Chapter Text
On Monday, Husk wasn’t sure which version of Anthony would walk through the heavy doors of the studio. After the vulnerability hangover of the weekend, Husk partially expected the kid to avoid his gaze, mortified by his own alcohol-fueled honesty.
Instead, Anthony arrived with a spring in his step. He dropped his bag by the mirrors and immediately looked across the room at the piano.
He still looked tired—the dark circles hadn't miraculously vanished over the weekend—but the brittle, terrifying tension from last week had eased. When he caught Husk’s eye, a furious, blotchy blush immediately rushed up his neck. Anthony offered a sheepish, lopsided smile and dramatically mouthed the word, “Sorry,” scrunching his nose in a self-deprecating grimace that clearly communicated: I am a very cheap date and I must have talked way too much.
Husk couldn’t help the quiet huff of amusement that escaped him. He just shook his head, offering a slow, grounding nod, and hit a lazy, jazzy chord on the keys. We're good. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Anthony’s shoulders dropped an inch in visible relief. He turned to the barre just as Valentino swept into the room, cane clicking sharply against the floorboards.
The grueling routine resumed, but something fundamental had shifted. The silence in the room didn't feel quite as suffocating to Husk anymore. Every so often, when Valentino had his back turned to correct another dancer's form, Anthony would catch Husk’s eye in the mirror and offer a tiny, almost invisible smile. A quirk of an eyebrow. A tilt of his chin.
When class finally ended, Anthony grabbed his bag and hurried out the door to his next rehearsal without a word.
A minute later, Husk’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket.
(20:03) Anthony!!: Crazy start to the week can’t believe I have rehearsal until 11pm today!!!!! Thank u again for Friday. I o u truffle fries for life.
Husk stared at the glowing screen.
Truth be told, Husk had never been much of a texter. He had never been much of a tech guy in general. The way he saw it, he was a millennial by birth year only; in spirit, he was an old man who preferred vinyl to Spotify and cash to Venmo. He hadn’t even owned a laptop until his second year of college, and even then, he only used it when the use of submission software forced his hand. He hated the constant pings, the demand for immediate attention.
His phone was a utility, not a lifeline. But since that night at Happy’s, it buzzed with a regularity that should have annoyed him. It didn’t. Instead it became a little spark of joy for Husk to wake up to a message that had been sent much too early in the morning.
(05:58) Anthony!!: saw a pigeon fighting a rat for a slice of pizza. put 5 bucks on the rat.
(08:17) Husk: Smart bet. Rats are scrappy.
(11:45) Anthony!!: rat won. i’m rich! adding extra chicken to my salad today.
Silly things. Memes Husk didn't understand. Complaints about sore muscles. It was trivial, bordering on banal, but every vibration in his pocket was a reminder that Anthony felt safe enough to reach out. It was a tether, thin and fragile, stretching between Husk’s solitary life and Anthony’s chaotic one. It was a blossoming, unlikely friendship. And despite how he tried to ignore it, it warmed him every time Anthony put a laughing reaction on one of Husk’s replies.
Outside of class, Anthony lived on his phone. Husk realized quickly it wasn't just a generational thing; it was a survival tool. Anthony used text-to-speech to read menus and emails, dictated his messages rather than typing to avoid the spelling errors that annoyed Valentino, and recorded his classes to turn them into notes. It was subtle, and if Husk wouldn’t have been paying such close attention to Anthony these days, he would probably not have noticed.
But that was the thing. Husk noticed.
On the rare occasion Anthony texted about the academy, it wasn't to complain. It was with a devotion that unsettled Husk even more.
(22:25) Anthony: [Voice Note: 0:23] “On my way home!! My toes are literally purple. Val kept me on pointe for forty minutes straight after class. He says my arch is finally looking decent though. Worth it. Also did you notice they’re measuring the hallways? I bet there’s a big renovation happening soon, I hope they add heaters to the dressing rooms because it’s so damn cold in the evenings.”
Husk never knew how to reply to those. Anthony wore his pain like a badge of honor, convinced that if he bled enough, Valentino would finally be satisfied.
They hadn't hung out outside of work since the bar—their schedules didn't align, and Husk was careful not to be overbearing—but the familiarity had settled in. For better or for worse, Anthony had become a fixture in his life, more than just another student at the academy.
