in the rhythm. A flicker. A shift.
Shiro stood a few feet away, nursing a cup of cold tea. He’d given up trying to convince Keith to eat again. But now… now he had something else.
“Keith,” he said quietly, “you should see Adam.”
Keith didn’t look up.
“ And he’s been asking for you.”

“I can’t leave him.” Keith’s voice was hoarse. “I just got him back.”
Shiro moved closer, crouching beside him. His tone softened but didn’t waver. “You won’t be gone long. His room’s next door. Literally. You can be back in five minutes.”
Keith shook his head, eyes wet and wild. “What if something happens?”
“Then I’ll be here. I swear to you—I won’t let anything happen. But Adam’s lying there with a bullet wound, and he’s worried about you.”
That made Keith flinch.
“He was there too and he’s worried about you. And he’s got no one else here but me—and you.”
Keith’s jaw worked. Guilt crept up his spine, heavy and cold. Adam had always been steady, the calm in Shiro’s life, and he had been there. Had almost taken a worse hit himself. And Keith… hadn’t even seen him yet.

After a long pause, Keith stood stiffly. “Five minutes,” he muttered, glancing once more at Lance. “I’ll be right back.”
Shiro touched his back in quiet thanks and led him into the next room.
Adam was sitting up in bed, one leg propped and bandaged, a tray of untouched food beside him. His face lit up when he saw Keith, even if the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Hey, kid,” he said softly.
Keith swallowed thickly. “Hey.”
Adam lowered the volume on the TV, where a breaking news banner flashed beneath chaotic footage.
Keith’s eyes flicked to the screen.

A female reporter, clearly shaken, stood outside the summit venue. Behind her, emergency lights strobed. "…the shooter has been identified as Malik Tenner, a contracted alpha security guard with ties to incel forums and anti-omega hate groups…"
Keith’s mouth went dry.
"Authorities believe he smuggled multiple firearms into the event over several days, evading routine checks. At approximately 10:34 a.m., he opened fire during a panel discussing omega representation in leadership…"
The broadcast cut to shaky phone footage—screaming, gunshots, a blur of bodies diving for cover.
"Seven confirmed dead. Twenty others injured. Among them, singer and entrepreneur Lance McClain, whose name is trending globally after reports confirmed he was shot…"
Keith’s knees nearly buckled. Adam quickly turned the volume down.

“I’m sorry,” he said, guilt etched deep in his face.
Keith shook his head, backing up slightly. “It’s not your fault.”
“I just—he was near us. I thought—if I’d gotten between—”
“You’d be dead,” Keith snapped. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think that.”
They stared at each other for a long beat. Then Adam opened his arms. “C’mere.”
Keith moved without hesitation, collapsing into his arms. The hug was awkward, careful around bandages and bruises, but it was real. Solid. Grounding.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Keith whispered.

“You too,” Adam replied, holding him tight. “Now go back to him. He’s probably wondering where you went.”
Keith gave a watery chuckle, pulled back, and nodded.
When he returned to the suite, Shiro had dimmed the lights. The room was quiet except for the beep of monitors and the soft rhythm of Lance’s breathing. Keith slid back into the chair, took Lance’s hand again, and exhaled like he’d been holding it the entire time.
He hadn’t been sitting more than ten minutes when the door burst open.
“Keith!”

Ronnie’s voice cracked as she rushed in, dropping her purse to the floor. Her heels clicked across the tile in a mad sprint before she threw herself into Keith’s arms. He caught her, barely bracing before they collided.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” she sobbed into his shoulder.
“I know,” Keith whispered, arms wrapping tight around her waist. “I know.”
They held each other like lifelines, both trembling, both unraveling now that they didn’t have to hold it together anymore.
Ronnie finally pulled back, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes fell to the bed—and to Lance.
“Jesus…” she whispered. “He looks so pale.”

Behind her, Lia entered more quietly, her wide eyes glassy, and Marco stepped in last, tense and stiff in a dark blazer. The eldest McClain sibling.
Ronnie leaned over Lance’s bedside, brushing a hand through his hair with practiced gentleness. “You idiot,” she whispered, voice breaking again. “You better make it out okay.”
Lia moved beside her, touching Lance’s hand lightly. “Is he okay? We saw what happened on the news.”
Marco stood at the foot of the bed, silent for a moment, then gave Keith a small nod. “You okay?”
Keith nodded once, but his throat was too tight to speak.

