CHAPTER EIGHT #3
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning,” Apollo said before running his thumb over Rocko’s swollen lips as if memorizing the moment and walking away.
Holy shit. What the hell happened? And when could they do it again?
Rocko didn’t feel as if this had anything to do with their calming effect on each other, but how could he be one hundred percent sure?
As he stepped into the trailer, Rocko’s head began buzzing with its usual manic energy and millions of bits of information he knew would be keeping him from resting.
He glanced at the kitchen table where he’d left a bottle of whiskey.
With a deep growl, he shoved off his boots and stormed to the shower.
A long, hot power wash was in order. Whiskey had become his go-to in order to silence or simply dull his brain, and he was growing tired of it.
All he had to do was get through tonight and then he’d have more time to think in the darkness of his room. Alone.
***
The following morning the storm hit the compound at sunrise, rolling over the mountains in a low growl that rattled the metal siding of the barn.
It had been a busy evening securing the place, all hands-on deck, and the rest of the team had already gone inside at Apollo’s urging.
Rocko had made a promise to be in within a few minutes, but he’d gotten busy.
He wanted no more shingles breaking loose and crashing down on anyone else.
He was halfway through securing the last loose plate—he was determined to get it fixed it before the storm fully hit when a blast of wind nearly knocked him off balance.
He swore loudly… only to hear someone swear even louder over the wind.
Apollo.
He strode out of the house like a force of nature himself —furious and stalking straight for Rocko. Rocko completed what he was doing and scrambled down the ladder only to be grabbed by the front of the jacket and hauled back under the partial shelter of the barn’s overhang.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Apollo bellowed. “You knew the storm was coming!”
“I also knew I had a few loose shingles still to secure and the roof might rip off if someone didn’t bolt it down,” Rocko shot back. “You’re welcome.”
“Welcome?” Apollo’s voice cracked with something that wasn’t quite anger. “I felt you disappear.”
Rocko froze. Wind howled past them, sending sheets of rain sideways. Rocko tried to pull away, but Apollo’s grip tightened, not painfully — desperately.
“You can’t do that,” Apollo said, voice lower now, rawer. “You can’t just… vanish from my senses like that. I thought—” He cut himself off.
Rocko stared, heartbeat thudding. “You thought what?”
“That I’d lost you.”
Silence slammed between them harder than the storm. Rocko swallowed. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him — not with that mix of fury and fear. Not with that edge of vulnerability Apollo tried so damn hard to hide.
The thunder cracked above them. Apollo flinched, jaw clenched. Rain slid down his face like cold sweat.
“You didn’t lose me,” Rocko said quietly. “I’m right here.”
Apollo’s hand was still fisted in Rocko’s jacket. His knuckles were white. His eyes — usually sharp, vigilant, scanning danger — were locked only on him.
“I can’t think straight when you disappear,” Apollo growled. “I can’t feel anything but—”
“Fear?” Rocko offered.
Apollo’s nostrils flared. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny it.
Rocko stepped closer, the wind shoving at his back. Apollo didn’t move. Didn’t back up. Didn’t break eye contact. The world shook around them, but this — this strange, impossible connection — stayed solid.
“You scare me,” Rocko admitted.
Apollo blinked, taken aback. “I scare you?”
“Yeah.” Rocko let out a shaky laugh. “Because you’re… huge and intense and terrifying, sure. But also because you look at me like I matter. Like what happens to me affects you. Nobody’s ever done that.”
Apollo didn’t breathe for several seconds. Then, barely audible beneath the storm, “You do matter.”
Lightning lit them both up for a second — Apollo’s expression etched in stark lines of concern, anger, and something else neither man dared name.
Rocko stepped closer. Apollo didn’t step back.
“I’m fine,” Rocko said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
A muscle jumped in Apollo’s jaw. His hand finally loosened, sliding down from Rocko’s jacket—but instead of dropping away, his fingers curled, hesitating, then settled on Rocko’s chest. Right over his pounding heart.
Rocko’s breath hitched.
“Apollo…” he murmured.
“I need you to stay alive,” Apollo said. Not a request. Not quite an order. Something in between. “Not for the mission. Not for the team.”
Silence.
Then softly, so softly for a man made of steel and fury, “For me.”
Rocko’s throat tightened. “Then you’re in luck, big guy. Because I’m planning on staying right here.”
Another crack of thunder—but neither moved.
They were close enough now that Rocko could feel Apollo’s heat, even through the chill of the storm. Close enough that if one of them leaned in just an inch…
But neither did.
Not yet.
Instead, Apollo exhaled a breath he’d been holding for too long and tugged Rocko forward — not in anger, not in panic, but in a grounding gesture. Rocko stepped into it willingly. Their foreheads touched for half a second—brief, accidental, electric.
Both froze.
The storm raged around them, but that moment… it was quiet. Careful. Charged.
Apollo pulled back first, but only barely. His voice was hoarse.
“Get inside before you actually disappear again.”
Rocko smirked. “Only if you’re coming with me.”
Apollo snorted, shaking his head—but the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Like I’m letting you out of my sight.”
As they walked back toward the main house through the rain, side by side, the space between them felt different.
Closer.
Warmer.
Dangerous in a whole new way.
And for both men—neither willing to say it out loud yet—something had shifted.
Something that wasn’t going away.