Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting a cold, clinical glow over the bustling precinct. Officers shuffled between desks, the air thick with the hum of conversations, clinking coffee cups, and the occasional crackle of a radio. Joseph leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an ease that belied the tension coiling in his chest. Christian and Jean-Mi flanked him, their faces neutral but watchful. They had to play it cool, like they belonged, even though every second spent here set Joe’s nerves on edge.  

And then, there he was. Matt Bellamy.  

The police delegate strode into the room, a stack of files tucked under his arm and a stern expression that could cut through steel. Tall, broad-shouldered, and commanding, Matt had an air about him that drew attention wherever he went. He didn’t speak much as he crossed to his desk, but his presence alone silenced conversations and straightened spines. Joseph hated that about him—the effortless authority, the way people respected him without question.  

“Joe,” Christian murmured under his breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “That’s him, right? Bellamy?”  

Joe nodded once, his jaw tightening. “That’s him.”  

Matt Bellamy was everything Joe despised. Honest. Unyielding. Loyal to the law. The kind of man who couldn’t be bribed or intimidated, who dug until he uncovered the truth no matter how deep it was buried. And right now, Matt was digging into something he had no business uncovering: the mafia. Joe’s mafia.  

He didn’t know yet, of course. Didn’t know that the man standing a few feet away from him was the one he was hunting. To Matt, Joe was just another undercover cop, one of a dozen planted in the precinct to sniff out leads. It was a good cover, one that had kept Joe and his crew safe for months now. But Matt was getting too close, asking the wrong questions, pulling on threads that could unravel everything.  

Joe watched as Matt flipped open a file and leaned over his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. It made Joe’s stomach twist with anger. Matt wasn’t just a threat to the operation; he was a threat to Joe personally.  

He remembered the first time he’d heard the name “Matt Bellamy.” It had been years ago, back when Joe was still in Brazil, searching desperately for his kidnapped brother, Mario. He’d heard rumors of an American cop who’d taken down a trafficking ring single-handedly, a man who didn’t back down from danger. Joe had dismissed the stories back then, too focused on his own mission. But now, here he was, face to face with the legend.  

And Joe wanted to kill him.  

Not just because Matt was close to uncovering the truth. No, there was something deeper, something darker. Matt represented everything Joe had abandoned—everything he’d lost when he chose this life. Honor. Justice. A chance at redemption.  

But there was no room for redemption now. Not for Joe. His hands were too stained, his soul too far gone. The only way to keep everything he’d built from crumbling was to eliminate the one man who could destroy it all.  

Matt Bellamy.  

“Focus,” Jean-Mi muttered, breaking into his thoughts. “You’re staring.”  

Joe tore his gaze away, forcing a smirk to his lips. “Just sizing up the competition.”  

Christian chuckled, though the tension lingered. “Think he’s as tough as they say?”  

Joe didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He already knew Matt was tough. But tough didn’t make him invincible. And if Matt Bellamy thought he could take Joe down, he had another thing coming.

The room was small and dimly lit, a single desk lamp casting warm light over the stacks of yellowing files spread across the table. Joe sat on one side, his broad frame dwarfing the chair beneath him, while Matt stood on the other side, thumbing through a particularly thick folder.  

Joe hated how cramped the room felt, how the air seemed to vibrate with unspoken tension. Matt’s presence filled the space, though the man himself was small compared to Joe—compact and wiry, with a kind of restless energy that seemed to seep into everything he did. Matt’s sharp blue eyes flicked to Joe every so often, and Joe had to suppress the urge to look away.  

"Take a look at this," Matt said, sliding a file across the table. His voice was calm but firm, the kind of voice that demanded attention.  

Joe picked up the folder reluctantly, his fingers brushing against the manila cover. It took everything in him not to crush it in his grip. It would be so easy to do it now, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. One quick move. Hands around his neck. Squeeze until the life drains from those damn piercing eyes.  

The thought made Joe’s stomach churn, but not in the way he expected. Killing Matt wasn’t just business—it was personal. And that was the problem. It shouldn’t be.  

Joe forced himself to glance at the file. Names, dates, places—he recognized most of them. Matt was getting close. Too close. And yet here he was, sitting across from the man who was hunting him, pretending to be a fellow officer. The irony was suffocating.  

“Something bothering you?” Matt asked, his tone light but probing.  

Joe looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing. “No.”  

Matt raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. Instead, he sat down across from Joe, his elbows resting on the table. For a moment, he just looked at him—really looked. There was something about the way Joe carried himself, the tension in his jaw, the guarded way his eyes darted away whenever Matt got too close.  

Matt tried to focus on the files on the work. But it was getting harder to ignore the pull he felt whenever Joe was around. The man was magnetic in a way Matt hadn’t expected—dangerous, yes, but also compelling. He had an intensity that made it hard to look away, even when Matt knew he should.  

What was it about him? The sharp angles of his face, the way his broad shoulders filled the room, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from him? Or was it something deeper—something in those dark, unreadable eyes that made Matt want to unravel the mystery of who Joseph really was?  

Stop it. Matt scolded himself internally, his stomach twisting in frustration. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, not by *him.* And yet, despite himself, Matt found his gaze drifting back to Joe, lingering just a second too long.  

“You’re quiet,” Matt said, his voice softer this time.  

Joe’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a split second, something unspoken passed between them. A crack in the facade. A moment of vulnerability that neither of them was prepared for.  

“I’m reading,” Joe said, his voice gruff, dismissive.  

Matt leaned back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. He shouldn’t trust Joe. Hell, he barely knew the man. But there was something there, wasn’t there? Something beneath the surface, behind the walls Joe had built so carefully.  

And God helped him, Matt wanted to see it.  

Joe, on the other hand, could feel his rage simmering just beneath his skin. Matt’s calm demeanor, his unwavering focus, the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long—it all made Joe want to snap. To grab the man by his collar and end this cat-and-mouse game once and for all.  

But he didn’t.  

Because for all his hatred, for all his anger, there was something holding Joe back. Something he couldn’t quite name, something that made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t felt in years.  

And it terrified him.  

—

The precinct was alive with its usual chaos: ringing phones, voices overlapping in tense exchanges, and the distant thud of hurried footsteps on linoleum. For days now, Joe and Matt had been working side by side, combing through old mafia files, piecing together fragments of an operation that felt too close for comfort. Each day brought its own challenges, but the most grueling task wasn’t the work.  

It was near Matt Bellamy.  

Joe leaned back in his chair, absently flipping through the pages of a worn folder. Across the table, Matt hunched over his own stack of documents, the glow from the desk lamp highlighting the angles of his face. His brows furrowed in concentration as he jotted notes in the margins with swift, confident strokes. Joe found himself staring longer than he should, tracing the sharp lines of Matt’s jaw, the slight downward curve of his mouth when he was deep in thought.  

He shook his head, willing himself to focus. This wasn’t the time to get distracted.  

But it was impossible not to notice the details. The way Matt’s voice softened when he asked a question, his faint English accent lacing every word. The way he ran a hand through his hair—short and messy—when he was frustrated. The way he smiled, small and fleeting, whenever he uncovered a useful lead.  

At first, Joe thought it was hatred driving his focus. That’s what it had to be. Hatred for the man who was inching closer to the truth, who threatened to unravel everything Joe had built. Hatred for the man who stood for everything Joe had left behind.  

But hatred didn’t make your chest ache when someone smiled. Hatred didn’t make you linger in a room long after you had an excuse to leave.  

─────────

The days turned into weeks, their hours blending into one another as Joe and Matt poured over files, interviewed witnesses, and chased leads. The tension that had once filled the air between them began to shift, softening into something, neither of them fully understood.  

Matt was relentless in his work, always pressing forward, always asking questions. At first, Joe found it irritating. But as the days passed, he began to see the layers beneath the surface. Matt wasn’t just a good cop; he was a man driven by something deeper—a need to uncover the truth, no matter how messy or painful it might be.  

And Joe hated how much he admired that.  

“You’re quiet today,” Matt said one evening, breaking the silence that had settled between them.  

Joe glanced up from his folder, his expression guarded. “Just focused.”  

Matt leaned back in his chair, studying him with those sharp blue eyes. Joe could feel the weight of that gaze, like Matt was trying to see past the walls he’d spent years building.  

“You’re always focused,” Matt said with a small smirk, but there was something else in his tone—something almost warm.  

Joe looked away, his jaw tightening. He couldn’t afford this. Not now. Not ever.  

