Hansel had been staring at the same page for ten minutes, tracing the strange diagrams with his finger—interconnected nodes beled with numbers, branching pathways marked "progression trees," tables showing something called "experience thresholds."

  The library door opened.

  He knew it was Steve before he looked up. That cologne—cedarwood and something spicy—cut through the musty smell of old books. Hansel's fingers tightened on the page.

  "Hansel."

  He forced himself to turn. Steve stood in the doorway, camera bag slung across his chest, and for a moment Hansel forgot how to breathe. Five years had been kind to Steve House. The perpetual tension that used to live in his shoulders had eased. He looked lighter somehow. Free.

  "Steve. I didn't expect—"

  "I need to talk to you." Steve crossed the empty library. "About what I saw at the church."

  Hansel gestured to the chair across from him, but Steve circled around behind instead. Hansel felt his presence like heat against his back—too close, too familiar. His heart kicked up.

  "What did you see?" Hansel asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  "The grid I showed you in the photos? It's worse." Steve's hands came down on either side of the book, bracketing Hansel in. Not touching, but close enough that Hansel could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "I went back to photograph the chapel. Aldric invited me to some private meeting Thursday after sunset. And when I looked at him through the camera lens..."

  Hansel tilted his head back slightly. Steve was leaning over him now, looking down at the book. "What?"

  "Lines. Patterns. Like what's on those pages." Steve pointed at the diagram under Hansel's hands. "They were spreading across his skin. Under his robes. Up his neck. Like circuitry. Like something was *growing* in him."

  Hansel's stomach turned cold. He looked back down at the book, hyperaware of Steve behind him, of how small the space between them felt. "I think I know what it is. Or—I have theories."

  "Tell me."

  Hansel turned a few pages, found the passage he'd marked earlier. Steve leaned in closer to read, and Hansel could feel his breath against his ear.

  *Focus. Focus on the words.*

  "There are references here to something called an 'infestation,'" Hansel said, his voice coming out rougher than intended. "It talks about systems appearing where they shouldn't exist. Mechanical systems of measurement and advancement. Where magic should be fluid, suddenly it becomes... quantified. Numbered."

  "Like what Aldric was saying," Steve murmured. "About measuring devotion. Tracking spiritual growth."

  "Exactly." Hansel flipped to another page, trying to ignore how aware he was of Steve's proximity. "Look at this terminology—'experience points,' 'leveling up,' 'skill trees.' I've never seen magic described this way. At first I thought maybe it was just a different school of thought. Different frameworks. But the more I read..."

  "What do you think it is?"

  "I don't know." Hansel's finger traced a diagram showing interconnected progression paths. "Maybe some form of magic we don't understand. Or—" He hesitated. "There are stories about gods we've never heard of. Entities from outside our usual pantheon. What if this is one of them? What if Aldric isn't serving the Moon Goddess at all, but something else entirely?"

  Steve was quiet for a moment. Then his hand moved, fingertips brushing the edge of the page near Hansel's. "Here. What's this passage?"

  Hansel's breath caught. Steve's hand was so close to his now. "*The first sign of systemic intrusion is the appearance of quantifiable metrics where none existed before,*" Hansel read. "*The second is the believers' conviction that this represents divine favor rather than foreign contamination.*"

  "Foreign contamination," Steve repeated. "You think something is infecting the church?"

  "Maybe. Or maybe this is just how this particur god operates." Hansel forced himself to focus on the text, not on the heat of Steve's body behind him. "The book mentions something called 'Core'—like it's a name or a title. And there are references to this happening before. Multiple times. Like it's cyclical."

  Steve's hand shifted on the table, moving closer. Their fingers were almost touching now. "What happened the other times?"

  "It doesn't say. Just that there were 'previous iterations' and 'historical instances of systemic integration.'" Hansel turned another page, his hand trembling slightly. "But look at this warning: *The infected do not know they are infected. They experience euphoria, certainty, purpose. The system convinces them they are chosen.*"

  "Aldric," Steve said quietly. "When he was talking to me in the chapel—he was so convinced, Hansel. So certain this was a blessing."

  "That's what makes it dangerous." Hansel's thumb traced the edge of the page. "If it feels good, if it feels like everything you've been praying for, how do you recognize it as a threat?"

  Steve's finger finally touched his—just barely, just the slightest pressure. Hansel's entire body went rigid.

  "So what do we do?" Steve asked, his voice lower now.

  Hansel's heart was hammering. This was dangerous. Not the book, not the infestation—*this*. Steve standing behind him, touching him, ten years of history hanging between them like a live wire.

  "I think—" Hansel's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I think we need to go to that meeting. Thursday. See what Aldric is teaching. Who else is involved."

