The First Day

Morning arrives, bringing with it the quiet, undeniable shift in their world. Sunny and Lin navigate the new intimacy, finding comfort and strength in shared moments, as Sunny takes a powerful step towards his future.

The pale light, thin and hesitant, crept through the window blinds first, painting stripes across the bedroom wall. Sunny blinked awake, disoriented for a beat, then the weight of Lin’s arm across his waist, the steady rhythm of Lin’s breathing against his back, anchored him. He hadn’t really slept, not in the way he usually did – a frantic, shallow dip into oblivion. Last night had been different. A quiet, deep rest, like sinking into warm water.

He lay still, listening to the house creak, the faint whine of the old refrigerator downstairs. His fingers, buried in the soft fabric of the sheets, twitched. This was… new. Not just the physical closeness, but the weight of expectation that settled with the dawn. What did mornings look like now? He felt Lin shift behind him, a low murmur, a huff of air against his neck, and a flush crept up Sunny’s chest, hot and fast. Stupid. It was just Lin.

But it wasn't *just* Lin. It was Lin who had stayed. Lin who had held him, listened. Lin who, for the first time in what felt like forever, made Sunny feel like he wasn't carrying everything alone. He took a slow breath, the scent of woodsmoke and something vaguely spicy, unmistakably Lin, filling his lungs. He wanted to turn, to see Lin's face, but some ancient shyness held him captive, a fragile, trembling thing he hadn’t known still existed inside him.

Lin’s arm tightened almost imperceptibly, a possessive, comforting weight. “Morning,” Lin mumbled, voice rough with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated through Sunny. It wasn’t a question, more of an acknowledgement. Sunny felt his own heart pick up, thumping a little too fast against his ribs. He felt… *seen*. Even half-asleep, Lin knew he was awake. He was always aware.

“Morning,” Sunny managed, his voice a dry rasp. He cleared his throat. The cold air of the room pricked his skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Lin’s body. He wanted to stay like this forever, wrapped safe, but the practical side of his brain, the one that usually ran on anxiety and caffeine, was already ticking. Breakfast. Work. The world outside.

Lin slowly extracted his arm, the sudden absence of heat leaving a distinct chill. Sunny almost whined. He didn’t. Lin pushed himself up, propping his head on one hand, looking down at Sunny. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling across his forehead, and his eyes, usually so sharp, were soft, hazy with sleep. But they still held that intense, steady gaze that always seemed to strip Sunny bare.

“You okay?” Lin asked, his thumb tracing a slow, gentle path along Sunny’s jawline. The touch was feather-light, but it felt like a brand, setting Sunny’s nerves alight. He nodded, unable to speak, the heat in his cheeks spreading. He wasn’t just okay. He was… something else. Something new. Something fragile and terrifyingly hopeful.

Lin smiled, a slow, easy curve of his lips that made Sunny’s stomach flip. “Good.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress dipping. Sunny watched him, acutely aware of every movement, the stretch of muscles in his back, the way his worn t-shirt rode up. There was an ease to Lin’s movements, a quiet confidence that Sunny envied, especially now, when he felt like a collection of frayed nerves.

Lin padded out of the room, and Sunny heard the faint clatter of a coffee pot being set up downstairs. He lay there for a few more minutes, the bed still warm from Lin's presence, the silence of the house no longer heavy, but simply… quiet. He finally pushed himself up, pulling on a faded hoodie and sweatpants. He splashed cold water on his face, looking at himself in the steamed-up mirror. His eyes looked less haunted, a faint spark in them that hadn't been there in months.

Downstairs, the smell of brewing coffee was a comforting anchor. Lin was at the counter, already pulling out bread for toast, eggs, butter. He moved with a familiar rhythm, as if he’d been doing this here for years. Sunny leaned against the doorframe, watching. “Need a hand?” he offered, his voice still a little shaky.

Lin looked up, a faint smile on his face. “Just getting started. You can scramble the eggs?” He gestured towards a bowl with half a dozen eggs waiting. Sunny nodded, walking over. His hands felt clumsy, rattling the ceramic bowl. Their shoulders brushed as he reached for the whisk, a jolt of static electricity shooting up his arm. Lin didn’t pull away. He just stood there, close, his warmth a solid presence.

They worked in comfortable silence, the quiet punctuated by the crackle of the stove, the scrape of the whisk against the bowl. Sunny watched Lin from the corner of his eye as Lin sliced avocado, his movements precise. There was a quiet intensity about Lin, even in mundane tasks. He was grounded, present, always. It was something Sunny was only just learning to be.

“There’s not much,” Sunny said, gesturing vaguely around the kitchen. “Dad never… really cooked here.” The words felt heavy, even now. The house had been a place of order and control, not warmth and shared meals. It still felt strange, this domesticity, like they were playing house, but the reality of it, the simple act of preparing food together, felt undeniably good.

Lin hummed, shrugging. “We’ll get more stuff. For now, this is good.” He picked up a piece of toast, golden brown, and handed it to Sunny. Their fingers brushed again, longer this time, and Sunny felt the familiar jolt. He chewed slowly, the plain buttered toast tasting better than anything he’d eaten in months. It was the taste of shared effort, of a quiet beginning.