But the problem was, it wasn’t just Matt’s voice or his smile that was getting under Joe’s skin. It was everything. The way Matt never gave up, no matter how tired he looked or how many dead ends they hit. The way he treated everyone—rookies, suspects, witnesses—with the same calm respect. The way he spoke about justice like it was something sacred, something worth fighting for.  

Joe hated it. He hated how it made him feel.  

─────────

Late one night, long after most of the precinct had emptied, Joe and Matt sat in their usual corner, the table between them littered with papers and empty coffee cups. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the room.  

“You don’t say much about yourself,” Matt said suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful.  

Joe tensed, his grip tightening on the folder in his hands. “Not much to say.”  

Matt tilted his head, watching him. “Everyone’s got a story. Even you.”  

Joe forced a smirk, hoping it looked convincing. “Maybe I just don’t like telling it.”  

For a moment, Matt didn’t respond. He just watched Joe, his gaze steady and unflinching. It made Joe feel exposed, like Matt could see right through him, past the lies and the masks.  

“You’re a hard man to figure out,” Matt said finally, leaning back in his chair. “But I think there’s more to you than you let on.”  

Joe’s chest tightened, a mix of anger and something else—something he couldn’t quite name—rising inside him. He wanted to tell Matt to back off, to stop prying. But the words wouldn’t come.  

─────────

As the days turned into weeks, Joe found himself caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Every moment spent with Matt felt like a battle—against his instincts, against his anger, against himself.  

He wanted to hate Matt. He needed to hate him. Because if he didn’t…  

Joe shook the thought from his head, burying it beneath the weight of his guilt and anger.  

─────────

One afternoon, they found themselves in a cramped office, sorting through yet another box of files. The air was thick with dust, and the only sound was the rustle of papers and the occasional scrape of a chair.  

Matt reached for a folder at the same time as Joe, their hands brushing briefly. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Joe that he couldn’t ignore. He pulled back quickly, hoping Matt hadn’t noticed the way his hand lingered a moment too long.  

“Sorry,” Matt said, his voice soft.  

Joe muttered something unintelligible, refusing to meet Matt’s eyes.  

But Matt wasn’t letting it go. “Are we… okay?” he asked hesitantly, his voice quieter than usual.  

Joe froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel Matt’s eyes on him, searching for answers he couldn’t give.  

“We’re fine,” Joe said gruffly, turning his attention back to the files.  

But they weren’t fine. And they both knew it.  

─────────

The nights grew longer, the air between them heavier with every passing day. Joe’s hatred for Matt was still there, simmering beneath the surface. But it was tangled now, knotted up with something he couldn’t define.  

He hated how Matt made him feel. He hated how much he admired the man’s determination, his strength, his unwavering belief in doing what was right.  

But most of all, he hated how much he wanted him.  

Matt, for his part, was fighting his own battle. He couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward Joe, the way his stomach flipped every time their eyes met. It was dangerous—reckless, even—but he couldn’t seem to help himself.  

There was something about Joe, something raw and untamed, that drew Matt in despite every warning bell in his head. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the flame.  

─────────

One night, as they worked late into the evening, Matt leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “You ever get tired of this?” he asked, gesturing to the stack of files in front of them.  

Joe glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Tired of what?”  

“Chasing ghosts,” Matt said, his voice tinged with weariness. “Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard we try, we’re always one step behind.”  

Joe didn’t respond right away. He didn’t know what to say.  

Matt looked at him, his gaze softer than usual. “You ever feel like that?”  

Joe met his eyes, something stirring deep inside him. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”  

For a moment, they just sat there, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words.  

And in that moment, Joe realized something that terrified him to his core.  

He wasn’t sure he could kill Matt anymore.  

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he didn’t need to.  

But because a part of him—a part he’d tried so hard to bury—didn’t want to lose him.  

And that was a truth Joe wasn’t ready to face.

The late autumn air was crisp and biting as Joe stepped out of the precinct and into the darkened streets of Chicago. The city lights glowed against the inky sky, their brilliance bouncing off the wet pavement from a brief rain earlier in the evening. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, his breath visible in the cold as he walked toward the sleek black car parked at the curb. 

Matt was already there, leaning casually against the driver’s door of a navy-blue Audi A6. His coat was open despite the chill, and he had his usual easy air of confidence about him, though there was a hint of nervous energy in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  

“You came,” Matt said with a small smile, his eyes glinting under the streetlamp.  

Joe stopped a few feet away, his expression guarded. “You invited me.”  

Matt chuckled softly and straightened, pulling open the passenger door. “Fair enough. Get in. I’ll drive.”  

Joe hesitated for a moment, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He hadn’t wanted to accept Matt’s invitation, not really. But something about the way Matt had asked—casual but sincere, almost vulnerable—had made it impossible to say no.  

“Don’t make me wait all night,” Matt quipped, his smirk softening the tension.  

With a resigned sigh, Joe slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool beneath him. The interior of the car was immaculate, the faint scent of cedar and citrus hanging in the air. Matt climbed in, started the engine, and pulled into the steady stream of downtown traffic.  

─────────  

Matt’s apartment was in a sleek, high-rise building overlooking the Chicago River. Joe couldn’t help but glance up at the towering structure as they approached, the glass facade shimmering in the glow of the city lights.  

“Fancy,” Joe muttered as they stepped into the elevator, the soft ding of the doors closing behind them.  

Matt grinned, pressing the button for the thirty-second floor. “I like a good view.”  

The ride up was silent save for the quiet hum of the elevator. Joe could feel the tension in the small space, the unspoken weight of everything they weren’t saying. When the doors finally opened, Matt led him down a short hallway to a corner unit.  

The apartment was… stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the lights stretching out like a sea of stars. The space was modern and minimalist, with sleek lines and a color palette of cool grays and warm woods. A large sectional sofa dominated the living room, accented by plush throw pillows and a thick, patterned rug. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with an eclectic mix of titles, and a collection of black-and-white photographs hung in perfect alignment above them.  

“Not bad, huh?” Matt said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it by the door.  

Joe nodded, his eyes scanning the room. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”  

Matt raised an eyebrow. “What type is that?”  

Joe smirked faintly. “The kind who drinks wine while staring out at the skyline.”  

Matt laughed, a sound that was surprisingly warm. “Guilty as charged. Speaking of wine…” He gestured toward the open-concept kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll grab a bottle.”  

Joe wandered over to the windows, the view pulling him in. The river glinted below, and the steady hum of the city was muffled by the glass. He caught his reflection faintly in the window, his broad frame standing out against the sleek elegance of the apartment. He didn’t belong here. Not in this place, not with Matt.  

“Red or white?” Matt’s voice broke through his thoughts.  

Joe turned, glancing toward the kitchen. “Red.”  

“Good choice.” Matt uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux and poured two glasses, handing one to Joe before returning to the stove.  

“You cook?” Joe asked, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of the wine. It was rich and smooth, with just the right amount of bite.  

Matt smirked as he stirred something in a pan. “Surprised?”  

“A little.”  

“Well, don’t be. I’ve always had a soft spot for French cuisine.”  

“Why’s that?”  

Matt hesitated, his eyes on the pan. “Spent a summer there in my twenties. Fell in love with the food. The culture. Everything, really.”  

Joe studied him, his curiosity piqued. “You don’t seem like the sentimental type.”  

Matt glanced up, his smile faint but genuine. “Maybe I’ve got layers.”  

Joe chuckled despite himself, the tension between them easing slightly. He took another sip of wine, the warmth spreading through him.  

─────────

The meal was simple but elegant: coq au vin, buttery potatoes, and a crisp green salad. They sat at the dining table, the city lights twinkling behind them.  

“This is… good,” Joe admitted after a few bites, his tone almost begrudging.  

Matt grinned. “High praise coming from you.”  

Joe rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at his lips.  

They ate in relative silence, the clinking of silverware filling the space. But as the wine flowed and the night deepened, the conversation began to shift, growing more personal.  

“Why Chicago?” Matt asked, his tone curious but not intrusive. “What brought you here?”  

Joe hesitated, his fingers tightening around his glass. He knew he couldn’t tell Matt the whole truth—not without risking everything. But the wine had loosened something in him, and for once, he felt the urge to share.  

“I was looking for someone,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual.  

Matt tilted his head, his gaze softening. “Someone important?”  

Joe nodded. “My brother. Mario. He was kidnapped ten years ago.”  

Matt’s expression shifted, a mix of sympathy and something deeper. “I’m sorry. That’s… that’s terrible.”  

Joe swallowed hard, the weight of the memories pressing down on him. “I was studying law in Lyon when it happened. Living with my parents and Mario. Everything was… normal, you know? And then, one day, he was gone. Just… gone.”  

Matt didn’t speak, letting Joe continue at his own pace.  

