Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

✦ ─── ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ⌕ 𓂃  𓈒 ༉‧₊˚ ─── ✦
⸝⸝ 𓏲 𓂃 𝑳𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔… 🍸 ⊹ ˚✦
⭑ 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔… 𓆩⟡𓆪 ☽
✦ ─── ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𓍢🍷 ˚⊹ 𓈒 ۫ ︶︶︶︶︶︶
┈┈ ⋆ 𓂃 [ 🎻 ] 𓂃 ⋆ ┈┈

The steam still clung to the bathroom tiles when I stepped out of the shower, wrapping around me with that scent of neutral soap and warm humidity that always brought me comfort in the mornings. But I couldn’t afford calm. The clock on the wall, with its insistent ticking, reminded me that time was slipping through my fingers.
I walked over to the small coat rack beside the bed, where the few clothes I had carefully picked out the night before were hanging. I didn’t have many options, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about how I looked. I slipped on a clean, fitted white tank top that subtly outlined my shoulders and the tattoo peeking just above my chest. Over it, a loose, earth-toned linen shirt, neatly pressed, gave me that balance between casual and polished. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows, intentionally revealing the geometric design running down my forearm like some sort of secret map. The dark pants were wrinkle-free and slightly tailored, and the shoes—though old—were polished to a shine. It wasn’t vanity, it was necessity. My image was one of the few things I could still control.

Before leaving, I ran my fingers through my wet hair, shaping it with a bit of cheap but effective wax. I looked at myself in the mirror and prayed—not like someone who believes fervently, but like someone begging for a little mercy. I only wished for one thing: that guy wouldn’t be there today. Him. Ray.

Ray was the kind of person who became an invisible weight in the air. You felt him before you saw him. You knew something was about to boil over the moment he stepped into the bar where I worked. His presence made every part of me tense, my back straighten in automatic alert, my hands stay ready for any kind of intervention. Ray was the main reason my job had become a war zone disguised as a bar with glasses and fake laughter. Ever since he started showing up, the owner demanded more vigilance, more control, fewer mistakes. My patience, which was never abundant, was slowly crumbling.

And yet, for some reason I couldn’t fully admit, I watched him. I kept an eye on him even when I didn’t need to, even when he wasn’t doing anything. I looked for him in the crowd, noticed his usual table, the way his gaze always seemed lost, like he too was trapped in his own storm. It was pathetic, maybe, but I couldn’t help it. Who could ignore a fire once they’ve learned to live on the edge of the blaze?

The past few days had been a mess. Ray had gotten into more than one fight with guys who, honestly, didn’t seem to have all their screws in place. Shady men—the kind that reek of trouble from a distance. And there I was, stepping in again and again, pushing, separating, trying to ease the tension before it burst into violence. It wasn’t my job, but no one else did it. My relationship with Ray was a series of clashes, confrontations, and strange moments where the line between anger and something deeper began to blur. Me, someone so averse to drama, found myself unwillingly too close to chaos.

A sharp chime snapped me out of my thoughts, like a sonic whip slicing through the silence. I scoffed in annoyance, adjusting my shirt before reaching for my bottle of sunscreen. I could live in a tiny room, could be drowning in debt, but I never neglected my skin. A small luxury that reminded me I still had some control over my life. The room —if it could even be called that— was barely a space boxed in by four soulless walls. A single bed, a scrawny desk, a flickering lamp, and a tiny window that barely let the light in. Honestly, I don't need space for anything else.

I walked toward the door with that knot in my stomach you get when you sense bad news is coming. And I wasn’t wrong. As soon as I opened the door, the familiar face of the building manager appeared like an unwanted shadow. He was holding the usual papers in his hand, wearing an expression I knew all too well: demanding, tired, devoid of empathy.

“Hey, William…” I began, placing my hands on my hips as if my posture could convince him. “I swear I’ll pay the rent, just… give me a bit more time.”

“Kant, I need the rent today,” he replied sharply, in that voice that offered no alternatives—like he already knew he was about to hear excuses and wasn’t in the mood to tolerate them. I sighed. The weight of his words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Reality was pressing down on me from every side: work, an annoying rich boy (ray), the apartment, life, etc. There was no relief, and I didn’t know how much more I could take before I shattered.

I could pretend to be surprised, could act like I hadn’t seen it coming, but I wasn’t in the mood for cheap theater or improvised speeches to disguise the inevitable. The department manager standing in front of me was as predictable as a storm looming on the horizon—you can feel it in the air long before the first drop falls. I clenched my jaw tightly, holding back the urge to let out a sigh that would reveal all the weariness inside me, and simply said in a low but firm voice, laced with barely contained sarcasm:

“Right. I need emotional and financial stability too… and maybe a few breaks from work while we’re at it. But life isn’t always fair, is it?”

I didn’t smile. There was no room for smiles in that conversation. And neither did he. He stood there, motionless, arms hanging by his sides and wearing that same expression—cold, detached. I knew he wouldn’t budge. I knew it from the moment I saw him walk down the hall.

“It’s been almost a month, Kant,” he said in that tone people use when they think they’re being reasonable, when in truth, they’re just repeating a sentence. He said it like I didn’t already know. Like I didn’t go to bed every night with that number drilling itself into my brain. I looked at him for a moment, pressed my lips together, and decided to stay calm. Arguing wouldn’t help.

“Alright…” I murmured, lowering my gaze slightly. “But I don’t have a time machine to rewind the clock and pay you back in advance.”

He crossed his arms—unyielding. That posture told me everything: the decision was made. He was only there out of protocol, not compassion. I glanced around, maybe hoping to find some invisible exit or at least a reason not to lose my mind. But what I saw didn’t help. The walls, chipped at the corners, seemed to whisper everything I didn’t want to admit. The cracked ceiling, the worn carpet, the old furniture that came with the apartment and had long forgotten what comfort meant. Still, that small space was everything to me.