Which was why, when the freezing rain started on a Tuesday evening mid-November, turning the New York streets into slick, black mirrors, Husk couldn't bring himself to put his car in drive.
He sat in the dark parking lot, engine idling, the heater blasting in an attempt to chase away the chill. The seniors' rehearsal had run late, and the wind was howling, violently stripping dead leaves from the trees. Husk had watched most of the students sprinting to the subway station or diving into waiting cars, eager to escape the outside as soon as possible.
But one figure remained, huddled under the brick overhang of the vestibule.
Husk watched through the rhythmic thump of his windshield wipers as Anthony checked his phone, let his head fall back against the brick wall, and shivered. He was wearing a stunning, tailored wool coat that was incredibly fashionable and seemed entirely useless against a Nor'easter. He looked exhausted, skin paler than usual, the dark undereyes visible even in the muted light from the overhang.
Husk took a moment to consider. If he was being honest with himself, this was the very reason he had lingered, yet now that it was actually necessary, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Over the last couple weeks he’d noticed Anthony waiting outside the academy more often than not, waving off the few other students who greeted them. At the beginning of the semester, Anthony used to drive home with Valentino, but it seemed the man was too busy to take care of that anymore. It had been cabs for weeks now. Husk ran his thumb over the steering wheel, and then let out a sigh. He put the car in drive and pulled up to the curb, rolling down the passenger window.
"You're gonna freeze to the pavement, kid," Husk called out over the sound of the sleet. "Get in."
Anthony jumped, squinting through the glare of the headlights. When he recognized the battered sedan, his shoulders instantly dropped three inches. "Husk?"
"Get in the car before I lose all my heat."
Anthony didn't argue. He scrambled inside, dragging a gust of icy wind and the sharp smell of rain with him. Close-up, he was visibly shaking, his teeth chattering as he slammed the door shut and immediately reached his frozen hands out toward the vents.
"Driver bail on you?" Husk asked, merging seamlessly back into the crawling traffic.
"Stuck on the bridge," Anthony muttered, his breath fogging the glass. "Accident on the FDR. He said it would be another hour so I canceled. I was gonna wait inside and try and get another cab, but they locked the lobby doors because everyone went home early..."
"So you were just going to stand there and accept hypothermia?" Husk grunted. "I'm taking you home. Don't argue."
"Wasn't gonna," Anthony murmured, shrinking gratefully into the passenger seat. "Thank you."
The drive was agonizingly slow, the city gridlocked by the storm. But as the car heater worked its magic, the shivering stopped, and the tense, exhausted dancer melted away. By the time they hit the thirty-minute mark, the silence had shifted into something warm and easy.
Anthony started talking to fill the quiet, his voice raspy but animated. He talked about how the sleet hitting the glass reminded him of a washout day he’d spent in Italy the summer before, only colder. He gestured with his hands as he described the flooded cobblestone streets of Florence, finding a bright, infectious joy in the memory of ruined shoes and terrible weather.
“Pretty sure they had to wash the rugs after we made it back to the hotel,” he laughed, “but falling asleep to the sound of that storm was a dream.”
Husk mostly just listened, watching the city lights wash over Anthony’s face. It was refreshing. It was a contrast to the broken boy crying at the barre, and different than the manic exhausted giggles at the bar. Through his words, Husk could see how Anthony looked at the world with a vibrant, messy curiosity that Husk himself hadn’t felt in years—if he’d ever felt it at all.
By the time Husk pulled up to the curb outside of Anthony’s building the rain had slowed to a drizzle.
Husk kept the engine running. "Here we are. Safe and sound."
Anthony hesitated. His hand lingered on the door handle. He looked up at the dark, looming windows of the building, and then back at the warm, dim interior of Husk's car. He bit his lower lip, a nervous tell Husk was starting to recognize.
"Val’s at a board dinner," Anthony said quietly. He didn't look at Husk, keeping his eyes fixed on the dashboard, fingers interlaced on his lap. "He won't be checking on me tonight."
Husk’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"Do you..." Anthony started, then forced a casual brightness into his tone, finally turning to look at Husk. Even in the dim light, the flush on his cheeks was visible. "Do you want to come up? We could have some wine. Keep chatting."