  "That could be dangerous."

  "Yesterday was dangerous."

  "Yesterday I watched you almost kill a man." Steve's hand moved, fully covering Hansel's now on the page. "I'm not criticizing. Just—I need to know you're thinking clearly about this."

  Hansel stared at their hands. Steve's fingers were longer than his, artist's hands. He should pull away. Should stand up, put distance between them. Instead he said, "I'm thinking clearly."

  "Are you?" Steve's other hand came to rest on Hansel's shoulder. "Because right now, I'm not sure either of us is thinking clearly about anything."

  Hansel's breath came faster. He could feel Steve's chest against his back now. Could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. "Steve—"

  "I'm sorry." But Steve didn't move away. "About ten years ago. About how I left things."

  "You didn't—" Hansel stopped. They both knew that was a lie. "You had every right to leave."

  "I didn't have the right to make you feel like it was your fault."

  Hansel closed his eyes. "I'm the one who—I shouldn't have said what I said. Shouldn't have—"

  "You were scared," Steve said quietly. "We both were. But Hansel—" His hand squeezed Hansel's shoulder. "I'm not scared anymore."

  The words hung between them. Hansel opened his eyes, staring down at the book without seeing it. "I'm still—this town, the church, my job—"

  "I know."

  "Everyone knows me here. Everyone has expectations—"

  "I know," Steve said again. "I'm not asking you to change anything. I'm just—" He paused. "I'm just telling you I'm not scared anymore. And if you wanted—if you ever—"

  Hansel turned his head slightly, just enough to look up at Steve's face. Steve was watching him with an expression that made Hansel's chest ache—careful hope mixed with something fiercer, something that had been banked for a decade but never quite gone out.

  "I missed you," Hansel whispered.

  Steve's thumb traced a small circle on his shoulder. "I missed you too."

  They stayed like that for a long moment—Steve behind him, hand on his shoulder, fingers tangled together on the page. The library was silent except for the ticking of the old clock on the wall.

  Then Steve moved. Slow, deliberate, giving Hansel every chance to pull away. His hand slid from Hansel's shoulder to his jaw, turning his face up. Hansel's heart was beating so hard he thought Steve must be able to hear it.

  "Tell me to stop," Steve breathed.

  Hansel couldn't. Couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare up at Steve's face as it came closer. And then Steve's lips were on his—soft, careful, questioning.

  For a second, panic flooded through him. *What if someone sees? What if someone comes in? What if—*

  But Steve's hand was gentle on his face, and his mouth was warm, and it had been ten years since Hansel had let himself want something this much. Ten years of pretending that night had never happened, that he'd never stood on Steve's doorstep and said things he couldn't take back, that he'd never watched Steve leave town and felt like something vital had been carved out of his chest.

  He kissed back.

  Steve made a small sound—surprise or relief or maybe both—and the kiss deepened. His fingers slid into Hansel's hair. Hansel's hand came up to grip Steve's wrist, anchoring himself.

  This was a mistake. This was dangerous. This was everything Hansel had spent years trying to avoid.

  This was also the only thing that felt real.

  When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Steve rested his forehead against Hansel's. "Are you sure?" he whispered. "Should we—"

  "Do you want to?" Hansel asked, his voice rough. He needed to know. Needed to hear it said clearly, no room for doubt. "Steve, I need to know if you actually want this. Want me. Because ten years ago—"

  "I've wanted you since we were seventeen," Steve interrupted. "I wanted you when I left. I wanted you when I was trying to convince myself I didn't. I wanted you through four years in another city dating other people and telling myself I was straight. And then I came back here and saw you again and—" He ughed shakily. "God, Hansel. It's always been you."

  Something cracked open in Hansel's chest. Something that had been sealed tight for too long. "We should—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "We should put the book away."

  Steve blinked. "What?"

  Hansel stood on unsteady legs, picked up the strange tome with its incomprehensible diagrams and numbers. His hands were shaking. He crossed to his desk, opened the bottom drawer where he kept the texts too valuable or strange for the main shelves, and locked it inside.

  When he turned around, Steve was watching him with an expression Hansel couldn't quite read.

  "Are you sure?" Steve asked again.

  Instead of answering, Hansel closed the distance between them and kissed him again—longer this time, deeper, pulling Steve close. Steve's arms came around him immediately, solid and warm and real.

  The library was quiet around them. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light snting through the windows. Somewhere outside, the church bell tolled the hour.

  *Thursday,* Hansel thought distantly. They had until Thursday to figure out what was happening to Aldric, to their church, to their town.

  But right now—right now he was going to let himself have this.

  He was going to let himself want.

  And tomorrow, they'd figure out how to stop an infestation.