Ronnie turned back to him, taking his hand. “You stayed with him the whole time?”
Keith’s voice cracked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And this time, when he started to cry, he didn’t try to hide it. Ronnie just pulled him in again and held him tighter.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ronnie refused to sit.
She hovered, fluffed Lance’s pillows, adjusted his sheets, even attempted to swipe the smallest smudge off his forehead with a tissue like it was the most offensive thing she'd ever seen. Lia kept bringing cups of water no one touched. Marco stood near the monitors, pretending he understood them, his brows drawn in quiet frustration.
“He always had to be dramatic,” Ronnie said softly, smoothing Lance’s hair. “Couldn’t just faint or twist an ankle. Had to take a bullet.”
Keith offered a weary smile, but his grip on Lance’s hand never loosened. “He saved me.”

“And we’re grateful,” Marco said, folding his arms, his voice tight. “But he’s still an idiot.”
Ronnie swatted his arm, then returned her attention to Lance. She adjusted the blanket again. “Still the baby of the family,” she murmured.
Eventually, the day began to wind down. Doctors came and went. Nurses administered another dose of something Keith couldn’t pronounce. Ronnie finally slumped into a chair with a sigh.
“We’ll come back early,” she said, her voice low and reluctant. “He’s stable now. Right?”
Keith nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call if anything changes.”

Lia kissed Lance’s temple before stepping out. Marco paused before leaving, placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder. It was silent, but Keith felt the weight of it: Thank you. Take care of him.
Then the room quieted.
Keith turned down the lights and dragged himself to the velvet-lined couch. It was oversized, sleek—fitting for a VIP suite—but it felt too far from Lance. Still, exhaustion pulled at him. He lay there fully clothed, curled slightly, the ache in his chest dull but constant.
He dreamed of blood. Of shouting. Of Lance falling.

And then morning came.
Keith awoke slowly to soft morning light filtering through gauzy curtains. A tray of breakfast had been delivered at some point. He forced himself to eat—Shiro’s warning echoing in his head—managing half a croissant and some fruit before his stomach protested.
The tray barely settled on the side table when he heard it.
A gasp. A choking noise.
Keith bolted up.
Lance’s eyes were wide open, frantic, darting around the room in blind confusion. He was gagging against the breathing tube still lodged in his throat, panic rising fast.
“Lance!” Keith rushed to the bedside. “Hey—hey, I’m here, I’m right here.”
Lance’s eyes found him instantly, wild and wet.

Keith cupped his face, voice trembling but steady. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. You were shot, but you’re gonna be fine. Just breathe with me. Look at me.”
The nurses had already hit the emergency call button. In seconds, two of them arrived, calm and efficient. “His vitals are good enough—we’ll remove the tube now.”
Keith stayed right beside him, gripping his hand as the tube was gently extracted. Lance coughed violently, eyes squeezing shut, and tears leaked down his cheeks.
As soon as it was out, he rasped one word: “Keith…”
Keith couldn’t help it—he broke down, pressing Lance’s hand to his lips.
“I’m here. I never left.” His voice cracked. “God, Lance. I thought— I thought I lost you.”

Lance’s hand lifted weakly, touching Keith’s cheek. His thumb brushed the raw skin beneath his eye.
“You’ve been crying,” he rasped. His voice was barley above a whisper.
Keith gave a tearful, broken laugh. “You got shot, and that’s what you notice?”
Lance smiled weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “You look like hell.”
Keith leaned in, forehead pressed to his. “You look worse, so there.”
A long silence passed between them. Then Lance shifted, wincing slightly. “Come here.”
“What—”

“Bed,” he muttered, tugging at Keith’s sleeve. “Now.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Not on the left side. Just… come here let me hold you.”
Keith hesitated for exactly three seconds before gently crawling onto the bed, lying on Lance’s uninjured side. He moved carefully, mindful of the IVs and bandages, and let Lance pull him in.
They lay there in silence, the rhythm of Lance’s heartbeat just barely under Keith’s cheek.
“I missed you,” Keith whispered.
“I never left,” Lance whispered back.