Husk should say no. The car ride had already felt too intimate, the easy conversation blurring lines Husk had sworn to maintain. Casual friendship was one thing. One time drinks was one thing. Going up to Valentino's penthouse to drink wine was an objectively terrible idea. He could almost hear Alastor breathing down his neck to find out what the place looked like.
But Anthony was looking at him with that same unguarded, hopeful brightness he’d had when talking about Italy, like the bruises and the exhaustion didn't exist. He didn't want to go into that empty apartment alone.
Husk swallowed the polite dismissal that was sitting on his tongue.
"Wine sounds good.”
Anthony’s smile was sudden and blinding. And as Husk killed the engine, he ignored the heavy, familiar ache settling deep in his chest, knowing exactly how much trouble he was in.
The flat took up half of the top floor. It wasn't technically a penthouse, but the moment Anthony unlocked the heavy door and Husk stepped inside, he understood why Anthony had described it as such.
The space was massive, open, and undeniably alive.
Anthony dropped his keys in a heavy glass bowl by the door, shivering as he shrugged off his damp, freezing coat.
"Make yourself at home," he said, "I need to go peel these wet clothes off before I catch pneumonia. Do you want red or white wine?"
"Red is fine," Husk said, kicking off his wet shoes near the door.
"Perfect. Give me two minutes." Anthony offered a quick, grateful smile and disappeared down a long, dark-wood hallway, leaving Husk entirely alone in the open space.
He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks before he wandered further inside. The dark, polished hardwood floors were covered in lush, deeply colored woven rugs. A massive, burnt-orange velvet couch dominated the living space, facing a large flatscreen that was mounted on the wall, framed to look like a painting. Retro cinema posters and vibrant, heavy-textured paintings lined the walls alongside black and white photographs of a variety of dancers. Against the far windows, a ballet barre had been installed beneath a sprawling mirror, catching the glittering grid of the city outside.
It was a stunning, wealthy space, almost overwhelming in the sheer intensity of it. It breathed of a history Husk didn’t know much about. The floor creaked under Husk’s socked feet as if it felt he was somehow an intruder.
A large cabinet with dark glass doors stood against the wall, and when Husk approached he could see it absolutely stuffed with books and cd’s. Though Husk’s attention was caught by the pictures both on the wall as well as the frames scattered on top of the dresser. If the whole place oozed with a maturity that seemed a little odd for someone Anthony’s age, the pictures undeniably spoke of the dancer’s life. There were framed ticket stubs and performance posters, pictures of dancers on and off the stage, and it only took Husk a moment to realize that the blond child on most of the framed pictures was Anthony himself.
Plenty of them also included Valentino, a few of them showing the man with a smile Husk had never seen in person. On one of the pictures he was holding Anthony up in the air during what clearly was a class, the girls behind them caught in laughter, and Anthony’s grin was as wide as his face as he looked at the camera. Valentino’s expression was one of pride.
“Those are so embarrassing,” the grown version of Anthony floated in from the hallway, and he sounded so horrified that Husk laughed.
Husk turned to see Anthony had emerged wearing a pair of soft gray sweatpants and a dark knit turtleneck. He looked dry, warm, some color finally having returned to his cheeks. He walked past Husk, heading for the kitchen tucked behind the beaded partition.
Husk’s heard the clinking of glasses, the sound of the tap being turned on. The door of the fridge.
“They’re cute,” he said, stepping back from the shrine to watch Anthony emerge with a bottle of wine, which he put down on the side table next to the couch and walked over to join Husk, “you look happy.”
“I was,” Anthony said, still a little embarrassed, though smiling, “and Val always said it was important to have pictures of how much I love ballet, to remember when it gets hard.”
Husk hated to admit that that made a lot of sense. Curiosity took over, and the following question left his mouth before he decided if he wanted the answer. “Valentino took these?”
“Most of them, yeah. He loves photography. All of these are analog, too. He says film makes things feel more real.” He waved at the framed pictures on the wall, and then pointed out one particular shot, his expression growing wistful, “though this one my mum actually took.”
Husk gave the picture a better look. It was another shot of Anthony, clearly in the middle of explaining something as he was seated on a chair, jeans rolled up over his ankles. Valentino was in front of him, kneeling down and holding a pair of little black slippers that he was putting on Anthony’s feet. His face was turned up to look at Anthony, and he was smiling. Husk noticed that when Valentino wasn’t sneering, he looked a lot softer. Warmer. On this picture, looking up at Anthony like that, he looked almost kind.