“I dropped everything,” Joe said, his voice rough. “Left school, left France, left everything behind. Spent years chasing leads, hitting dead ends. And somehow, I ended up here.”  

The room felt heavier now, the silence stretching between them. Matt reached for his glass, taking a slow sip before speaking.  

“You’re a good brother,” he said softly.  

Joe looked at him, something raw flickering in his eyes. “I’m not so sure about that.”  

Matt’s gaze didn’t waver. “Trust me. You are.”  

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The sounds of the city drifted faintly through the glass, a reminder of the world outside this quiet bubble they’d created.  

─────────

As the night wore on, the bottle of wine emptied, and their conversation grew lighter. They talked about France, about the food and the culture, about Matt’s love for quiet bookstores, and Joe’s reluctance to admit he’d once been an avid reader.  

But beneath it all, there was an unspoken tension, a current that neither of them could ignore.  

Joe’s chest felt tight as he watched Matt laugh at some half-hearted joke he’d made, his head tilting back slightly, his smile lighting up the room. For the first time in years, Joe felt something unfamiliar stirring inside him—a warmth he couldn’t name, a pull he couldn’t resist.  

And it terrified him.  

Because Matt wasn’t just a threat to his operation. He was a threat to the walls Joe had spent years building around himself.  

And Joe wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold them up.  

The tension that had built between them seemed to cling to the air as they returned to the kitchen. Joe leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, while Matt rummaged through the freezer, humming softly to himself.  

"You like ice cream?" Matt asked, his voice casual as he pulled out a pint of what looked like homemade vanilla.  

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Doesn’t everyone?"  

Matt chuckled, grabbing two small bowls from an overhead cabinet. "Fair point. This one’s special, though. Family recipe. My brother Dominic swears it’s better than anything you can buy."  

"Guess I’ll be the judge of that," Joe muttered, watching as Matt scooped the ice cream with practiced ease, the muscles in his forearm flexing slightly.  

Matt set the bowls on the counter, sliding one toward Joe before grabbing a pair of spoons. “Let’s see if you’re a tough critic.”  

Joe took a bite, the creamy sweetness melting on his tongue. It was… good. It's really good. He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded as he went for another spoonful.  

Matt smirked, leaning on the counter across from him. “That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from you.”  

Joe rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t let it go to your head.”  

They ate in relative silence, the quiet hum of the refrigerator filling the space. Joe found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t expected, the wine and the warmth of the evening softening the edges of his usual tension.  

But then Matt, ever the endearing mess, managed to get a streak of ice cream on the corner of his mouth.  

Joe’s eyes were drawn to it immediately, his chest tightening as his gaze lingered. He tried to ignore the way his pulse quickened, the way his hand tightened slightly around the spoon.  

“Uh, you’ve got something…” Joe gestured vaguely toward his own face, his voice trailing off.  

Matt frowned in confusion, swiping at the wrong side of his mouth. “Here?”  

“No,” Joe said, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Other side.”  

Matt tried again but missed, the streak of ice cream stubbornly clinging to the corner of his lips.  

Joe let out a breath, his patience snapping. “Forget it.”  

Before Matt could protest, Joe stepped forward, his movements deliberate. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Matt’s jaw as he tilted his face slightly. Then, without thinking, without stopping to question the sudden, undeniable pull, Joe leaned in and licked the smear of ice cream clean.  

The room seemed to freeze, the air between them crackling with tension. Joe’s lips lingered for a fraction of a second too long, the taste of vanilla and something undeniably *Matt* lingering on his tongue.  

When he pulled back, Matt’s eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed. He looked stunned, his breath coming faster now.  

“Joe…” Matt’s voice was barely above a whisper, his tone somewhere between shock and something deeper, something more.  

Joe didn’t give him a chance to finish. He couldn’t. The pull was too strong, the tension that had been simmering between them for weeks finally boiling over.  

He closed the distance between them, his lips capturing Matt’s in a kiss that was rough and hungry and desperate. Matt froze for a moment, caught off guard, but then he melted into it, his hands coming up to grip Joe’s arms as he kissed him back just as fiercely.  

The bowls of ice cream were forgotten, and the chill of the kitchen counter a sharp contrast to the heat building between them. Joe’s hands slid to Matt’s waist, pulling him closer, while Matt’s fingers tangled in the fabric of Joe’s shirt.  

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was raw, messy, and filled with all the emotions they’d both been trying to suppress. Anger, frustration, longing—it was all there, spilling out in a way neither of them could control.  

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they tried to steady themselves.  

Joe’s voice was rough when he finally spoke, his words barely audible. “I shouldn’t have done that.”  

Matt’s hand slid up to cup Joe’s jaw, his thumb brushing against his stubble. “Maybe not. But I’m glad you did.”  

Joe closed his eyes, his chest aching with the weight of his conflicting emotions. He wanted to push Matt away, to walk out, and never look back. But he also wanted to stay, to hold onto this moment for as long as he could.  

And for the first time in years, Joe wasn’t sure which part of him would win.  

—

The pattern started quietly, almost unintentionally, after that first dinner. Matt didn’t explicitly invite Joe over the next Wednesday—he simply leaned over the desk in the precinct, holding a folder full of notes about the case they were working on, and said casually, “You know, I still have some of that homemade ice cream if you’re interested.”  

Joe didn’t answer immediately. He told himself he was weighing his options, convincing himself he didn’t care about the offer. But something about the way Matt said it—soft and hopeful, with that faint, unshakable smile—made him nod.  

That Wednesday, Joe showed up at Matt’s door at 7:30, scowling and tense, but he stayed until after midnight, eating another impeccable dinner and sitting on Matt’s couch, his hand brushing against Matt’s more than once.  

By Friday, it was official.  

“Dinner again tonight?” Matt asked during a late-afternoon coffee run.  

Joe glared at him. “You think I don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?”  

Matt smirked. “You’d rather spend the evening staring at the precinct walls or, I don’t know, punching someone in an alley? No offense, but you’re not exactly the ‘hot date’ type, Joe.”  

Joe didn’t bother responding. He showed up at Matt’s door at exactly 8:00 that night.  

─────────  

By the fourth dinner, it wasn’t just a habit—it was their thing. Wednesdays and Fridays became a quiet ritual, an escape from the chaos of their respective lives.  

Joe would arrive with his usual gruff demeanor, leaning against Matt’s doorframe like he was doing him a favor by showing up. Matt would welcome him with a cheeky grin, a glass of wine already poured and waiting on the counter.  

The meals were always exquisite. Matt’s passion for French cooking shone in every dish he made: boeuf bourguignon, ratatouille, croque monsieur with a twist of his own invention. Joe would grumble about the effort Matt put into the meals, but he never turned down a second serving.  

“Why do you go all out like this?” Joe asked one Friday, swirling the wine in his glass.  

Matt shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I enjoy it. It reminds me of good times. And…” His smile softened, his eyes meeting Joe’s. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for.”  

Joe’s chest tightened at that, the warmth of the wine doing nothing to soothe the conflict raging inside him. He’d come to crave these evenings, but he hated himself for it. Every laugh, every lingering glance across the table chipped away at his resolve.  

He was falling for Matt, and it was a betrayal of everything he’d spent years building.  

─────────  

The couch became their unofficial after-dinner spot.  

It started innocently enough—sharing more wine, exchanging half-hearted banter about work, and sometimes even laughing. But as the weeks went on, the space between them on the plush sectional grew smaller and smaller.  

On one particular Friday, the atmosphere was heavier than usual. They’d finished dinner and carried their glasses of wine to the couch, sitting close enough that Joe’s knee brushed against Matt’s thigh. The city lights outside cast a dim glow across the room, and the air seemed charged with an unspoken tension.  

Matt was the first to break the silence. “You know, for someone who acts like he hates being here, you keep coming back.”  

Joe snorted, though his chest felt tight. “Maybe I just like the food.”  

Matt chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on Joe’s face. “Is that all?”  

Joe turned to look at him, his heart pounding. Matt was close—closer than usual—and the way his lips curved into that faint, knowing smile made Joe’s resolve weaken.  

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in, his hand brushing against Matt’s thigh as he closed the distance between them.  

Matt didn’t pull away. He met Joe halfway, their lips colliding in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, filled with all the tension they’d been ignoring for weeks.  

Joe’s hand moved to Matt’s waist, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened. Their tongues met, tangling in a way that sent a shiver down Joe’s spine. He could taste the wine on Matt’s lips, sweet and intoxicating, and he couldn’t get enough.  