It was a modest room—too modest—but it was mine. A single bed shoved against the wall, a tiny two-burner stove where I could barely fit a pan, a bathroom with a mirror cracked like a scar, and a desk I’d salvaged from a garage sale. Everything in that place was borrowed from time, half-broken, surviving. But it was the only place I could come back to after a draining shift. The only place where I could sit, even for a few minutes, and believe that I still had some control.

And more importantly: I needed that place for him… for Babe. I had to pay for his school. He was about to start college—it was his dream, his path. I couldn’t let it all fall apart now. He didn’t deserve that. I could handle the burnout, the hopelessness. But not him. He deserved a chance. Just one.

“Just… give me a few business days. I promise I’ll pay you,” I said at last, appealing to whatever shred of humanity he might have left.

But he didn’t even let me finish. He cut me off with a dry “no” and a wave of his hand that felt like a death sentence. He informed me—with the efficiency of a soulless judge—that I had two days to vacate the place. Not a day more. Then, without another word, he shut the door firmly. The thud of the wood echoed in my ears like a final toll.

And in that cruel and perfect moment, I knew.

I was done.

Not just because of the eviction threat, but because of everything piling up: the exhaustion, the weight of responsibility, the endless fight against a system that always demanded more than I could give. I leaned against the closed door, felt the cold wood on my back, and slowly lowered my gaze to the floor. A knot formed in my throat, thick, so full of helplessness that even breathing hurt. But I couldn’t break down. Not yet.
I took a deep breath, knowing that today—like so many others—I’d have to walk out into the world with my head held high. Pretend everything was fine. That everything was still under control. Yep, everything is VERY good, yes of course. 

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𓆩 🍸 𓆪 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
⟡ 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 8:30 𝑷𝑴 ⋆｡˚ ☾
❝ the glass overflows, but the soul is empty… ❞
╰── ⋆⭑✧･ﾟ┊ ☽ ☁︎ ❝ ❞ ☾ ⋆｡˚   

My shift had begun, as always, under the unmistakable glow of neon lights that made the place feel somewhere between overwhelming and comforting. YOLO had that vibrant personality that made it unique in the city; the walls reflected shades of pink, red, and green that blended with the artificial smoke and the constant murmur of the first voices of the night. Every corner of the venue seemed to pulse with its own life, as if it breathed to the rhythm of the music that, though still low, already slid through the speakers hidden between the columns of the place.

Like every night, I was the first to turn on the stage lights. It was a quiet but meaningful routine—almost a ritual. YOLO wasn’t just my workplace: it was a parallel world where I could hide from the chaos of my real life. Here, among drinks, strangers' laughter, and artificial lights, I could forget—if only for a few hours—that I was getting kicked out of my apartment, or that Babe needed to enroll in college.

That night, Yo was in charge of organizing the game round, a nightly activity we did to get the customers to loosen up, mingle with strangers, and with some luck, go home with less emotional baggage and more alcohol in their bloodstream. As I set out the chips and cards on the round table we used for the games, I saw her, always so enthusiastic, her energy clashing beautifully with my melancholic calm. She greeted me with a wave, her smile as wide as a sunrise, and I simply nodded with a slight curve of my lips—a smile more polite than joyful—while my eyes drifted toward the scene she starred in with her eternal boyfriend, Plug.

They were arguing, as always, as if fighting were their love language. She insisted on playing a drinking game—a classic and infallible way to liven things up—but he preferred something bolder, like the ever-present "Truth or Dare." I watched from my spot with a mix of amusement and resignation, not intervening, while she gestured animatedly and he followed her with that mischievous grin he always wore when he knew he was winning. As for me, I went back to my duties, rearranging the glasses and wiping the counter with a still-damp cloth.

Before heading back to the bar, I took a few minutes to stop by the workers' bathroom—the one reserved just for us. A space as small as it was necessary, which by now felt more intimate than my own room. I looked at myself in the mirror with a kind of indifference and began to dress for the role I had to play that night. I put on the crisp white shirt, neatly ironed; I made sure to roll up the sleeves to my elbows so my tattoos would show—one of the few personal details I liked revealing. Then came the black vest with suspenders, the matching fitted trousers, and lastly, the tie. I tied the knot with the precision only habit can bring, watching myself closely. I couldn’t afford to look sloppy. Not at YOLO. Not in my escape.

And then it began. The night came alive with its usual momentum. The doors opened, and people started to flood in like a lively tide: chaotic laughter, heels striking the floor with confidence, shiny jackets, eyes searching to forget something. Some arrived in groups, others in pairs, and the boldest—or loneliest—sat right at the bar, as if they were looking for a story served in a glass.

I took my place behind the bar—my personal stage. I got ready for the usual: the basic orders, the same requests repeated over and over by unimaginative men who thought a double whiskey could solve their lives, or at least make the night go by a little easier. The glasses clinked, ice slid with that crystalline sound that becomes a melody to those who work among bottles. My mind drifted through fleeting thoughts—bills, rent, Babe—until a peculiar voice sliced through the crowd like lightning in the middle of the noise.

"hey boy! Give me the strongest drink you’ve got because I’ve got amazing news for you!"

It was Style.

Style, with his overflowing charisma, his smile always a little too big for his face, and that contagious energy that was sometimes downright exhausting. I looked at him with one eyebrow slightly raised, just like I always did when he showed up unannounced, dragging chaos behind him. Leaning over the bar, he stared at me with that spark in his eyes that signaled something was definitely about to happen. I wasn’t sure if I should be excited or start preparing to run.

"The strongest, huh?" I murmured, already heading to the station where I kept my more refined liquors.
I wasn’t about to hand him just anything. If Style asked for strength, I’d give him elegance. I skillfully prepared a Death in the Afternoon, a dangerously seductive mix of absinthe and champagne that didn’t go easy on the inexperienced. I poured each ingredient with the delicacy of an artist—with the kind of care only someone who truly respects their craft would have.

