On the Other Side of Hate
Kyle’s suitcase wheels click rhythmically down the hallway of the apartment building, the sound echoing off the walls. Traveling for work always left him drained, long flights, layovers, hotel rooms that all smell like the same industrial cleaner, the ache of sleeping alone, late nights at his desk, but tonight, the exhaustion felt worth it. He’d sped through the project so he could be back home a few days early. He can’t wait to surprise Stiles.
He imagined it, the key in the lock, the door swinging open, Stiles’ face going from confusion to pure joy. Stiles would laugh, maybe launch himself across the room, wrap himself around Kyle like he always did when he was excited. They’d probably order takeout or curl up on the couch or… honestly, Kyle didn't care. He just wanted to be with him. Wanted warmth instead of sterile white sheets. Wanted Stiles’ voice instead of conference calls. Wanted home instead of “temporary lodging.”
There’s a tiny flicker of guilt underneath all the anticipation. He’s been gone more this year than not. Every time he left, he promised Stiles it’s almost over, this project is almost done. But something else always came up, and he had to fly back out. He knew it wore on the relationship. That’s part of why this surprise mattered. It was proof he wanted to be present. Proof he still chose them.
Outside the apartment door, he paused, breathed in, smiled. He fumbles with his keys, hands clumsy with tired excitement. The lock clicks. He pushed the door open and dragged his suitcase inside.
He heard it immediately. Music, soft and familiar, the clink of dishes, soft voices, low laughter. Warm. Easy. He’s probably watching dumb videos online. Or maybe Scott came over, keeping him company. Or Lydia, she and Stiles gossiping in the kitchen over a bottle of wine.
He sets his suitcase by the wall, toeing off his shoes. He moved deeper into the apartment, smiling. He can already picture Stiles turning around, eyes wide.
He listened more closely. The laughter came again, deeper this time. Rougher. A quiet rumble he knows almost as well as his own voice.
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