“My first pair of real dance shoes,” Anthony explained, voice warm with affection and smiling at the picture, “the ones I got before were just from the bins. I still have these on my wall. I was so proud when Val got them for me.” He walked back to the side table, and started uncorking the wine. “Of course I’ve since gone through dozens of them, but you never forget your first pair. Same with pointe shoes—I know most men don’t dance with them but I think it really adds something, and it really looks good on the resume if you show that kind of flexibility in skills.”
Husk let his eyes trail over the other pictures. They were all beautiful shots, telling the story of a decade, Anthony growing taller as he meandered to the right. The smile stayed the same, though braces appeared and disappeared, and the haircut went from cropped to long to settle on the length that Husk had gotten familiar to seeing in class.
He leaned closer to a black-and-white print: a living room packed shoulder-to-shoulder with dancers, eyeliner and sweat and lipstick moons on the rims of thin-stemmed glasses. A girl in a sequined top played hostess from the arm of the very couch that still held court in the living area; a younger Anthony—sixteen, maybe—was wedged between two men, holding on to a glass that was overflowing, a lipstick kiss on his cheek. Valentino stood behind him, one hand on the boy’s shoulder, the other out of frame, eyes caught mid-laugh. In the photo’s corner, a barre mirrored the one by the window; the same rug, the same angle of the lamp. Someone had written on the bottom in looping ink—Après moi, le déluge / tournée française. The grain made the night look softer than it must have been.
In the corner of the picture Husk could see the wall with pictures he was looking at. The apartment wasn’t only full of Anthony’s memories. It remembered him back.
“I’ll put some music on while the wine breathes," Anthony said then, dropping to his knees next to Husk and sliding open the doors of the dark-wood cabinet. "What do you like? Also, sit, please, the couch is calling your name."
There was something profoundly absurd about hearing the phrase ‘while the wine breathes’ from a twenty-three-year-old in sweatpants, and it was the thing that finally made Husk tear his eyes away from the picture wall. Husk felt his lips twitch, but he kept his mouth shut and just shrugged, obediently walking over to the couch. "A little bit of anything. What do you have?"
"Anything you want if you use the dock, a bunch of classical on CDs, and the vinyl is mostly 70s stuff," Anthony said. He leaned back on his heels, running his fingers over the records inside. The soft, rhythmic rustle of cardboard sleeves was a satisfying sound that sent a strange, pleasant shiver down Husk’s spine. "Got Sylvester, loads of ABBA... the Stones, of course."
"Of course," Husk echoed. He sank into the corner of the massive, burnt-orange velvet couch. The fabric was heavy and luxurious underneath his fingertips. He leaned over the armrest to look at Anthony. The delicate, careful way Anthony handled the records made him look even younger, entirely focused on the task. "I could go for some Stones. You like them?"
"Love them," Anthony agreed. He pulled out Let It Bleed, holding the iconic cover up for Husk's approval.
Husk gave him a thumbs-up. Anthony got to his feet and popped open the dust cover of the vintage record player. "I used to listen to them all the time when I came here after school."
“You used to come here a lot?”
Anthony made an affirmative hum as he carefully slipped the record from the sleeve. He spun the vinyl expertly between his palms, dropping it onto the platter. "This is Val’s old place. He moved out a few years ago, but he let me stay. His new place is further out, so this one is more convenient."
Val’s old place.
It explained the way the interior felt so put together. So mature. The collection of records.
The needle dropped. The ominous, echoing opening chords of "Gimme Shelter" filtered through the air, the speakers crackling with a soft, analog warmth.
Anthony swayed his hips to the heavy beat, smiling as he walked back to the couch, throwing his arms in a graceful stretch over his head. The hem of his turtleneck rode up, revealing a sliver of pale skin and the sharp, lean lines of his stomach.
“One of my favorite albums,” he told Husk, sliding on the couch, “Lotsa blues vibes in this one.”.
He reached over for the open bottle of wine, lifting it with one hand. He poured the dark liquid into two glasses with a smooth, effortless execution, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Husk probably wouldn’t have been able to do it better without spilling a drop on the velvet.
Anthony picked up the glass and handed it to him. Husk took it, and they clinked glasses.