When I handed it to him, I looked at him with a touch of satisfaction, knowing I was about to serve him a reality check in liquid form. Style took the glass without hesitation, and with all the reckless enthusiasm in the world, took a long, bold sip. His face changed in seconds. His eyes narrowed, his eyebrows arched, and that confident smile he always wore melted into a grimace of surprise and revulsion. He coughed a little, closed his eyes, and muttered through stifled laughter:

“Damn, Kant! Are you trying to kill me or make me fly?”

"You asked for strong," I said with a restrained smile as I polished a glass with a cloth.
And then, between the laughter and the burn of the alcohol, Style leaned toward me, lowering his voice but keeping that spark alive.

"You can’t handle a gentle sip anymore, my friend," I said with a crooked grin, giving him the kind of teasing reserved only for real friends.

I leaned my elbows on the bar, letting the weight of my body settle there as I watched him try to form words. His face was a blend of surprise, defeat, and just a touch of theatrical drama that came so naturally to him. Always over-the-top. Always wanting to leave a mark. His eyes, usually full of life, now looked a little glassy, and his lips moved with little coordination.

“Water… I need… water,” he whispered hoarsely, as if the absinthe had dried out not just his throat but his very soul.

I couldn’t help but let out a short, dry, but genuine laugh. My voice got lost in the music, which had already picked up, and in the overlapping chatter of the customers who were finally loosening up after their first drinks.
"And here I thought you were an expert in ‘intense experiences,’" I said in a playfully mocking tone as I turned to grab a cold bottle of water we kept exactly for moments like this. I pulled it out from the compartment beneath the bar and handed it to him with a triumphant gesture, still smiling.

Style took it as if I were offering him the Holy Grail. He ripped off the cap and drank desperately, letting out a loud sigh of relief after the first few gulps. He closed his eyes like the water was bringing him back to life.
“Bless you,” he said, voice steadier now, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Shit, man,” Style added, his voice still slightly slurred from the punch of the previous drink. “That was no light drink… but never mind that, listen to me. As soon as your shift ends, go straight to his house. Everything’s ready. I got you a meeting with a new roommate. And, Kant, you have to see that place... it's huge. Modern. Clean. And also…”

His words sped up with each syllable, his overwhelming excitement bordering on childish. And while part of me couldn’t help but catch a bit of his energy, another part—more tired, more clear-headed—was already starting to suspect there were strings attached to this story. I frowned, cutting him off without ceremony.
“You did what? Wait—” I narrowed my mouth even more. “Did you read my messages?”

I knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. Yes, I had written to him. In the middle of my desperation the night before, tossing and turning in that tiny room that was about to stop being mine, I had asked for help. But I did it half-hoping he wouldn't read them. Hoping he’d spare me the humiliation. I hadn’t wanted to bother him—especially not him, or his father, who had already given me a roof once.

“Of course I read them,” he replied with that shamelessness so typical of him, shrugging like it was no big deal. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that the guy at this house is looking for a roommate. And he owns the place, so no middlemen. You only pay what he decides. The app said all you have to cover is food, drinks, and the internet. That’s it.”

His smile widened, just like the excitement in his voice. He sounded like someone announcing you’d just won a trip to Bora Bora. But I… I couldn’t help frowning, still not entirely convinced. Part of me wanted to believe him. I wanted to grab his hand, thank him, hug him if I had to, and tell him this was a miracle. Because it was: a big house, no fixed rent, only splitting minor costs… it meant I could still send Babe what he needed for college. It meant I wouldn’t have to abandon everything just because I didn’t have a roof over my head. It was, on the surface, the perfect solution.

And that was exactly why I doubted it.

“Style…” I began, rubbing a hand over my temple. “This sounds like a scam. It has to be. Who in their right mind looks for a roommate and charges almost nothing? Just food and internet? No one, friend. No one does that. Not without a reason. He’s probably some weirdo. Or worse… dangerous. What if he’s one of those guys who keeps bones under the mattress?”

My voice dropped, dragged down by suspicion. I let myself sink behind the bar again, eyes settling on the empty glass in front of him with resignation. Style watched me, head tilted, clearly torn between his bubbling excitement and my creeping doubts. He was just about to reply when a sharp sound broke the moment.
It came like a blow. A murmur turned shout. A raspy, irritated voice coming from the back of the bar. An echo I knew way too well.

Ray.

I turned almost instantly toward the hallway that led to the staff bathrooms. I could hear him more clearly now, arguing with someone. Again. That uneasy feeling returned to the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t my responsibility. It shouldn’t matter to me. But…

Why did he always do this?

I sighed in frustration, ran a hand through my hair, and stepped out from behind the bar without saying a word. I walked briskly down the hallway, feeling the music’s vibration in the floor, the neon lights flickering above my head. When I pushed open the bathroom door, the scene unfolded like some cheap tragicomedy. Ray. Half-wearing his jacket, brow furrowed like the world owed him something, standing with the posture of someone who had no intention of backing down. In front of him, an older man in a ripped t-shirt, holding a roll of toilet paper like they were fighting over the last piece of gold in the universe.

“I told you I was using it!” the man roared—a chubby guy in his fifties, shirt unbuttoned down to his navel and his face red like a broken traffic light.

“And I told you it’s for everyone, you sick old man!” Ray shot back, raising his voice like he was in a courtroom instead of a bar bathroom where the cheap air freshener struggled to mask the stench of cigarettes, liquor, and sweat.

I froze as I crossed the threshold, the echo of the music still buzzing at my back, and blinked a couple of times. For a moment, I thought my brain had made it all up: Ray, jacket slipping off one shoulder, clutching a roll of toilet paper like a weapon, and the other guy standing with his hands on his hips, like a fed-up mother on the verge of a breakdown. I held back a laugh. Not because it wasn’t funny, but because I knew Ray well enough to know that any attempt at humor would only egg him on.