Lance’s breathing began to slow again. Keith’s fingers curled around his shirt like a child afraid of being pulled away, but slowly… the tension ebbed. The adrenaline drained. For the first time in two days, Keith’s body finally let him sleep.
Wrapped in Lance’s warmth, with his heart finally, finally still.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~
Keith woke to murmuring.
Soft laughter. A wheelchair squeaking. Someone cursing under their breath, and then—Lance’s voice, sharp as ever although much more rapsy.
“Will you all shut up? He’s still sleeping!”
Keith blinked his eyes open groggily, a little disoriented. The room was flooded with late-morning light, and the comforting rise and fall of Lance’s chest was still beneath his cheek.
Wait.
He sat up with a jolt, eyes wide. He’d been asleep—in Lance’s hospital bed.

His mortified look must’ve said everything because the whole room burst into knowing laughter.
“Oh my God,” Keith muttered, cheeks flushing. “Why didn’t someone wake me up? I was hogging the bed—”
“You were dead asleep,” Ronnie said, biting into a muffin like it was part of a show. “And don’t be dramatic. You needed it.”
Lia leaned in from where she was sitting on the couch. “You drool in your sleep, by the way. Just FYI.”
Keith flushed deeper. “Kill me.”

Lance snorted, beaming despite the fatigue in his face. “Absolutely not. You looked cute.”
Marco, lounging against the wall with a coffee in hand, rolled his eyes. “You two are disgusting.”
“Oh my God, Marco,” Lance snapped. “You were the one slamming the door with your big-footed boots like we’re in a barn.”
“I don’t slam—”
“You do.”
“Guys,” Shiro cut in, exasperated but smiling, “maybe we should give Lance a second to fully wake up before you start dragging each other.”
“Too late,” Adam added from the doorway, wheeling in with a blanket over his lap and a hospital remote in his hand. “They’ve been like this for the last hour. It’s like a sitcom in here.”
Keith looked to Adam, eyes widening. “You— You’re here?”

“Of course,” Adam said, shrugging with a grin. “Overly dramatic flesh wound. Not my first hospital visit, but definitely the most entertaining.”
Shiro moved to Adam’s side instinctively, his hand finding his shoulder. “He insisted on coming up here just to see you two. Wouldn’t let me push him.”
“You’re weak, babe,” Adam replied sweetly.
More laughter followed. Keith exhaled slowly, rubbing his eyes. The room felt full in a good way—warm, noisy, alive. He hadn’t realized how much his body needed the sleep, how completely his nerves had been fried until now. His neck ached from the awkward position, but he didn’t care.
The worst was over.
Lance was safe.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lance was perched at the edge of the hospital bed in sweats and a McClain family hoodie two sizes too big. His cheeks had more color. His smile came quicker. His voice was stronger, too, despite occasional hoarseness.
Keith stood nearby with a packet of discharge papers in his hand, nodding along dutifully as the nurse rattled off instructions.
“Plenty of fluids. No lifting anything heavier than five pounds. No stairs if it can be helped, and definitely no dancing, running, or dramatic hair flips—”
“Killjoy,” Lance muttered.
“—for the next few weeks,” she finished with a grin. “You’ve got another follow-up in ten days. And if your breathing worsens or you feel lightheaded—”
“I’ll tell Keith,” Lance promised, reaching over to grab his hand.