Matt’s fingers found their way to Joe’s jaw, his touch gentle but firm as he tilted Joe’s face to deepen the kiss. It was messy and unhurried, their movements driven by a hunger neither of them could deny any longer.  

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together.  

“This is getting to be a habit,” Matt murmured, his voice low and rough.  

Joe let out a breathless chuckle, his thumb brushing against Matt’s hip. “Yeah. It is.”  

Neither of them moved to leave, the pull between them too strong to break. They stayed like that for a long time, the city outside forgotten as they lost themselves in each other

The kisses grew deeper, more heated, as the city lights outside faded into the background. Joe had Matt pressed against the corner of the couch, their legs tangled, breaths coming in sharp bursts between the increasingly fervent exchange. Matt’s fingers slid up Joe’s neck and into his hair, pulling him closer with a need he could no longer suppress.  

Joe’s lips moved to Matt’s jawline, then down to the sensitive skin just below his ear, drawing a quiet gasp from him. Matt tilted his head back, exposing more of his throat, his voice trembling as he whispered, “I’ve… I’ve never done more than this.”  

Joe froze for the briefest moment, his lips hovering just above Matt’s collarbone. “What do you mean?”  

Matt’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Joe’s intense gaze. His cheeks flushed, his voice quiet but steady. “I’ve never been with a man. Beyond kissing.” He hesitated, then added, “But I want to. With you.”  

The words hung in the air, and Joe felt his heart slam against his ribs. A thousand thoughts swirled in his head: the danger, the lines they were crossing, the inevitability of everything breaking apart. But the way Matt was looking at him, so open and vulnerable, left no room for doubt.  

Joe cupped Matt’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Are you sure?”  

Matt nodded, his breath hitching. “I’m sure.”  

Joe’s response was a kiss, slow and deliberate, a promise wrapped in the press of his lips. Matt’s hands slid down to grip Joe’s shoulders, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss.  

Without breaking contact, Matt stood, guiding Joe with him. Their movements were unsteady, driven by urgency and need, but they didn’t stop kissing. Matt’s hands clutched at Joe’s shirt as he led them toward the bedroom, the soft glow of the city lights spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.  

The door closed behind them.  

─────────  

The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting the bedroom in soft, golden hues. Matt stirred slowly, his body warm and tangled with Joe’s beneath the thick duvet. His head rested against Joe’s chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing.  

Matt blinked, his gaze drifting to the window across the room. The reflection caught his eye—two figures entwined in the faint glow of morning. His cheeks flushed as he noticed the faint marks on his neck, small reminders of the night before.  

He turned his head slightly, glancing up at Joe’s sleeping face. The usual hard edges of his expression were softened in sleep, his features relaxed in a way Matt hadn’t seen before.  

A soft smile tugged at Matt’s lips as he nestled closer, his heart full in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. For the first time in a long time, Matt felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel: hope.  

But beneath that hope was the faint whisper of doubt. He didn’t know where this would lead or if it would last, but for now, in this quiet, golden moment, he let himself believe that it could.

Saturday evenings became their sanctuary.  

It started the week after that first night together at Matt’s apartment. Joe had brushed a casual hand against Matt’s shoulder in the precinct, leaning down just enough to murmur, “Come to my place next Saturday.” His tone was indifferent, but the way his fingers lingered for a second too long betrayed him.  

Matt blinked in surprise but nodded, keeping his face impassive as a few officers passed by. They both knew better than to let their coworkers suspect anything. But the unspoken connection that passed between them was electric, a shared secret that burned in the space between them.  

─────────  

Joe’s apartment was nothing short of breathtaking.  

The towering high-rise in the heart of downtown Chicago was one of the most expensive in the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of Lake Michigan, the glittering lights of the city stretching endlessly beyond. The interior was sleek and modern, all glass, steel, and leather, with polished marble floors and abstract art adorning the walls.  

When Matt stepped inside for the first time, he whistled low, running a hand along the smooth surface of the kitchen island. “This doesn’t exactly scream ‘cop salary.’”  

Joe smirked, his hands in his pockets as he leaned casually against the wall. “It’s a gift from my parents. They wanted me to have a place here when I moved for… work.”  

Matt raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with a smile. “Generous parents.”  

Joe shrugged, keeping his tone nonchalant. “They’ve done well for themselves. Let’s leave it at that.”  

Matt didn’t push further, sensing Joe’s discomfort. Instead, he let himself be impressed by the space, wandering toward the large windows. “Your view beats mine, hands down.”  

Joe came up behind him, standing just close enough that Matt could feel his warmth. “I guess. It’s just a view.”  

Matt turned, leaning against the glass. “Spoken like someone who’s had it all his life.”  

Joe didn’t reply, his jaw tightening as he looked away.  

─────────  

They always started their Saturdays with dinner. Joe cooked, something simple but expertly prepared—grilled salmon with a dill sauce, perfectly roasted chicken, or rich pasta dishes with just the right amount of spice. Matt teased him mercilessly about his unexpected culinary skills.  

“You? A chef?” Matt said one night, taking a bite of creamy risotto. “Let me guess, your fancy parents sent you to cooking classes in France?”  

Joe rolled his eyes but smirked. “Italy, actually. My mom thought it was a useful skill.”  

Matt chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I won’t complain. Just don’t tell anyone at the precinct. I’ll never hear the end of it.”  

“You’re one to talk,” Joe retorted, pointing his fork at Matt. “The guy who makes ratatouille for fun?”  

“Touché,” Matt admitted, laughing.  

The laughter always faded as the evening progressed, replaced by something softer, heavier. They’d migrate to the couch, sipping wine and letting the conversation flow. Sometimes, they talked about work, careful to keep their words vague. Other times, they shared fragments of their pasts.  

Matt told Joe about his brothers, Dominic and Christopher, their protective nature, and the childhood pranks that still made him laugh.  

Joe, in turn, spoke about Lyon, his love for the city, and the law classes he left behind when his world shattered. He never mentioned the mafia, carefully steering the conversation away from the darkest parts of his life.  

─────────  

By the time they reached the bedroom, the shift was seamless, as though the day had been leading to this moment all along.  

Joe’s hands were sure but gentle as he undressed Matt, his fingers brushing over his skin like he was committing every inch to memory. Matt’s breath hitched as Joe kissed him—slowly, deeply—like they had all the time in the world.  

Matt always teased Joe about his intensity, but in those moments, it was what he craved most. Joe kissed like he was trying to drown out his own thoughts, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.  

The first few times, Matt hesitated, his inexperience leaving him uncertain. But Joe was patient, guiding him with quiet murmurs and reassuring touches. By the third or fourth Saturday, Matt was more confident, his hands exploring Joe’s body with the same hunger Joe had shown him.  

Afterward, they lay tangled in Joe’s crisp, expensive sheets, the city lights casting faint patterns on the ceiling. Matt would rest his head on Joe’s chest, their legs intertwined, the steady beat of Joe’s heart lulling him to sleep.  

─────────  

Hiding their relationship was both thrilling and exhausting.  

At the precinct, they were careful. Joe kept his usual gruff, distant demeanor, while Matt played the part of the slightly annoying but endearing colleague. They avoided being alone in the same room whenever possible, knowing the tension between them was too obvious if anyone looked closely.  

Still, there were moments that slipped through the cracks. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Matt’s hand brushing Joe’s briefly when he handed him a file. The rare times Joe let himself smirk at one of Matt’s jokes.  

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep them going.  

─────────  

Joe’s internal conflict only grew with each passing week.  

He loved Matt—he knew that much. He hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t planned on it, but it had happened anyway. Matt’s laugh, his relentless optimism, the way he looked at Joe like he was worth saving—it had broken down every wall Joe had built.  

But Joe couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not while Matt had no idea who he really was.  

Every Saturday night, as they lay in bed, Joe would watch Matt sleep, his chest tightening with guilt and longing. Matt deserved the truth, but the truth would destroy everything they’d built.  

For now, Joe told himself it was enough to have these moments. To see Matt smile, to hear him laugh, to feel his warmth beside him in the quiet of the night.  

But deep down, he knew the clock was ticking. One day, Matt would learn the truth. And when that day came, Joe wasn’t sure if they’d survive it.  

—

Matt Bellamy sat at his desk, the hum of the precinct fading into the background as he sifted through a stack of cold case files. His eyes scanned the reports, his focus narrowing on a name that had haunted him ever since Joe had let it slip during one of their dinners.  

Mario Duplantier.

Joe had spoken about his brother with a mix of pain and determination, describing the years he’d spent searching for him, the life he’d given up in France to pursue every lead. But Joe had never gone into detail, and Matt suspected there was more to the story—something Joe wasn’t ready to share.  