“This is what you’re making a scene about?” I asked finally, crossing my arms as I stepped forward. “Toilet paper? Seriously?”

Ray turned his head toward me, slightly startled. I saw it—that fleeting flicker of relief in his eyes the moment he saw me. Like, despite all his front, he’d hoped I’d show up. But, as always, he buried it under a practiced layer of arrogance.

“This guy started it,” he said in an accusatory tone, pointing at the man like he’d committed a federal crime.
“Me? You barged into the stall while I was still in there! You stole the damn roll while I was pulling up my pants!” the man barked, taking a step toward Ray. 

Ray stepped back slightly, but not out of fear—more like to gain a better verbal attack angle.
“You can’t hoard toilet paper like it’s the goddamn apocalypse! This is a public restroom, not your private throne, you two-bit Nostradamus!”

I brought a hand to my face, massaging the bridge of my nose with resignation.
“Sir, please…” I cut in, my voice calm. “Would you mind giving us a moment? I promise I’ll sort this out without any more medieval battles.”

The man snorted like a bull, shot me a disbelieving look, and finally gathered what was left of his dignity, muttering something under his breath like, “I don’t even argue about this crap in my own house.” He walked out, leaving behind an awkward silence and the unmistakable sound of his grumbling as he disappeared down the hall. Once we were alone, I gently closed the door, turned around slowly, and locked eyes with Ray. He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, jaw clenched, his gaze darting away from mine like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What the hell was that?” I asked—not angrily, but with that worn-out patience of someone who’s lost count of how many times they’ve said the same thing.

“He was hoarding the damn paper,” he muttered. “Did you know he’s been in there for like half an hour? And it’s not even the first time. Every night, same guy, same stall, and he always leaves with the roll. That bathroom’s for everyone!”

I looked at him. For a moment, I just looked. His words didn’t sound entirely rational, but there was a strange logic buried in his indignation. Like, in his world, these small injustices were the only things he could control. The only battles he could fight without falling apart.

“Ray, you can’t make a scene over that.” I leaned against the sink, right in front of him.

“You can’t pick fights over toilet paper like it’s a matter of life and death.” He lifted his head and held my gaze.

“It wasn’t just about the paper, alright?”

His voice hit the silence of the bathroom like a sharp blow. He wasn’t yelling anymore, wasn’t throwing sarcasm around like shields. It was barely a tense whisper, loaded with something thicker than anger. Pain, maybe. Loneliness, probably.

“So?” I asked, not raising my voice, not dressing it up. I just offered it to him like a bridge.

Ray shrugged—a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but charged with a vulnerability he rarely let slip. His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been dragging the weight of an invisible backpack for days.

“That’s it,” he finally muttered. “The music sucks. People think they’re funny when they’re drunk. The air feels thick and sticky like wet cloth. You look at me like I’m a walking problem…”

“Because you act like one, Ray.” My words weren’t harsh. There was no venom in them, not a trace of cruelty. They were simple, honest—like opening a window in a stuffy room and letting the air rush in, no matter what it carries with it. I didn’t say it to hurt him. I said it because it was true, and he knew it.

Ray turned his face toward me and locked eyes. It was a hard look to hold. There was fury, yes, but underneath it, deep down, there was something fragile and sad—like a lost child in the middle of a crowded supermarket full of strangers.

“So what? Does that bother you?” he asked, with a crooked smile that looked more like a wound than an expression.

“Does it bother you to have to come rescue me every time?”

“Yes. It bothers me.”

I didn’t think about it. I didn’t plan it. I just said it—raw, unfiltered, no soft edges.

“I don’t know why you do it. Every time you pull some dumb stunt like this, every time you start a pointless fight or make a scene over nothing… it feels like you’re waiting for someone to stop you. For someone to actually see you and tell you to cut it out before you destroy yourself completely.”

The silence that followed was so dense I could almost hear it breathing between us. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like a mosquito in my ear. Outside, the music kept pounding, completely unaware of the universe contained within those four walls—where the world had suddenly become small, intimate… human.
Ray lowered his gaze. The roll of toilet paper still hung from his hand like a useless relic. He gripped it tightly, unconsciously, like it was a lifeline in the middle of a shipwreck.

“Sometimes I just…” He swallowed hard. “I just want someone to listen. That’s all.”

His voice cracked at the end. Just a flicker, a tremble—but it cut deep. Because it was the first time he said it out loud. The first time he dropped the shield, didn’t use jokes or insults to cover up the wound.
I stepped closer. Not to hug him. Not to touch him. Just to be near.

Sometimes, all someone needs is for you not to leave when the silence gets unbearable.
“I’m always here. But don’t make me come looking for you in the middle of shouting matches and stupid fights over toilet paper. Don’t hide behind that.”

Ray stood frozen for a few seconds. The silence was thick, sharp, like all the air in the bathroom had been sucked out at once. His shoulders barely moved with restrained breath and, when he finally looked up, the familiar shadow in his eyes came back stronger than ever. It was like watching someone regret, in real time, ever being vulnerable—even for a second. His hardened face became a mask again, the perfect shield against everything that hurt.

“So what now? You want a round of applause for coming to rescue the poor idiot again?” he snapped suddenly, his voice sharp as a blade, taking a quick, aggressive step toward me. His words weren’t a question—they were a sentence. An accusation soaked in years of poorly digested rage.

“Ray, I think we can talk about this like two grown men…” I started, raising my hands slightly in a calming gesture, but I didn’t get to finish. He cut me off with a contained explosion that had no brakes left. He straightened up, defiant, like every muscle in his body was preparing for a fight he didn’t even want to win. His eyes, glistening on the verge of tears, turned into a stormy sea where anger and sadness clashed with no mercy.

