An Old Sweet Story About Rebirth

Tyler was still rummaging through his empty pocket like it was some kind of magical pouch—like if he just kept searching, the key would appear. Like maybe it had been hiding this whole time, playing a trick on him.
It wasn’t.

Shane let out a sigh. Then, without a word, he grabbed Tyler’s wrist. “Come to my place. Shower first.”
Tyler reacted instinctively. “No, it’s fine—I’ll wait for the rain to stop and just call a locksmith—”
But Shane had already unlocked his door and tugged him in with zero ceremony.

Inside, Shane marched straight to the bathroom, turned on the water, and then disappeared into the bedroom. When he returned, he handed Tyler a change of clothes. “Brand new. Never worn.”
And before Tyler could object—before he could even blink—Shane nudged him firmly toward the bathroom and shut the door behind him.
The bathroom was warm. Too warm, almost. The heater had already been switched on, and the air was thick with the scent of steam and faint soap. Tyler stood there a few seconds in Shane’s slippers, arms full of unfamiliar fabric, unsure what to do with his body.

Eventually, he cracked open the door and peeked out. “You got soaked too…”
Shane was toweling off his hair in the hallway, shirtless.
The light overhead was too honest. Every contour of his chest, every line of muscle from shoulder to waist, was thrown into sharp relief.

Tyler’s gaze snagged on Shane’s torso, then awkwardly jumped up to his face. “You really are drenched. Do you want to shower first?”
He tried to sound casual. Offered a compromise. The bathroom was big. There was a separate shower stall. He could wait under the heater—really, it wasn’t a big deal—
But Shane just frowned, strode forward, and gently shoved him back into the bathroom with a quiet thud of the door.

Tyler stood there, stunned.
Why’d he look so… annoyed?
Weren’t they just talking about being friends? Helping each other out?
Tyler didn’t get it.

But he showered quickly, dried off, and changed into the oversized clothes Shane had left. The boxers were too big and hung awkwardly on his hips. The pajama top reached his thighs. The pant legs bunched around his ankles. He looked like a kid wearing his dad’s old T-shirt.
He straightened up the bathroom, then pushed open the door. “I’m done. You can go in.”
Shane looked up, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t dry your hair?”

Tyler fidgeted. “Not really used to it.”
Shane crossed the space in two strides, pulled out a plush towel, and dropped it over Tyler’s head. He rubbed it over his hair in brisk, circular motions, like scrubbing down a wet kitten. “Get used to it. You’ll get sick.”
Tyler hadn’t expected Shane to just start manhandling him. By the time he registered what was happening, it was already too late to dodge or argue.
He stood there in stunned silence, mumbling half-hearted protests. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it—I’ll blow-dry it myself. Just go shower, okay?”

But Shane wasn’t listening. He grabbed the hairdryer, plugged it in, and said evenly, “I don’t like anyone else in the bathroom when I shower. Even with the door shut.”
“I’ll blow it dry for you. Then I’ll go.”
With that, he turned on the dryer and started working through Tyler’s damp hair with steady, practiced hands.

The blast of warm air hit Tyler’s scalp, making him flinch.
It’s been so long…
The last time someone had done this for him, he’d been eleven. His mom had picked him up from school after a downpour. She’d fussed over him the whole way home, scolded him gently for not waiting under the awning, and then taken out the old blow dryer with the frayed cord.

Now, Tyler let his head hang low. Shoulders tucked in. Small, quiet. Like a little quail.
Shane’s fingers combed through his hair with surprising delicacy. Confident, sure.
Every now and then, his palm would graze Tyler’s ear. The contact was brief, featherlight. But each time it happened, something lit up under Tyler’s skin—an electric hum, a soft crackle down his spine. Like a current that made it hard to stay still.

It felt… strange.
But not bad.
In fact…

Maybe he didn’t want it to stop.
Soon, his hair was dry.
“All done,” Shane said, setting the dryer aside. “You can rest. Use the study or the guest room—whichever.”

“I already called the building ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) office. Locksmith’ll be here soon.”
Tyler bobbed his head quickly. “Okay. Go shower.”
Shane didn’t reply. Just unplugged the dryer and began coiling up the cord.

Tyler watched him, then blinked. A thought hit him out of nowhere.
He said he doesn’t like people in the bathroom while he showers… so that’s why he insisted on drying my hair first.
But… the hairdryer could’ve been taken outside. Right?

Unless it was some weird wall-mounted one?
Does his dryer only work in the bathroom or something?
—

Even though Shane had offered him a room to rest in, Tyler didn’t go anywhere.
He stayed in the living room, folded up small on the edge of the couch.
The space looked almost identical to his own apartment: same layout, same furniture. But where his place had clutter and life, Shane’s was spotless. No knick-knacks. No posters or comics on the shelves.

Just neat rows of books. Everything where it belonged.
Tyler sat there for a while, listening to the water run behind the bathroom door. Watching the drizzle outside the windows blur the city into soft gray.
His teeth found the edge of his thumbnail.

I forgot my keys like an idiot. Got soaked in the rain. Made Shane come all this way. Took his shower. Borrowed his clothes. Wasted his time.
And now he was just… sitting here. In the middle of his clean, perfect living room. Like some awkward houseguest who couldn’t figure out how to disappear.
I should… do something.

And then he remembered what Shane had said to him—more than once.
“I really like your art.”
“If you ever draw more stories, I want to see them.”
Tyler reached up, scratched at his head, still a little fluffy from the blow-dry.