Matt leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He’d been working on this in secret for weeks, staying late at the precinct to comb through missing person reports, reaching out to contacts in other departments, and cross-referencing names with known mafia activity.  

He told himself he was doing it for Joe, to help ease the pain he carried. But deep down, Matt knew it was more than that. It was personal now.  

Mario wasn’t just Joe’s brother. He was Matt’s “brother-in-law.” At least, that’s how Matt thought of him, even if he and Joe hadn’t officially labeled what they had.  

But Joe didn’t know Matt was investigating Mario’s case. And Matt wasn’t sure how Joe would react if he found out.  

─────────  

That evening, Matt met his brothers, Dominic and Christopher, at a quiet bar downtown. The atmosphere was dim and intimate, the clink of glasses and low murmurs providing just enough cover for their conversation.  

“So,” Dominic said, leaning forward with a smirk. “What’s this about? You’ve been mysterious all week.”  

Matt hesitated, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I need your help with a case.”  

Christopher raised an eyebrow. “A case? That’s a bit out of our jurisdiction, isn’t it?”  

“It’s personal,” Matt admitted, his voice dropping. “And I need you to keep it between us.”  

The brothers exchanged glances. Dominic leaned back, his smirk fading. “You’re asking us to keep something from your precinct? That’s serious, Matty.”  

“I know,” Matt said, his tone firm. “But it’s important. Do you remember the name Mario Duplantier?”  

Christopher frowned, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, I’ve seen it in connection with some mafia activity. Why?”  

“He’s Joe’s brother.”  

The silence was deafening.  

“Wait.” Dominic leaned forward, his voice sharp. “*Joe*? You mean that guy you work with? The one you’ve been spending way too much time with lately?”  

Matt didn’t respond directly, but the flush on his face gave him away.  

“Matt,” Christopher said carefully, “are you involved with him?”  

“It’s not relevant,” Matt snapped, but his brothers didn’t miss the flicker of emotion in his eyes.  

Dominic let out a low whistle. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re sleeping with someone from your precinct? And now you’re dragging us into this mess?”  

Matt clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “I’m asking for help, Dom. Not judgment.”  

Christopher sighed, reaching out to rest a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Look, we’ll help you. But you need to be careful. This… whatever you have with Joe—it could get messy.”  

“It already is,” Matt muttered under his breath.  

─────────  

Meanwhile, back at the precinct, Christian watched Joe with suspicion. His boss had been quieter lately, more distracted. He rarely mentioned Matt anymore, which was unusual considering how much disdain Joe had shown for him before.  

Christian waited until Joe stepped outside for a cigarette break, then followed him into the parking lot.  

“Joe,” he called out, his tone sharp.  

Joe turned, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “What?”  

Christian crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve been acting weird lately. What’s going on?”  

Joe shrugged, flicking ash to the ground. “Nothing. Mind your own business.”  

Christian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Is it Matt? Are you sleeping with him?”  

Joe froze, his expression darkening. “Watch your mouth.”  

Christian didn’t back down. “You’re different, Joe. You don’t talk about hating him anymore. You don’t talk about killing him. And you’ve been—”  

“Shut up, Christian,” Joe growled, his voice low and dangerous.  

But Christian pressed on, his frustration boiling over. “You’re compromised, Joe! You think I can’t see it? You’re screwing the guy who’s investigating us—”  

The punch landed before Christian could finish his sentence.  

Joe’s fist connected with Christian’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. Christian recovered quickly, his eyes blazing as he lunged at Joe. The two men grappled, their shouts echoing through the parking lot.  

It wasn’t until Jean-Mi appeared, pulling them apart with a string of curses, that the fight ended.  

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Jean-Mi demanded, glaring at them both.  

Christian wiped blood from his lip, glaring at Joe. “You’re going to get us all killed.”  

Joe didn’t respond, his chest heaving as he glared back. But as Christian stormed off, his words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than any punch could.  

Joe lit another cigarette with shaking hands, staring at the city skyline.  

He loved Matt. He knew that now. But loving Matt might destroy them both.

─────────

Matt Bellamy stood at the edge of the Chicago docks, the chill of early morning air nipping at his face as the sounds of ships loading and unloading echoed across the water. His eyes scanned the sprawling industrial area, taking in the maze of warehouses, shipping containers, and forklifts moving steadily, but with a purpose.  

He’d been working on Mario Duplantier’s case for weeks now, sifting through every lead and turning over every stone, hoping to find some trace of the man who had been missing for ten years. But nothing had prepared him for what he was about to find—or who he was about to meet.  

A man in his late twenties, wearing a heavy jacket, stood by one of the cargo crates, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the workers. His face was weathered by years of hard work, but there was something familiar about him, something that made Matt’s heart beat just a little faster. He had the same sharp jawline, the same dark eyes, and the same tousled brown hair as Joe.  

It was Mario.  

Matt took a slow breath, steadying himself. He had known that this day would come—the moment when he’d have to face Joe’s brother. But what had he expected? An emotional reunion? A tearful confession? Instead, he found himself staring at a man who looked much older than the photos, someone who had lived a life in hiding, someone who was still carrying the scars of everything he had endured.  

Mario’s posture was stiff, guarded. He didn’t belong here, in this crowded, noisy place. He didn’t belong in the daylight, in a life that wasn’t his.  

Matt moved cautiously, not wanting to startle him. He took a few steps closer, his voice low but firm. “Mario Duplantier?”  

The man turned, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Matt. There was a moment of tense silence before Mario’s lips curled into a barely perceptible sneer. “Who’s asking?” His accent was thick, almost as if he was deliberately hiding any trace of the French he had once spoken fluently.  

Matt didn’t flinch. “I’m Matt Bellamy. I’m a cop. I’m working a case, and I need to talk to you.”  

Mario’s posture stiffened, and Matt noticed the flicker of suspicion in his eyes. He didn’t move forward. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, as though he was prepared for something far more dangerous than a simple conversation.  

“A cop?” Mario repeated, his voice low. “You’re looking for something, and I’m not it.”  

“I’m not here to arrest you,” Matt replied, his tone calm but firm. “I just want to talk.”  

Mario’s gaze shifted over Matt’s shoulder, his eyes darting briefly to the men moving in and out of the nearby warehouses. There was a flash of something—fear, maybe—before he looked back at Matt. He shook his head, the barest laugh escaping his lips. “You’re wasting your time.”  

Matt took another step closer, speaking more softly now, lowering his voice so only Mario could hear. “I know about your brother.”  

The words hit Mario like a punch. His entire body tensed, and for the first time since Matt had approached, Mario’s mask of indifference slipped, his eyes wide. “Joe?” The name was barely a whisper, and the emotion in his voice made Matt’s stomach twist.  

“Joe’s looking for you,” Matt said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “He’s been looking for you for years.”  

Mario didn’t answer immediately. He simply stared at Matt as if trying to gauge his sincerity. His face was rugged, lined with exhaustion and years of hardship. He had clearly aged far beyond his years, a man hardened by experiences no one should have to endure.  

There were scars on his arms, his neck, and his face—faint but telling signs of violence, of a life spent on the run. Matt could see the tension in his muscles, the wariness in his eyes. He looked nothing like the young man in the photos Joe had shown him.  

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Mario said after a long silence, his voice rough. “I’m not supposed to be in this country.”  

Matt’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”  

Mario’s gaze flickered around again, this time more panicked, as though he was afraid someone was watching. He leaned closer to Matt, his voice barely audible. “I wasn’t just missing, okay?” He paused, as though deciding how much to reveal. “I was taken. Taken by a group. They—” He faltered, his breath catching in his throat. “I was kidnapped by a sex trafficking ring. They kept me in Puerto Rico for almost nine years. It wasn’t until a year ago that I escaped.”  

Matt’s chest tightened, a pang of guilt hitting him like a physical blow. He had known something was off, but hearing it from Mario’s mouth made it all too real. He didn’t know what to say.  

Mario ran a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling. “I’m here illegally. I came to Chicago because they’re still looking for me. I thought—” He stopped, his voice breaking. “I thought I was safe here, but now you show up. I don’t know who you are, but I can’t trust you. Not yet.”  

Matt stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m not here to turn you in, Mario. I just need to help. Your brother wants you back. He’s never stopped looking for you.”  

The mention of Joe’s name seemed to soften Mario’s guarded exterior. He blinked, his face going slack as the emotion finally broke through. “Joe…” He whispered the name like a prayer. “He never stopped? He… he thought I was dead.”  

Matt nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “He thought you were gone. But he’s been searching for you ever since. I’ve been helping him, in my own way.”  