“You think this is some kind of fucking joke? You always thought that about me, didn’t you? You’re not some hero, Kant! You came to save me? Is that what you tell yourself at night to help you sleep? Because you’re not. In case you forgot, I can defend myself,” he threw out—but his voice cracked at the end, a small stumble he tried to cover with a bitter, distorted laugh, like a broken chuckle that burned on the way out. Then, without warning, his tone shifted. Something darker slipped into his words, like he’d decided the only way to hurt me was to go after what was raw, what was private.

“Come on, admit it…” he whispered, stepping even closer. “You want me. And you know it. Isn’t that what this is really about? Haven’t you thought about fucking me since the first time you saw me? You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

I pushed him—hard. Not out of violence, but out of self-defense. Not just physically, but emotionally. I turned around immediately, heart pounding in fury but my mind sharp. I wasn’t going to play that game. I wasn’t stepping into the space where he hurt himself and dragged everyone down with him. I was twenty-nine, covered in scars and running low on patience to feed the self-destructive rage of someone who didn’t know how to love without wounding.

“Do whatever you want, Ray. Think whatever the hell you want. I don’t care what you believe,” I said coldly, walking toward the door without looking back. “Keep ruining your life if that’s what you want.”

But before I could reach the doorknob, I felt his hand clamp hard around my wrist. He pulled me back with more strength than I thought he still had and yanked me toward him, gripping my waist like his life depended on the contact. His eyes were a whirlwind.

“You think I don’t know you go home with other guys every night?” he spat, and his voice was now a mix of jealousy, rage, and desperation. “Is that it? Are you trying to make me jealous? Trying to show me I don’t matter to you? That much is obvious…”

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” I murmured, exhausted. My gaze hardened, but the fire he was looking for wasn’t there. Just ashes. I couldn’t keep up with this anymore. 

I pulled away again—this time without force, without energy to argue. I looked at him, completely lost in his internal storm, and I knew that nothing I said would change the fact that he needed help I couldn’t give him.
“I have a bar to run,” I said, without raising my voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m walking away from this childish fight. And you should stop acting like a spoiled brat. No one’s coming to save you if you keep this up.”
I took a step toward the door. Then another. I wasn’t going to look back.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite!” Ray screamed, his fury tearing through his throat. His voice ricocheted off the bathroom walls like a gunshot, leaving a bitter vibration hanging in the air.

But I didn’t stop.

Falling into the games of a spoiled child was never my thing. Never had been. No matter how many times Ray tried to pull me onto his emotional rollercoaster, I wasn’t going to keep feeding into that cycle. He had a way of showing his vulnerability that wasn’t healthy, or clear, or fair. He took it out on others, flung his pain like stones at whoever stood nearby, and then expected someone to pick him up off the floor, hold him, and tell him it was all okay.

But it wasn’t okay. It never had been.

And I was done pretending it was.

It wasn’t like he had a safety net to catch him. Cheum, Mew, Boston… none of them were truly his friends—at least not in the way someone like Ray needed. They cared about him, yes, in their own ways—sometimes with affection, sometimes with impatience—but they weren’t the people he needed. Ray wasn’t looking for party buddies or disaster accomplices; he was searching for someone who could see past his self-destructive impulses, who wouldn’t flinch when he screamed, who wouldn’t walk away when he became unbearable. And maybe, in some twisted corner of his mind, he believed I was that person. That I could handle everything. But I couldn’t. Not anymore.

There were moments—like this one—when I wondered if I’d ever stop caring. If the day would come when I wouldn’t give a damn where he was, who he was with, or what he had done. Maybe it would. Maybe time would sand down the sharp edges of his presence in my life and leave only a blurry shadow that no longer hurt. Maybe that day would come—but not today. Today, however, I could draw a line. And this was the line. This bathroom, this moment, this ridiculous fight born of wounded pride and poorly channeled desire. 
Ray was just a boy who didn’t understand the limits of reality, who thought himself immortal as he ran toward the edge with a broken smile on his lips. And I… I was the one who always ran after him, hoping to reach him before he fell completely. But I was tired. I was done playing the savior in a story that wasn’t mine. I knew it. I knew it with a painful clarity: in a few days maybe even tomorrow I’d get another call, another message, a silent plea hidden behind yet another catastrophe. And with a kind of learned resignation, I’d go looking for him again. Because Ray didn’t know how to stop. Because he didn’t want to.

But in this moment, while his shouting still echoed behind me and I walked away without looking back, something inside me was fading. A dim light, a spark of hope that whispered maybe… Maybe he could change, maybe he wanted to. That voice now barely murmured. Because no matter how many times I tried, he was still that damn spoiled boy with childish thoughts, with a rage he wore like armor and a heart so shattered even he couldn’t bear it.

And I didn’t want to be the adult picking up the pieces anymore. 

☁️𓈒⩩₊˚̣ ❛ 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇 ❜ ⋆｡˚ ⏳ 𓂂
꒰ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒 ꒱
𓍯˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ ✧ 𓈊 ⌕ ✦ 𓂃 𖥔 ˚｡⋆

Style insisted with a stubbornness I didn’t know he had. Day after day, with messages, calls, even absurd little hints on social media, until I finally understood he wasn’t going to leave me alone unless I agreed. And I gave in. Sometimes we give in more out of exhaustion than conviction, and this was one of those times. I agreed to go see that house, even though from the very first moment I knew—or rather felt—that something was off. It wasn’t just distrust; it was that kind of discomfort that clings to your back like cold sweat, the kind you feel just before something in your life changes—for better or for worse. I was certain it was a scam, a grand scam dressed up as an opportunity, a fresh start, a “sign from the universe.” I knew Style’s games, his pathological optimism, his habit of seeing light where there was only cheap neon. And still, I got in the car.
It wasn’t really my car, not truly. It was the one my parents left me. A pristine, bright white car, like a frozen sigh. They gave it to me just before they died. And ever since, every time I sat in the driver’s seat, I did it with my heart clenched tight. The steering wheel was more than a tool: it was a reminder, a symbol, a rolling tomb with luxury wheels.