“Chin-chin,” Anthony smiled, tapping his rim against Husk's.
Husk gave a soft, raspy laugh, raising his glass a little higher. "Salut."
“Prost,”
“Santé,”
“Alla saluté,” Anthony countered, his eyes sparking with a playful, competitive edge.
Husk smirked, taking the bait. “Nazdrave.”
Anthony’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Russian?”
“Bulgarian,” Husk corrected mildly, “before you ask, that’s about all I know, unless you want a variety of very colorful swear words.”
“Impressive.”
They both drank. The wine was good. Deep, velvety, and complex—the kind that was too good for the casual sort of evening Husk was pretending they were having. Anthony smacked his lips in approval. curling his legs up onto the couch and fully abandoning the usually straight posture he held like a weapon. He rested his chin on his knees, and gave Husk a pleased smile.
"Good, right? Val keeps the real fancy vintages at his place, but he forgot he left a case of '96 in the wine fridge."
Husk raised an eyebrow, swirling the dark liquid. "And he doesn't mind you cracking open a three-hundred-dollar bottle on a Tuesday?"
Anthony’s grin turned conspiratorial. He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "He’ll never know. I picked the lock with a hairpin."
Husk choked on his sip, lowering the glass to wipe his mouth. "You picked the lock?"
"YouTube tutorial," Anthony said proudly, wiggling his fingers. "I was bored one weekend when I was grounded. Turns out, expensive cabinets have really cheap locks."
Husk let out a laugh—a real, surprised bark of a sound. "You're full of surprises. Star dancer who’s clumsy with a menu, but you can crack a safe for good Pinot."
"Priorities, Husk. Priorities." Anthony beamed, clearly pleased with himself.
The record crackled into the next song, the lazy, rolling guitar of "Love in Vain" filling the heavy air. The atmosphere in the room shifted. With the warmth of the wine in his stomach, Husk felt the tension in his own shoulders loosen. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, shifting to get more comfortable on the velvet.
"So," Anthony said after a moment, tracing the rim of his glass. He was looking at Husk with that intense, hungry curiosity again. "Cards. You mentioned you play. Is that... like, a hobby? Or were you a pro?"
Husk snorted. "Pro implies there's a league. I was a glorified hustler. There’s a difference."
"A hustler," Anthony rolled the word around his mouth like a piece of candy. "Like in the movies? Smoke-filled rooms, cheating the mob, playing for your life?"
"Less glamour, more stale cigarette smoke and cheap motels. But sure. Something like that."
"Did you cheat?"
Husk looked at him. He could lie. He could paint himself as the honorable gambler. But looking at Anthony—who picked locks for wine and had trusted Husk with his secrets—he didn't feel like lying.
"Only when I had to," Husk admitted. "Or when the other guy deserved it."
Anthony’s eyes widened, shining in the low light. He didn't look judged; he looked delighted. "That is so cool."
For just a moment, Husk thought that Anthony might get along well with Alastor. The thought was so terrifying he took a sip of wine to swallow it down.
"It's not cool," Husk grunted, "It's a really quick way to get your kneecaps broken in a Reno parking lot."
Anthony bit his lip, a sudden, mischievous glint breaking through the wine-flush on his cheeks. "Okay. But you weren't just playing in cheap motels forever."
Husk frowned, the glass stalling halfway to his mouth. "What makes you say that?"
"So..." Anthony shifted, tucking his legs underneath him and looking suddenly sheepish. "You know how you said you didn't have an Instagram?"
"… Yeah?"
"Well, I thought maybe you were just blowing me off to be polite. So I Googled you."
Husk went perfectly still. "You Googled me."
"It was just a quick search!" Anthony defended, though his smile was unapologetic. "But! The third result was a Forbes article. Thirty Under Thirty."
A heavy, suffocating weight dropped into Husk's stomach. The ghosts of his past, the ones he had tried so desperately to drown in cheap whiskey and piano sheets, suddenly crowded into the beautiful penthouse.
Anthony leaned forward, practically vibrating with fascination. "It said you won an absolute fortune at the tables in Vegas. And that you took the winnings and bought this massive, legendary jazz club. The article made you sound like the king of the strip. It said you were a visionary. It mentioned you opened up a branch in New York. But I went to look it up and it’s nowhere to be found."