Mario wiped a tear from his eye, his face twisting in pain. “I should have gone back to him. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk it. If they find me…” He trailed off, his voice trembling.  

Matt didn’t say anything for a long time, letting the silence settle between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice softer. “We can help you, Mario. You don’t have to be alone anymore. Joe’s been waiting for you. We can keep you safe.”  

Mario met Matt’s gaze for the first time, really looking at him. The suspicion, the fear—it was still there, but now there was something else: a glimmer of hope. Just a flicker.  

“I don’t know,” Mario whispered, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to believe you.”  

Matt placed a hand on Mario’s shoulder, firm but reassuring. “I don’t expect you to trust me right away. But I’m not going anywhere. And neither is Joe. We’re going to help you, but you have to come with me. We need to get you out of here.”  

Mario looked at him, his jaw set, then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Okay, I’ll go with you. But no more games, Bellamy. I’m not going to play around anymore.”  

Matt nodded. “I promise.”  

As they stood there, amid the rustle of workers and the cold of the Chicago docks, Matt couldn’t help but think of Joe—his brother, the man who had been waiting for this moment for years.  

But deep down, Matt also knew that this was only the beginning. There would be more to uncover, more dangers to face. The shadows were still there, watching, waiting. But for now, Mario was free. And that was the only thing that mattered.  

─────────

The ride from the docks to Matt's apartment was tense, the only sound in the car the hum of the engine and the occasional turn of the wheel. Mario sat in the passenger seat, his posture rigid, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. Despite the offer of safety, of help, there was a lingering air of distrust around him, as if he expected at any moment to be betrayed.

Matt kept his eyes on the road, his mind racing. He had done what he could to reassure Mario during the drive, but words felt insufficient. There was so much more at play here—Joe's brother, a man who had been taken from him, who had suffered unspeakable horrors, and yet, despite all of it, he sat there beside him, still alive, still fighting. 

He glanced over at Mario, who hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the docks. The man looked exhausted, both physically and emotionally. His face was drawn, his dark eyes hollowed from years of captivity, from the trauma of the life he’d been forced to live. The last thing Mario needed was to be reminded of his pain, but Matt couldn’t help but wonder what Mario’s life had been like in those nine years. What had he endured? What scars, invisible or otherwise, did he carry with him?

Matt reached for the radio, letting the soft hum of classical music fill the silence. He wasn’t sure if Mario would appreciate the gesture, but he felt the need to break the oppressive quiet, to make the journey feel less like a trip into unknown territory and more like a path toward something resembling safety.

When they finally arrived at Matt’s apartment building, Mario’s gaze flickered briefly to the imposing, modern structure before he looked away, a faint scowl on his face. 

“You live here?” Mario asked, his voice rough, still edged with suspicion.

Matt opened the door to the building, motioning for Mario to follow. “I know it’s a little much,” Matt said with a half-smile. “But it’s a gift from my parents. They’re big on giving me... ‘luxury’ gifts.” He didn’t mention that his relationship with his family had been strained, that his parents’ ‘gifts’ often came with strings attached, and that the apartment felt more like a prison than a home. But tonight, there was no need for that.

Mario didn’t respond immediately, but followed him into the elevator. When the doors closed, Mario shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting around. It wasn’t the first time Matt had seen someone out of place in an environment like this. The kind of wealth that surrounded them felt foreign to people who’d spent most of their lives fighting just to stay afloat. 

They reached the top floor, and Matt unlocked the door to his apartment. As they stepped inside, Mario stopped short, his eyes scanning the space with a mix of awe and caution.

“This is...” Mario trailed off, clearly struggling to find the right words. He stepped further into the room, looking at the polished furniture, the sleek, minimalistic design, the panoramic view of the city’s skyline through the large windows. It was the kind of apartment that screamed success, but Mario’s face remained unreadable. 

Matt set his keys down on the table, turning to Mario with a more serious expression. “I know this is all a lot to take in. But you’re safe here for now. No one’s going to find you, not while I’m here.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to find the best way to phrase what he needed to say next. “I’m going to help you get legal status here. I can pull some strings at the precinct, use my position to expedite the process. I’ll make sure no one comes after you.”

Mario didn’t say anything for a long moment. His gaze was still fixed on the city outside, his mind clearly elsewhere. “I’m not supposed to be here,” Mario said finally, his voice tinged with guilt and anger. “I’m not supposed to be in this country, Matt. I’m here illegally. I shouldn’t even be breathing right now.”  

Matt took a step closer, his voice gentle but insistent. “You didn’t have a choice, Mario. You were taken from your family. And if you want, I can help you make it right. I know people who can help you stay here legally, without anyone finding out about your past.”

Mario glanced at Matt for the first time in what felt like forever, his expression skeptical. “And why would you do that?” he asked, his voice low. “Why would you help me?”  

Matt hesitated, his words caught in his throat for a second. “Because Joe wants to find you. He’s been looking for you for years. He deserves to know that you’re safe.”  

Mario’s lips pressed together, his jaw tight as he stared at Matt. “Joe always did love the good-looking guys, didn’t he?”  

The words caught Matt off guard. It took him a moment to realize what Mario was implying.  

Mario’s face twisted into something between a smirk and a scowl. “I remember the kind of men Joe used to go after. Guys like you—well-groomed, clean-cut, always looking like they stepped out of a magazine.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he leaned back slightly, studying Matt’s reaction. “He never really cared about anyone who didn’t fit that mold, did he?”  

Matt’s chest tightened, and for a second, he wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew Joe’s past relationships hadn’t always been smooth sailing—he had been a man with many interests, and it had often seemed like he went after the kind of men who were the opposite of everything Joe actually needed. But Mario’s comment stirred something in him, something raw and vulnerable that he hadn’t fully allowed himself to acknowledge.  

“He cares about you, Mario,” Matt said softly, taking a step back. “And he’s spent years thinking you were dead. You’re the only family he has left. He needs to know you’re alive, and he deserves that closure.”  

Mario’s eyes darkened at the mention of his brother. “I’m the one who left, Matt,” he said quietly. “I left him behind. He doesn’t know what it was like... what they did to me.” His voice broke, and for a moment, Matt thought he might say more, but Mario fell silent instead.  

Matt stepped forward, placing a hand on Mario’s shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me what happened if you’re not ready. But I can’t let you stay hidden forever. I’ll help you get your life back, Mario. For Joe. For you.”  

Mario seemed to process the words for a long time. His eyes wandered to the ground, and then back to Matt. For the first time since they had met, his face softened. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a glimmer of hope, of gratitude, buried under layers of pain and distrust.  

“I don’t know how to trust you yet,” Mario admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “But... maybe I’ll try. For Joe. Maybe I’ll try.”  

Matt gave him a reassuring smile, one that he hoped would put Mario at ease, though he knew deep down that trust would take time.  

As they sat down in the living room, Matt made them both a drink—whiskey for him, something light for Mario. He offered a small toast. “To new beginnings.”  

Mario clinked his glass lightly with Matt’s, though it seemed more out of politeness than anything else. He glanced around the apartment again, as though trying to make sense of it all—the wealth, the safety, the strange connection between himself, Matt, and his brother.  

“Joe always did have a thing for the guys with the fancy cars and the shiny suits,” Mario muttered, a touch of humor in his voice.  

Matt chuckled softly. “Yeah, well, I’m not sure he knew what he was getting into with me.”  

Mario raised an eyebrow, and Matt could see a flash of amusement in his eyes. “He never struck me as the type to settle for someone like you,” Mario teased, taking another sip of his drink. “But I guess things change.”  

Matt leaned back in his chair, trying to find the right words. “Joe has always had a complicated love life. But one thing I can say for sure is that he’s never stopped loving you. And that’s what I’m here to help fix.”  

Mario sighed, his gaze distant again. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for what I put him through.”  

Matt placed his glass down on the table, his voice gentle. “It’s not about forgiveness, Mario. It’s about moving forward. And you’re not alone anymore.”  

The weight of the words hung in the air between them. Mario didn’t answer immediately. But after a moment, he nodded slowly, his posture less tense than before.  

It was a small step, but it was a step nonetheless.

─────────

T he days that followed Mario's hesitant entry into Matt's life were like the slow, painstaking chipping away of ice from a frozen sculpture. Each shared meal, each offered cup of tea, each softly spoken question, was a careful tap against the hardened shell surrounding Mario’s heart. Matt moved with the gentleness of a seasoned nurse tending to a fragile patient, his patience boundless, his empathy a quiet, unwavering presence. He understood, in a way that resonated deep within his own soul, that trust wasn't given, it was earned, thread by painstaking thread.