I drove there with that knot pulled tight in my chest. When I arrived, the first thing I saw was the building—modern, tall, so spotless it looked like an architect’s model, a promise of stability and success. I got out of the car with no expectations, just the weight of my own assumptions hanging from my shoulders. The apartment was on the second floor, unit 204. From outside, it was already obvious the place was luxurious—too luxurious for someone like me, used to the elegant precariousness of middle-tier neighborhoods. The building had a spacious lobby, almost absurd, with golden details that looked like they were stolen from a modern fairytale. Everything was shiny, cold, and perfect. I felt small, out of place, like a mistake in the equation.
I thought of Style and his crazy ideas, how quickly he trusted people he barely knew, how much he idealized what I, frankly, feared.

I decided not to take the elevator. I took the stairs instead maybe to buy some time, to think of what I’d say if this turned out to be some cruel joke. As I climbed, the silence of the building wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. No sounds, no voices, no music. Just my footsteps and the echo of my own breathing. Each step was one more toward the unknown.

When I reached the second floor, I looked down the hallway. The doors were perfectly aligned, golden numbers gleaming under the soft white ceiling lights. Number 204 was on my right. A door so flawless it looked like a movie prop. So pristine, so absurdly beautiful, that it felt like something on the other side was mocking me. I stood in front of it for a few seconds, not yet daring to knock. I thought about everything the drive, my doubts, my parents, what I’d left behind. And in the end, I knocked. Almost on impulse. No resentment, no fear—just the resignation of someone who’s already lost everything.

No answer.

For a second, I felt my suspicions were confirmed. A scam, of course. What else? I crossed my arms, furrowed my brow, and knocked again, this time with a bit more firmness.

That’s when I heard it.

A voice.

A voice that seeped through the door with a tone far too familiar. I froze. The air grew heavier. Why did that voice make my skin crawl? Why did that sound pull me so far back in time? My heart started to race, but my body didn’t move.

It couldn’t be.

It shouldn’t be.

And then, in less than a second, the door opened.

And the world—at least mine—stopped.

There he was.

Ray.

My brain took a second too long to process it. My eyes recognized him before my mind could accept it. That face... no, that damn face. The messy hair, the insolent, crooked smile like he was just about to throw out a provocation, that mocking expression he always wore when he knew he was about to ruin someone’s night. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. But it was. Ray. Ray Pakorn. The guy I inevitably ended up arguing with every Friday at the bar. The one who always got into trouble with half the city and, for some reason not even God could explain, I was the one who ended up dragging him out before someone kicked him out themselves. That Ray. The guy who doesn’t know when to shut up, who doesn’t understand boundaries, who makes you want to smash your empty glass over his head—and yet, somehow, has such a cynical way of smiling that it completely disarms you. He was there, standing in front of me like it was the most normal thing in the world.

My stomach tightened. Was this going to be my roommate? The same guy I once shouted at, calling him “a walking storm”? Was I really going to have to see him every damn morning drinking his coffee with that “I don’t give a fuck” smile?

This couldn’t be happening.

And yet, there he was.

With that same smile that always announces chaos.

“Ray?” I murmured, feeling the ground tremble beneath my feet, even if I was the only one who could feel it.

Chapter Text

｡˚❀༘⋆ 🎵⌇ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒚 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆… ⌇༉  

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ⟡ ─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─  

🥀⋆⁺₊ ☁️ 𝑨 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒊𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆… 𓈒𖠿🥂  

⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ 𓂃｡˚❀༉⋆｡  

And there he was.

Ray Pakorn, in the flesh, standing at the threshold of his own door like a disheveled vision pulled from a dream—or rather, a nightmare I wasn’t sure I wanted to have. His face still bore the marks of the pillow, his eyelids swollen from oversleeping, and his expression hovered somewhere between confusion and indifference. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, let out a barely stifled yawn, and squinted, as if the image before him needed a few seconds to fully come into focus.

Then he saw me.

And I knew. Because his gaze shifted. Because that neutral, sleepy look transformed into a mix of recognition and surprise, followed by something far more dangerous: a glint of mischief. As if—even half-asleep—he knew exactly what he was doing with that crooked, teasing smile that began curling on his lips.

He didn’t say anything right away. He just stared at me, from my shoes to my face, with those eyes of his that seemed to tell a different story with every blink. Red from sleep, sure—but also bright. They sparkled, as if the afternoon light had gotten trapped inside them.

“You’re the bartender… Kant,” he finally muttered, his voice hoarse and dragging the words. “What are you doing at my house? It’s… ohh… it’s afternoon.”

I struggled not to roll my eyes.

“Yes, Ray. It’s two in the afternoon,” I replied, keeping my voice as firm and neutral as possible. I didn’t want to sound annoyed, but I wasn’t going to give him the slightest advantage either.

He nodded, as if my confirmation was some kind of great revelation. His gaze wandered for a moment to some corner of the hallway behind him, like he’d just remembered what part of the world he was in. His outfit said everything: a white tank top clinging slightly to his body, as if he’d sweated in his sleep; loose light gray pants, the kind you wear when you know you’re not leaving the house all day. And his hair, of course—messy, untamed, a soft tangle of waves falling irregularly across his forehead.

“I came because of the listing,” I explained as I adjusted the strap of my bag over my shoulder, trying not to look directly at his collarbones. “It said the owner of this place was looking for a roommate. It seemed like a good offer.”

As I spoke, my eyes drifted around the doorframe, trying to catch a glimpse beyond the threshold. What little I could see was enough: high ceilings, clean white walls, contemporary art pieces hung crookedly, like someone had put them up out of obligation rather than taste. There was a faint smell, barely noticeable—like incense that had burned out hours ago.

I swallowed.

No. I couldn’t accept this. Under no circumstances could I allow myself to live with Ray Pakorn. It would’ve been easier to discover the listing was fake, that the owner didn’t exist, that the whole thing was a scam to steal my info. That would’ve been preferable. A thousand times better than this.