Husk stared at the dark red liquid in his glass. He remembered the club. He remembered the neon lights, the tailor-made suits, the intoxicating, electric thrill of holding everyone's debts in the palm of his hand. He had been a king. He didn’t say anything.
Anthony’s expression softened. The teasing curiosity melted into something much gentler, much more probing. He rested his chin on his knee again, looking at Husk with those wide, perceptive eyes.
"So how does the King of Vegas end up playing piano for a bunch of ballerinas?" Anthony asked quietly.
Husk closed his eyes. He listened to the pop and hiss of the vinyl. He could deflect. He could tell the kid to mind his own business and finish his wine. But Anthony had bled his own horrific truths out onto a dive bar table just a few days ago. He had handed Husk the ugliest parts of his life and asked Husk to hold them. And so the truth wasn’t as bitter to share as it might otherwise have been.
"Turns out," Husk said slowly, opening his eyes to look at the ceiling, "the house always wins. Even when you think you own the house."
Anthony stayed perfectly quiet, giving him the space to speak.
"I got arrogant," Husk murmured, the words tasting like ash. "When you win that much, that fast, you start thinking the math doesn't apply to you anymore. You think you're untouchable. I started making bets I couldn't cover. High-stakes games with people who don't play for cash, they play for favors. I leveraged the club. I leveraged my name." Husk let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "I lost it all in a single night. Woke up the next morning with nothing but the clothes on my back and a debt so deep I’ll be digging myself out until the day I die."
Husk finally looked over at Anthony, expecting to see pity. Or worse, disappointment.
But Anthony just looked at him with profound, quiet understanding. The kid who was currently trapped in a gilded cage, paying off a debt of gratitude with his own blood, knew exactly what it meant to be owned.
"So," Husk muttered, swirling the three-hundred-dollar wine in his glass. "No. I'm not a visionary. I'm just an idiot who didn't know when to fold."
“There’s nothing online about how the club closed,” Anthony said then, after a long silence, “did you just… Leave it all?”
Husk thought about the moment he’d realized he’d lost. The panic. The sheer, blinding rage that had overtaken him. He remembered the gun he’d tried to pull out before Alastor had materialized and slipped it from his hands. He remembered the way he’d almost made a mistake that would have cost him his life. He remembered being escorted out of his own establishment.
“I left it all,” he agreed, “and perhaps it’s best to leave it at that.”
Anthony was silent for a long moment, before he nodded his head. “I’m sorry.”
"Yeah," Husk rumbled quietly, taking another sip of the wine. "Me too, kid."
At that, Anthony shifted. He didn't pull away, but he nudged his arm deliberately against Husk’s, a soft but unmistakable pressure.
Husk glanced down, blinking in surprise as he met Anthony’s eyes. The heavy, wine-soaked exhaustion was still there, but his gaze was suddenly incredibly sharp.
"Not a kid," Anthony murmured. The corner of his mouth tipped up into a small, knowing smile.
"Hmm?" Husk countered, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, the crystal glass stalling in his hand.
"Not a kid," Anthony repeated. The smile stayed, but his tone grew quiet and remarkably firm. He held Husk’s gaze, refusing to let him look away or brush it off. "You keep calling me that, but I'm not a child. I know what I'm doing, you know."
Husk looked at him. He looked at the sharp line of Anthony's jaw, the fierce intelligence in his eyes, and the deliberate, voluntary press of their arms. The protective, paternal wall Husk had been trying to build between them instantly crumbled. This wasn't a fragile stray looking for shelter. This was a man who survived his adversities, who built his beauty through violence, and who was actively, consciously choosing to pull Husk closer.
Husk swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. He slowly lowered his wine glass to his lap.
"Alright," Husk said, his voice a rough, quiet rasp that sent a visible shiver down Anthony's spine. "Not a kid."
Anthony’s smile softened into something incredibly genuine. He let out a long, quiet breath, his heavy eyelids fluttering shut as he let his head fall back against the couch. He didn't say anything else. He just stayed there, his shoulder pressed warm and steady against Husk's, completely content to sit in the warmth of the jazz, the wine, and the truth.
The record spun on the platter, the bluesy wail of the guitar wrapping around them. Outside, the freezing rain continued to beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside, surrounded by the heavy velvet and the vintage vinyl, the cold couldn't reach them.