“And Keith?” The nurse turned to him. “Make sure he doesn’t lie about pain to look cool.”
“Already ahead of you,” Keith said, lacing their fingers. “I’ve known him too long.”
They left the hospital by the private wing. Shiro had arranged everything: a black SUV, airport security bypass, a private jet with every amenity possible.
Lance groaned happily as they boarded. “We should get shot more often if this is the aftermath.”
“Absolutely not,” Keith said, swatting him gently. “Don’t joke.”
Lance sobered, looking at him from beneath those lashes. “Sorry.”
But Keith only shook his head, tugged him closer by the waist, and kissed his temple. “Let’s get you home.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The skyline was awash in deep purples and golds, city lights flickering to life through the towering windows of their penthouse. The air smelled like eucalyptus and linen-soft fabric softener, familiar and expensive in the way only Lance McClain could casually pull off.
Keith helped him through the door with an arm around his waist, his movements careful but practiced. This was home. But it didn’t feel real yet.
“I should’ve guessed you’d have a six-figure couch,” Keith muttered, trying for lightness as he lowered Lance onto it, arranging pillows behind his back.
Lance flopped down dramatically with a breathless groan. “I earned that couch.”
“You didn’t earn that bullet.”

“Well... fair.” He tilted his head to smirk, but Keith wasn’t smiling back. Not really.
Keith moved on instinct, checking the bandage over Lance’s ribs, setting down water and his pain meds, tucking a blanket over his legs. His hands were gentle. Too gentle. And his silence lingered a little too long.
Lance watched him from beneath heavy lashes. “You’re being all... domestic,” he teased, trying to lift the mood.
Keith arched a brow as he fluffed a throw pillow. “Is that a complaint?”
“Nope,” Lance said, eyes dancing. “It’s hot.”
Keith rolled his eyes but didn’t deny the flutter that sparked in his chest. “You’re supposed to be resting. Not hitting on your live-in nurse.”

“But my nurse is hot,” Lance replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
This time, Keith leaned in without hesitation, brushing his lips softly across Lance’s forehead. His hand lingered in Lance’s hair longer than necessary.
“If you’re good,” he murmured, “I’ll let you watch cartoons later.”
Lance’s voice dropped into something smaller, sleepier. “Spoiled.”
Keith smiled faintly. “Yeah. You are.”
They sat in silence after that. The TV played low in the background—some soft documentary about oceans or clouds. Lance eventually drifted, head against Keith’s shoulder, his body warm and real and breathing next to him.

Keith stared at the wall across from them, watching light scatter and shift as a plane blinked past the skyline. His arms tightened just a little.
“Keith?” Lance’s voice was rough from sleep, but there was a note of concern now. “You okay?”
Keith hesitated.
Then, in a breath that left too quickly, he whispered, “I was scared.”
Lance turned his head slowly to look up at him, brows drawing together.
Keith swallowed hard. His voice cracked, barely audible. “When I saw the blood—when you stopped moving, I just... everything froze. I—I didn’t know if you were gone. I kept thinking... I can’t—” He shook his head and laughed bitterly, though his voice trembled and tears made their way down his face. “You promised not to abandon me, remember?”
Lance’s throat worked, guilt flickering behind his eyes. “Keith…”

Keith met his gaze, the smile on his lips thin and watery. “And death counts as abandoning me, okay? I don’t care what anyone says.”
Lance gave a wet chuckle, blinking quickly. “Babe…”
Keith leaned in, forehead pressed gently to Lance’s temple, his voice breaking like something too tightly wound. “You can’t do that again. Not like that. Don’t put yourself in danger for me. Not while I’m still—god, I haven’t even forgiven you properly yet.”
Lance reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You better not,” Keith murmured, the words shaky but full of steel. “Because if you die, I’m gonna kill you.”
Lance laughed through the sudden tears in his eyes. “That's fair.”

Keith turned toward him, cupping his cheek with a trembling hand. Lance leaned into it without hesitation, eyes closing for a second. “Hey,” Lance said quietly, pulling Keith into a kiss. “I love you. I’m okay. And you didn’t lose me.”
Keith kissed him back, slow and desperate, like he needed it to believe those words.
They sat like that for a long time, forehead to forehead.
Later that night, when Keith tried to take the sofa, Lance grumbled, “Nope. You’re not sleeping over there like some damn exile.”
“You were shot, Lance.”
“I got grazed. You’re the one with raccoon eyes.”

“I do not—”
Lance just tugged him onto the bed.
Keith lay carefully on the side that wasn’t injured, arms wrapping around Lance’s waist like instinct. Lance ran his fingers through Keith’s hair, brushing hair off his forehead. He closed his eyes—and slept.
With Lance beside him. Alive. Warm.
Home.