“If I had known you were the owner,” I said, crossing my arms, trying to sound colder than I actually felt, “I wouldn’t have come. You’re not my type.”

There it was. The defensive line. The wall.

Ray raised one eyebrow slightly, amused. He looked at me with that slow, deliberate pace only he could pull off without seeming rude. He studied my posture, my crossed arms, my tone of voice—even the subtle tremor in my hands I tried to hide. Then he smiled again, wider this time. His eyes—those damn moonlit eyes, half-lidded, thirsty, dreamy—sparkled with a blend of challenge and tenderness that threw me off completely.

As if he had read every word I hadn’t said.

And then I understood. I saw it clearly for the first time, like everything suddenly clicked in my head. Ray didn’t need a roommate. At least, not one to help pay half the rent. He had money. He had this house, this empty and quiet space, these unused pieces of furniture. What he was looking for was something else. Company, probably. An accomplice who wouldn’t judge him—someone who could exist with him in that limbo between dream and reality he lived in. Just another body to talk to or ignore, someone to share his vodka with at dawn and his couch on lazy Sunday afternoons.

It wasn’t a rental. It was an invitation disguised as an opportunity. Ray leaned against the doorframe as if the weight of his own body was a light burden. He crossed his arms and tilted his head. There was something childish about his posture—almost mischievous, like he was having fun with all of this.

“So you wouldn’t have come if you knew it was me you’d be sharing this house with?” he asked, in a teasing tone that masked something deeper, something more vulnerable. “What’s wrong, Kant? Are you afraid of me?”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I had nothing to say, but because I felt like any word out of my mouth in that moment could break something invisible. A thread, a balance, a line. He didn’t seem to expect an answer either. He just looked at me in silence, as if the very fact that I was standing there, in front of him, said enough.

And then, as if time had suddenly loosened in his hands, he peeled himself away from the doorframe. He did it with a slowness that felt almost hypnotic, as if each of his muscles had its own rhythm. The world turned to the pace of Ray Pakorn.

He took three steps back, barefoot, and his feet moved across the wooden floor without making a single sound, as if the floorboards were used to his movements. It was the kind of movement you don’t learn or rehearse. It was natural, instinctive—and feline. Like an animal that never loses its elegance, not even fresh out of sleep.

He stretched out an arm toward me with a wide, shameless, almost theatrical smile. An exaggerated gesture, as if he weren’t inviting me into a house, but onto a stage. As if I were the lead in a play I didn’t remember rehearsing—but one he’d clearly been writing for a while.

“Well, since you’re here… why don’t you come in?”

His words floated in the air, wrapped in that voice of his—husky, dragging, sweetly damaged by sleep—and cut through me like both an invitation and a trap.

I stood still for a few seconds. I don’t know how many. Maybe three. Maybe thirty. All I could hear was the faint buzz of the street in the distance, the whisper of the trees swaying in the wind, and the thud of my own heartbeat in my ears.

I had to decide. I could turn around, leave, pretend it was all a misunderstanding, say I’d found another listing, say this wasn’t for me. I could protect myself. I could avoid the disaster I knew—with painful certainty—this man was capable of causing.

Or I could go in.

Not just into his house. Into his chaos. His intimacy. His broken hours and his too-loud silences. His alcohol-soaked dawns, his offbeat laughter, his way of looking as if he saw beyond the skin.

Going in meant coexisting—not just physically, but emotionally. Sharing a kitchen, a living room, a fridge, a couch. Hearing his footsteps at night, his sighs in the bathroom, his music playing softly when he thought I was asleep. Getting to know him for real, in all his mess, in all his vulnerability.

And still, I took a step.
Then another.
And I walked in.

The door clicked softly shut behind me, but in my mind, it sounded like a seal. Like a silent pact with no way back.

The inside of the house wrapped around me with an unexpected warmth. It was even larger than it had looked from the outside. The air smelled of wood, extinguished candles, and something soft and welcoming—like the kind of place that was used to keeping secrets. A wide living room stretched out in front of me, decorated with clean-lined sofas upholstered in gray and white tones. The curtains, half-open, allowed the afternoon light to pour in as golden, gentle beams—almost cinematic.

They didn’t illuminate. They caressed.

There were tall plants in the corners, perfectly alive. They didn’t look fake, but I couldn’t imagine Ray watering them either. Maybe someone else took care of them. Or maybe it was one of those mysteries that didn’t need an answer.
The rugs were soft, thick-textured, and warm underfoot. One of them had a stain in the corner. Red wine, maybe. Or ink. Something that looked out of place, but had settled there like an old scar no one bothered to erase anymore. The TV was mounted on a white brick wall, turned off, but reflecting the light coming in through the window. Silent. Like a sleeping witness to conversations that hadn’t happened yet.

And the kitchen…

The kitchen was another story. It was a whole different world. So wide and well-equipped that for a second, I thought I’d walked into one of those model homes realtors use to show people the impossible. A dark marble island, built-in appliances, chrome fixtures, dust-free shelves. An expensive coffee machine sat like a trophy next to a row of mismatched mugs, as if each had been picked up in a different country.

“The house is pretty nice,” I said finally, almost without thinking, almost in a whisper. “Babe would love living here.”

I didn’t know why I said it. Maybe because I needed to break the silence. Maybe because the awe betrayed me. Or maybe because he betrayed me, every time he smiled at me like that.

Ray slowly turned his head toward me. That signature movement of his, always seeming to follow some invisible choreography, as if even the air gave way to him. He looked at me with a mix of curiosity and something else… something I didn’t know how to name.

His eyes locked with mine, and for a second, I felt completely disarmed. Like I’d opened a door inside myself and he had walked right through without asking.

“Who’s Babe?” he asked.

And the way he said it… as if it were a casual question, one of those things people say without thinking, without any real intention… but no. It wasn’t casual. I knew it from the pause that followed, from the way his gaze didn’t let me go, from how his entire body stayed still, waiting for the answer.