After breakfast, they sat at the small kitchen table, mugs of coffee steaming between them. Lin just watched him, that steady, unwavering gaze. Sunny squirmed under it, but didn’t look away. “I should… I should do something today,” Sunny said, more to himself than to Lin. The idea had been forming, a small, stubborn sprout in the back of his mind.

“Like what?” Lin asked, his voice soft, inviting, not pressing. It was the way Lin always was – offering space, not demanding answers.

“The letter,” Sunny confessed, the word a whisper. He hadn’t forgotten his father, hadn't forgotten the looming weight of the unspoken. But something had shifted. He felt stronger, less afraid. Less like a leaf blown by the wind. “I need to write to him. Set some boundaries.” It was a huge step, one he hadn't thought he was capable of.

Lin nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “Good,” he said again, that simple word carrying so much weight, so much quiet approval. “I’m here if you need anything.”

Sunny went to his father’s study, a room he usually avoided. It felt less like a tomb today, more like… just a room. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, a decent pen. He sat at the large, empty desk, a space that had always felt too big for him, dwarfing him. He stared at the blank page, the white screaming back at him.

What did he want to say? He didn’t want to scream, didn’t want to rage. He wanted to be calm, to be clear. To be himself, not the version of himself his father expected. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He thought of Lin, of the quiet strength in his eyes, the steady beat of his heart against Sunny’s back. He thought of the taste of the buttered toast, the scent of fresh coffee. The warmth. This new warmth.

He picked up the pen. The first words were the hardest, the ink scratching faintly on the paper. *Dear Father,* He paused, thinking. He decided against ‘Dad.’ Too familiar, too much of the past. He began to write, slowly at first, then with a growing clarity. He talked about his mother, not accusingly, but factually. The grief. His own feelings. The need for space. The need for understanding.

He didn't make demands. He stated his needs. He wasn't asking for permission. He was informing. It was empowering, a quiet revolution happening on the page. His hand didn’t shake. His breath was steady. He wrote about the house, about his desire to keep it, to make it his own. He wrote about needing time to figure things out, without interference.

He didn’t mention Lin. That wasn’t his father’s business. This was about him, about Sunny, finally drawing lines in the sand. When he finished, he read it over, his eyes scanning each sentence. It was measured. It was calm. It was empowering. He folded the letter carefully, slipped it into an envelope, and addressed it. He put a stamp on it, sealing his intentions.

He carried the letter downstairs, a profound sense of lightness settling over him. Lin was in the living room, reading, a book open in his lap. He looked up when Sunny entered, his eyes immediately assessing. “Done?” he asked, a gentle question.

Sunny nodded, holding up the envelope. “Done.” A small, triumphant smile touched his lips. “I’m going to mail it.” He wanted it out of his hands, out of his house, a physical representation of his newfound resolve. Lin simply smiled back, a quiet warmth in his eyes, a silent cheer. No fuss, no grand pronouncements. Just understanding.

The walk to the post office was bracing. The winter air bit at his cheeks, sharp and cold, but Sunny felt a different kind of chill. An invigorating one. He dropped the letter into the slot, the thud a final, satisfying sound. As he walked back, the world seemed a little clearer, a little less grey. The weight of winter still pressed, but it didn't feel as oppressive as before.

Later that afternoon, a restless energy still hummed beneath his skin. He found himself back in his own room, laptop open. He’d avoided school for so long, the thought of classes, assignments, deadlines, had been suffocating. But now, after the letter, a different kind of thought started to form. A small one. A manageable one.

He started searching for online courses. Not a full degree, not a heavy workload. Just one. Something simple. Something interesting. He scrolled through options, his fingers hovering over a few. A basic philosophy course. An introduction to creative writing. A coding bootcamp for beginners.

He settled on ‘Introduction to Art History.’ It felt… safe. Interesting, but not overwhelming. No math, no heavy science. Just looking at beautiful things, understanding contexts. It was small. It was manageable. He filled out the online forms, his heart thumping a little, a familiar nervousness twisting in his gut. But beneath it, a quiet excitement. A spark.

When he finished, clicking 'enroll,' he felt a strange mix of exhilaration and terror. He had done it. He had taken a step, a tiny one, but a step forward nonetheless. He closed the laptop, leaning back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. He felt exhausted, but in a good way, the kind of exhaustion that comes after a long, difficult climb.

Lin found him there, later, in the dimming light of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far. “What’s on your mind?” Lin asked, his voice low, gentle. Sunny felt a sigh escape him, a long, shaky exhale.

“I enrolled,” Sunny said, his voice barely a whisper. “In a course. Art History.” He didn’t look at Lin, watching his own fingers pick at a loose thread on his sweatpants. He waited for a reaction, a judgment, but there was only silence.

Then, Lin’s hand covered his, stilling his restless fingers. His palm was warm, strong. “That’s amazing, Sunny,” Lin said, his voice husky. Sunny finally looked up. Lin’s eyes were shining, a depth of warmth and pride that made Sunny’s own eyes sting. “That’s… really brave.”

Brave. Sunny hadn’t thought of it that way. Just… necessary. He squeezed Lin’s hand, a silent thank you. The winter still pressed outside, the cold wind rattling the windowpanes. But inside, something had begun to thaw. Something new, tender, and incredibly hopeful.