Then he stood.
Tiptoed toward the study and nudged the door open.
It was the same layout as his own. Desk, shelf, lamp. But no stacks of manga. No sketchbooks.

Still, in the drawer where he always kept his supplies, he found them.
Brand-new pens. Crisp, untouched paper.
He glanced at Shane’s desk. His laptop was still open, documents on the screen, probably some work he’d had to stop for Tyler’s sake.

Tyler didn’t sit there.
Instead, he brought the supplies back to the coffee table in the living room, spread the paper out flat, and clicked the pen open.
 

****
By the time Shane stepped out of the shower, the sight that greeted him stopped him in the doorway.
Tyler was kneeling by the coffee table, completely absorbed in something he was drawing. The oversized pajamas hung off him like a curtain—collar too wide, sleeves draped halfway down his arms. And his neck, pale and slender, peeked out beneath the loose fabric, lit in full by the warm ceiling light.

That stretch of skin—delicate, quiet, almost translucent—caught the glow like fresh snow.
In another life…
Shane closed his eyes, shutting the thought down before it could bloom. He buried it. Buried the memory of that vulnerable throat, of the faint red marks left behind, one by one, like rose petals melting into winter frost.

He sealed it all away, tight.
Tyler hadn’t noticed him yet. But the second he heard the footstep, he startled upright. With a frantic motion, he slapped a blank sheet over whatever he’d been working on and turned, eyes wide, face pink.
“You—uh, you’re done?”

The way he looked just then, blinking like a caught goldfish, flushed and unsure—it made Shane's chest throb without warning.
He kept his expression even, made his voice easy. “What were you drawing?”
Tyler hesitated. Bit his lip.

Shane didn’t press. He just sat down on the couch beside him, leaning back, like he had all the time in the world.
Tyler glanced at him. Looked down. Took a breath.
“I didn’t really draw a full comic,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t think of a story.”

“But… since you’ve been helping me so much lately, I figured I’d draw you something else.”
He swallowed.
“Do you want to see it?”

Shane didn’t even try to hide his reaction. He straightened at once, eyes lighting up. “Of course. I want to see.”
Tyler’s hand hovered over the top sheet, reluctant to lift it. “It’s really simple…”
Then, slowly, he looked up and met Shane’s gaze.

There was nothing in Shane’s eyes but encouragement. Pure, warm, waiting. No judgment. No pressure.
Just… him.
Tyler’s heart thumped once. Then again.

He pulled the page back.
And Shane looked down.
There, on the paper, was a little cartoon character—a blue-green citrus fruit with stick-thin arms and legs, smiling brightly. Its round face was expressive, eyes sparkling with a hand-drawn gleam.

A greenish-orange.
A green orange.
His pupils dilated.

Memory hit like a wave.
—
In their previous life…

It had been five months since Lin Zhiyao had burst into his office shouting about “this ridiculously pretty kid” she’d met at a book signing.
She’d gone on for days—regretting not getting his number, saying he might’ve melted Shane’s famously stone-cold personality.
Shane had ignored her, as usual.

Then one day, she called again, voice loud even over the phone: “Shane! I found a little artist. He might be your soulmate. You have to check out his stuff. The ID is ‘LittleFishDraws’—he’s on Budsprout.”
Shane had rolled his eyes so hard it gave him a headache. “Didn’t you say last time your ‘fated person’ was someone you saw waiting at a bus stop?”
She laughed. “Yeah! Maybe they’re the same guy, who knows?”

Shane groaned. But later that night, while reading through a report on entertainment investments—one that just so happened to mention Budsprout—he opened the site.
And found him.
“LittleFishDraws.”

The comics were short. Simple. But something about them made Shane’s breath catch. A gentle melancholy, a quiet joy. It wasn’t just cute—it mattered. Like someone was whispering a secret through every line.
He followed the account.
Checked the page five times a day.

Even thought—insanely, briefly—about buying the entire platform, just to learn who this person was.
Don’t be that guy, his conscience had warned. You’re not one of those unhinged billionaires in a bad drama.
Still, he couldn’t help himself.

Then “LittleFishDraws” posted about a charity signing event. All proceeds for kids with heart conditions.
Shane cleared his schedule and showed up. Told himself it was “due diligence.” That he just wanted to understand the talent on the platform.
He spotted him instantly. Soft black hair, powder-blue shirt. Sitting cross-legged behind a table, smiling gently at every kid in line.

Shane’s world went bright and loud and too fast.
And when it was finally his turn, and that boy tilted his head and said sweetly, “What would you like me to write for your friend?”—Shane had almost forgotten how to speak.
He made up something on the spot. “His name’s… Shane. Like ‘green orange.’”

The boy had laughed, gentle and warm. “That’s such a cute nickname.”
And then, with quiet precision, he had drawn a tiny smiling fruit.
A green orange.

—
Now, in the present, Shane stared at the page in Tyler’s hands. His chest ached.
Tyler was watching him, nervous. “It’s kinda silly. If you don’t like it, I can—”

“I like it,” Shane said. The words left his mouth too fast.
He slowed down. Said it again.
“I like it.”

Tyler blinked. “...Oh.”
Shane met his eyes. Held them.
“I really like it.”

Tyler’s cheeks bloomed pink. “I’m glad. I didn’t really know what else to draw, but I thought… ‘green orange’ sounded kind of fun.”
Shane took the page in both hands and studied it like it was a rare print.
He looked up again, voice quiet, steady, reverent.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Thank you. This… this is a wonderful gift.”
I’ll treasure it.
Every time.
No matter which life we’re in.