Mario, initially a shadow in the corner of the spacious, light-filled apartment, began to tentatively unfurl, like a fern cautiously reaching for sunlight after a long winter. He still carried the ghosts of his past in the tense set of his shoulders and the guarded flicker in his dark eyes, but the tremors of fear that had initially wracked his body lessened. He started to meet Matt’s gaze for longer than a fleeting second, his responses to questions grew from monosyllabic whispers to hesitant sentences spoken in a voice still raspy with disuse and trauma.

Matt had learned snippets of Mario’s story – fragmented, painful shards of a life brutally interrupted. He knew Mario had been snatched from his Puerto Rican home as a young teenager, thrust into the monstrous machinery of sex trafficking. The details remained veiled, cloaked in a silence that Matt respected. He didn't push, didn’t pry. He offered safety, stability, and the quiet assurance that here, in this space he had created, Mario could simply be .

As Mario began to find a tentative footing in Matt's world – learning the rhythm of the apartment, tentatively exploring the bookshelf, even venturing out with Matt to a nearby park, always wary but increasingly curious – Matt felt the weight of anticipation building within him. He knew he couldn't postpone the call any longer. It was time. Time to bring Joe into this fragile, nascent fold.

He waited until Sunday afternoon, a day draped in the soft, golden light of early autumn, when Mario was relaxing on the couch, sketching in a pad Matt had bought him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a flicker of something akin to peace momentarily softening the lines of his face. It was a fleeting moment, precious and delicate, and Matt didn't want to shatter it.

He approached Mario slowly, his movements deliberate and gentle. "Mario," he began, his voice low and calm, “It’s okay if you brother come today?”

Mario looked up, his dark eyes searching Matt's face, a flicker of apprehension in their depths. He nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. "Okay," he whispered, his voice still barely audible.

Matt knelt beside the couch, placing a reassuring hand on Mario’s arm. "It's okay," he repeated softly.

A wave of emotion washed over Mario's face – relief, disbelief, a dawning joy so profound it seemed to knock the breath from his lungs. He covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes welling with tears.

Matt watched, his heart aching with empathy and a profound sense of responsibility. He knew this moment was monumental, life-altering. He reached for his phone, his hand shaking slightly. "I'm going to call him now," he said softly. "Is that okay?"

Mario nodded, unable to speak, his eyes fixed on Matt, a silent plea in their depths.

Matt stepped away, moving to the kitchen, needing a moment to compose himself before making the call. He dialed Joe’s number, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. The phone rang, each ring echoing the years of separation about to be bridged.

Joe answered on the third ring, his voice bright and cheerful, oblivious to the seismic emotional shift about to occur in his life. "Hey, babe! What’s up?"

"Hey, Joe," Matt replied, trying to keep his voice steady, betraying none of the emotional turmoil churning within him. "Listen, can you come over? I… I need to talk to you about something. It’s… it’s important."

"Important? Everything okay?" Joe’s tone shifted to concern.

"Yeah, everything's… fine. Just… can you come over? As soon as you can?"

"Yeah, of course. I can be there in fifteen minutes. Is everything really okay, Matt? You sound… different."

"Yeah, Joe, everything will be okay," Matt said, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the unspoken words heavy in the air between them. "Just… come over."

He hung up, his hand still trembling. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He turned back to Mario, who was still sitting on the couch, his eyes wide with a mixture of trepidation and hope. Matt walked back to him, kneeling down again, his hand resting gently on Mario’s arm.

"He's coming," Matt said softly. "He'll be here soon."

Mario nodded again, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway as if willing Joe to appear. The silence that followed was thick with anticipation, the air crackling with unspoken emotions. Matt could feel the tension radiating from Mario, a palpable vibration of hope and fear.

Fifteen minutes stretched into an eternity. Matt busied himself in the kitchen, trying to appear calm, pretending to chop vegetables for dinner, his movements mechanical and unthinking. He glanced at the clock every few seconds, each tick of the second hand amplifying the tension in the room. Mario remained on the couch, still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the doorway, his breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps.

Then, the sound of the doorbell pierced the silence like a gunshot. Matt’s heart leaped into his throat. He took another deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. He turned to Mario, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "He's here," he whispered.

Mario’s eyes widened, his body stiffening. He looked at Matt, a silent question in his gaze. Matt nodded, offering him an encouraging smile. He stood up, his legs feeling strangely heavy, and walked towards the door.

He opened it to find Joe standing on the threshold, his brow furrowed with concern, a grocery bag dangling from his hand. “Hey,” Joe said, stepping inside, his gaze immediately meeting Matt’s. “What’s going on? You sounded really worried on the phone.”

Matt stepped aside, allowing Joe to enter the apartment fully. He didn't say anything, just gestured towards the living room. Joe followed his gaze, his eyes widening as he took in the figure sitting on the couch.

Time seemed to slow down, the air thickening, the sound of traffic outside fading into a distant hum. Joe’s eyes locked onto Mario, his cheerful expression dissolving, replaced by a look of utter disbelief. He stopped dead in his tracks, his grocery bag slipping from his grasp and thudding onto the floor, scattering oranges and apples across the rug.

Mario, who had been frozen in place, slowly rose to his feet, his eyes wide and luminous, fixed on Joe. He took a tentative step forward, then another, his movements hesitant, as if afraid to break the fragile spell.

Joe remained rooted to the spot, his eyes darting between Matt and Mario, confusion warring with a dawning recognition in his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He just stared, his breath catching in his throat.

Then, recognition flooded Joe’s face, a wave of realization breaking over him. His eyes widened further, tears welling up in their corners. He took a shaky step forward, his voice barely a whisper. “Mario…?”

The sound of his name, spoken in Joe’s familiar voice, seemed to shatter the last vestiges of Mario’s reserve. A sob escaped his lips, a raw, heart-wrenching sound that tore through the silence. He launched himself forward, running towards Joe, his arms outstretched.

Joe moved then, reacting instinctively, his own arms reaching out to meet his brother. They collided in the middle of the living room, a tangle of limbs and emotion, wrapping each other in a fierce, desperate embrace.

The years of separation, the decade of agonizing uncertainty, the pain of loss and longing, all coalesced in that single, earth-shattering hug. They clung to each other, two halves of a soul reunited after being torn apart, their bodies trembling with emotion. Tears streamed down their faces, mingling together on their cheeks, tears of sorrow, tears of relief, tears of pure, unadulterated joy.

Words were unnecessary, lost in the muffled sobs and gasps that wracked their bodies. They held each other tight, as if afraid to let go, afraid that this moment, this miracle, would somehow vanish. Matt watched from the doorway, his own eyes brimming with tears, a profound sense of peace settling in his heart. He had brought them together, he had orchestrated this reunion, and the sight of these two brothers finally in each other’s arms was more rewarding than anything he could have ever imagined.

After a long, silent embrace, they finally pulled apart, their hands still clasped tightly together, their eyes locked on each other's faces, drinking in the sight of the brother they had thought lost forever. Joe’s face was streaked with tears, his eyes red and swollen, but a radiant smile was breaking through, illuminating his features with an almost blinding joy. Mario was equally tear-stained, his face awash with emotion, a shy, tentative smile mirroring Joe’s.

"Mario," Joe whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, tracing the lines of Mario’s face with his fingers, as if needing to physically confirm that he was real. "It’s really you. It’s really you."

"Joe," Mario replied, his voice still raspy but filled with an immeasurable tenderness. "Mon frère… my brother."

They stood there for a moment longer, just gazing at each other, lost in the wonder of their reunion. Then, Joe turned to Matt, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Matt," he said, his voice choked with emotion, "how… how did you…?"

Matt smiled gently, stepping forward and placing an arm around Joe’s shoulders. "It's a long story," he said softly. "Come, let’s sit down."

He led them towards the couch, gently guiding them to sit. They settled down, Joe and Mario still holding hands, their gazes fixed on each other. Matt looked at them, feeling like an observer of something sacred and profound.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Matt said, his voice warm and inviting. “I’m going to start dinner. You two have a lot to talk about.” He retreated to the kitchen, leaving the brothers alone to reconnect, to begin the arduous yet beautiful process of rebuilding a bond that had been brutally fractured but never truly broken.

From the kitchen, Matt could hear the murmur of their voices, a low, intimate conversation unfolding. He listened, a quiet smile playing on his lips, as Joe began to fill in the gaps of the past decade for Mario. He heard Joe recount the agonizing years of searching, the dead ends, the dwindling hope that had threatened to extinguish his spirit entirely. He told Mario about their parents, their passing two years prior, the grief that had consumed him, the lonely ache of carrying their memories alone. He spoke of his life, his work, his friends, carefully omitting the initial months of darkness that had followed the loss of hope of ever finding Mario. He spoke of meeting Matt, his voice softening as he described their relationship, his feelings for him, the unexpected joy Matt had brought back into his life in the last eight months.

When it was Mario’s turn to speak, his voice was barely audible, hushed and hesitant. He began to recount his own story, the horrors he had endured, the dark, brutal world of trafficking that had swallowed him whole. He spoke of the fear, the degradation, the constant struggle for survival. He painted a fragmented picture, carefully skirting around the most graphic details, his voice breaking with emotion as he recounted the years of lost freedom and stolen innocence. The silence in the living room was heavy, punctuated only by Mario’s soft, tremulous voice and Joe’s occasional whispered words of comfort.

Matt prepared dinner slowly, deliberately, giving them space, allowing them to navigate their reunion at their own pace. He set the table, placing three plates, three sets of cutlery, and three wine glasses. He opened a bottle of red wine, the rich, fruity aroma filling the kitchen, a subtle offering of warmth and celebration.

After what felt like an age, Matt finally called out, “Dinner’s ready!”

Joe and Mario emerged from the living room, their faces still damp with tears but relaxed, their hands still intertwined. They joined Matt at the table, settling into their seats, the silence now less charged, more comfortable, filled with a nascent sense of peace.

Matt poured wine into their glasses, raising his own in a silent toast. “To reunion,” he said softly, offering a warm smile to both of them.

They clinked glasses, the sound delicate and hopeful in the quiet room. As they began to eat, the conversation shifted, becoming lighter, more reminiscent of a family dinner. Mario, emboldened by the wine and the presence of his brother, began to share childhood memories. He recounted funny anecdotes about their childhood escapades in Lyon, stories Matt had never heard, painting a vivid picture of a life Joe had almost forgotten, a life Mario had clung to as a lifeline through the darkest years.

He told them about the time they tried to build a raft to sail across the lagoon and it promptly sank, leaving them soaked and covered in seaweed. He laughed as he recounted the tale of them accidentally setting off fireworks in their grandma garden, scattering panicked chickens and earning a stern but ultimately loving reprimand. He remembered their father teaching them to fish, their mother’s delicious Toulouse-Style Cassoulet, the scent of jasmine that always filled their courtyard in the evenings.

Joe listened, his eyes shining, his laughter genuine and unrestrained, the memories flooding back, washing away years of pain and loneliness. He added his own recollections, filling in the gaps, enriching the tapestry of their shared past. Matt listened, watching them interact, marveling at the ease and warmth of their reconnection. He felt a profound sense of fulfillment watching Joe’s face light up with laughter, hearing Mario’s voice grow stronger, more confident, as he shared his memories.

In that cozy apartment, filled with the aroma of good food and the sound of brothers reunited, a new chapter was beginning. The shadows of the past would not vanish overnight, but in the shared laughter, the comfortable silence, and the unwavering bond between Joe and Mario, Matt saw a glimmer of hope, a promise of healing, and the quiet, profound beauty of family found again, after being lost for so long. He knew the road ahead would be long and arduous, but tonight, in this moment, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight and the quiet joy of reunion, everything felt possible.

─────────

As the evening came to a close, the laughter from Mario’s stories and Joe’s gentle teasing slowly faded into the background. The wine glasses were nearly empty, the plates were cleared away, and the once-vibrant scent of freshly cooked French dishes now mingled with the softer, earthy smell of the night air seeping through the slightly cracked window. The bond between the two brothers was undeniable, their shared history unfolding before Matt’s eyes, and it was clear to him that he had played a small but meaningful role in bringing them together again.

Joe turned to Mario, his eyes warm but determined. “Come on, let’s get you home. You’ve had a long day, and I think it’s time we start catching up properly. You can stay with me until we figure everything out.”

Mario’s gaze softened as he looked between Joe and Matt, a wave of gratitude washing over him. He didn’t know how to thank Matt for everything, but Joe’s decision was clear. It was time to rebuild, to heal, and to find a new rhythm together.

“I’ll be okay,” Mario said quietly. “I’m just glad to be here, with you.”

Joe smiled, though his eyes were a little misty, and stood from the table, extending a hand to Mario. “Let’s go, brother. We have a lot to talk about.”

Mario hesitated for a moment, taking in the space, and then nodded, pushing up from the chair. He looked at Matt, then at Joe, an uncertain smile on his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured to Matt. “For everything.”

Matt nodded in return, his chest swelling with a quiet pride as he watched them. He didn’t need any grand gestures of thanks. This, this moment, was enough. Watching Joe and Mario walk together, side by side, toward the door, was all the confirmation Matt needed that he had made the right choice.

As Joe stepped toward the door, Mario following closely behind, he turned back to face Matt, his expression momentarily serious, as if he were weighing something. 

Matt’s heart skipped a beat, wondering if Joe had something more to say before he left. But then, as if the weight of the evening was settling on him all at once, Joe met his eyes, his gaze soft yet fierce.

“Matt,” Joe said, his voice a little unsteady, as if he’d been holding onto something for a long time. The space between them suddenly felt charged, a magnetic pull that neither of them could ignore. “I... I need to tell you something.”

Matt tilted his head slightly, his breath hitching in his throat. “What is it?”

Joe stepped closer, his hand reaching out, resting gently on Matt’s chest. The connection between them was palpable, electric, and the tension that had been building for months between them finally reached its breaking point. Joe swallowed hard before speaking again.

“I love you, Matt. I—I don’t know when it happened. I just know that it’s real,” Joe whispered, his voice full of raw sincerity, of vulnerability. “I love you.”

The words hung between them, heavy but beautiful, like a confession that had been years in the making. For a moment, Matt felt as though the room had stopped spinning, that time had suspended itself around them. His heart thundered in his chest, as if Joe’s admission had finally unlocked something he had kept buried deep inside himself.

Before he could even process the weight of Joe’s confession, Matt’s hand reached up, cupping Joe’s face as their eyes locked. There was no hesitation, no fear. This was it, the moment they had both been fighting to avoid, and yet it felt like a relief, like they were both finally letting go of the secrets they had held so tightly.

Joe’s lips crashed onto Matt’s, urgent, desperate, as if they were both trying to make up for the lost time, the things they hadn’t said before. Matt’s body responded instantly, his hands finding Joe’s waist, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of him, the strength in him. Joe kissed him with all the intensity of the words they had never spoken, his tongue brushing against Matt’s with a fervor that left them both breathless. 

They stumbled back slightly, their lips never parting, until they reached the edge of the kitchen counter. Joe’s hand ran through Matt’s hair, tugging him closer as if he couldn’t get enough. Matt responded eagerly, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his chest, the confession of love ringing in his ears like a promise.

But even as their bodies pressed together, the passion surging between them, a fleeting thought crossed Matt’s mind—Joe had just reunited with his brother. This wasn’t the time. But then Joe kissed him deeper, and all of Matt’s thoughts scattered, lost in the haze of the kiss. 

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, their faces flushed with desire, but also something more—something unspoken, a tenderness that neither had expected.

Joe took a shaky breath and leaned his forehead against Matt’s, his hands still resting on Matt’s chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Joe whispered, his voice raw. “Not anymore.”

Matt’s hands slid down Joe’s back, his fingertips grazing the fabric of Joe’s shirt as if memorizing the feel of him, the warmth of him. “You don’t have to leave,” Matt murmured. “You never have to leave.”

Joe’s eyes closed for a moment, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I’m scared,” he admitted quietly, a sudden vulnerability taking over him. “I don’t know what this means. I don’t know what’s going to happen with us, with everything. But I know this—I love you, and I want to be with you. For real.”

Matt nodded, his thumb brushing lightly across Joe’s cheek. “We’ll figure it out,” he said, his voice steady, grounded. “One step at a time. Together.”

They stood there for a long moment, the weight of their words still sinking in, their hearts beating in sync. Then, without another word, Matt took Joe’s hand and led him toward the door. 

“Go get your brother settled,” Matt said, his voice quieter now, as if the intensity of the moment had softened, but the promise between them still lingered in the air. 

Joe smiled, his eyes gleaming, his heart full in a way he hadn’t felt in years. “Yeah, okay”

But before he stepped outside, Joe turned once more, capturing Matt’s lips in another kiss—gentler this time, but just as filled with love. 

“I love you,” Joe murmured again as they pulled apart.

Matt smiled softly, his heart swelling with emotion as he nodded. “I love you too.”

And with that, they exchange a last look, ready to face whatever came next. Together.