The question hung in the air.

“‘Babe’? Who is he? One of your boyfriends?” Ray asked with a crooked smile—the one he used when he wanted to throw me off balance, when he was looking for a reaction, anything to prove he still had power over me.

I did not answer him. Not because I couldn't, not because I didn't have words to say to him. I did. Too many, perhaps. Words full of venom, of truths disguised as sarcasm, of wounds that had not yet healed and that, in his presence, festered again. But I did not want to give them to him. I didn't want to give him a single one. Because I knew that was exactly what he was looking for: a sign that what he says matters to me. I walked into the house without saying anything, my head held high, my steps measured, as if his question had never existed. As if his presence didn't alter anything inside me. Bullshit. All of him upset me.

I heard him behind me. Or, rather, I felt it. Like you feel a storm about to blow, like you feel the heat before a fire. It was close. Close enough to invade me without touching me. Its presence was dense, insistent. Almost glued to my back. Like a stubborn puppy that doesn't understand that its owner needs space. That sometimes, love also needs distance. That there are wounds that don't heal if you keep licking them.

And yet... there was a part of me, buried deep inside, that was waiting for him. That was looking for him. That counted the seconds between his steps, as if each one was a confirmation that he was still there, that he hadn't given up. That part of me bothered me even more than he did.

I stepped into the house, and my eyes swept across the space with an almost surgical precision. Every corner, every piece of furniture, every detail seemed to have the deliberate intention of screaming his name. They didn’t whisper it. They proclaimed it aloud. Ray was everywhere. In the chaotic —yet strangely functional— arrangement of objects, in the mixed scent of cheap cigarettes and expensive cologne, in the carefully choreographed mess. It was as if the place breathed in sync with him. As if it were an extension of his body, his ego, that uniquely intense, dramatic, and excessive way he had of existing.

“I can’t even stand you at the bar,” I said at last, not bothering to look at him. My gaze remained fixed on the interior, on the universe of Ray unfolding before me like a stage. “There’s no way I’m going to do it twenty-four hours a day.”

My voice came out like a sharp blade, slicing through the air with a coldness I knew how to wield far too well. A defense. A shield. A warning. But Ray... Ray just smiled. That damned smile of his, always mocking the world and himself in equal measure. He didn’t blink. Didn’t react. As if my words were disguised caresses, as if nothing I said could hurt him. As if he already knew that, deep down, I wanted him there too.

“What a sweet thing to say,” he murmured, and in one swift motion, he stood in front of me. His hand rose to cover my eyes, as if we were playing hide and seek. As if we were still two boys trapped in a ridiculous game neither of us knew how to end.

But I had already seen something. I didn’t need anything else.

Photos.

So many. Too many.

Huge, framed with unnecessary luxury. Displayed like trophies in a private gallery built for his own pleasure. Photos of him. From different ages, different moments, different expressions. Ray as a child, Ray as a teenager, Ray young but not yet broken. Ray laughing, Ray thoughtful, Ray posing as if he knew —as if he had always known— that someday someone would stop to look at those pictures and feel something.

“Egocentric,” I muttered under my breath, barely a whisper, never meant to be heard.

“Well, sorry to pop your lovely bubble, Kant,” he replied, dragging the words with that teasing tone I knew far too well, running a hand through his messy hair, “but you’d better get used to seeing me every day… now that you’re going to live here with me.”

His words hung in the air like an undetonated bomb. But it wasn’t the phrase itself that caught me off guard —it was the look in his eyes as he said it. There was something beyond the game. Beyond the provocation. There was hope. A tenderness poorly concealed. Vulnerability dressed up as a joke. And that... that was the part that scared me the most.

“I haven’t said I’m going to live with you, Ray,” I reminded him, still not taking my eyes off the living room. That’s when they landed on the most revealing corner of all.

The bar.

Half-empty bottles, some open, others lying on their sides like corpses. Dirty glasses. Traces of melted ice. Everything screamed that someone had drunk themselves into oblivion. There was no need to guess who it had been. It was him. Always him. As if the fights at the bar weren’t enough. As if his sharp tongue and suffocating silences didn’t already weigh too much. He had to top it all off by drinking alone in his personal sanctuary. Drowning his demons with every sip. Dodging questions with every glass.

“Are you really that desperate to live with me that now you’re deciding for me?” I said at last, and this time I turned around. I walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Like a predator approaching its prey. Like someone who already knows the outcome, but wants to savor it anyway.

There were only inches between us.

Ray didn’t move. He never did. His courage was as infuriating as it was admirable. He looked at me. Directly. Without blinking. His eyes were heavy —maybe from the alcohol, maybe from insomnia, maybe both. But they were still alive. Still burning with that fire of his, that spark that never quite went out. Dangerous. Magnetic. As uniquely his as the way he said my name when he wanted to make me tremble.

His gaze pierced right through me. Just like it always did. Like he could see more than I was ever willing to show.

And even so... I stayed.

Because somehow, Ray was like that wound you can’t stop touching, even when it hurts.

And I, for some reason, still wanted to feel.

“And what makes you think I care whether you live here or not?” he shot back, with a softness that didn’t match the sharpness of his words—like wrapping arrogance in velvet and serving it on a silver platter, with that slow tone he used when he wanted to hurt me without making it sound intentional. His eyes, however, held a flicker that didn’t quite align with his voice. A spark that betrayed his feigned indifference.

“I could easily find another roommate,” he went on, shrugging with lazy disinterest. “You’re not the only one. You never will be.”

I took a step back—not because his words had truly hit me (though maybe they had, in some corner of myself I didn’t want to explore), but because I needed space. Physical space, sure, but mostly mental. A brief pause to pull myself back together, to organize the mess before I responded.

With Ray, everything was a dance. A tense choreography where every word, every gesture, every silence had to be measured with surgical precision, as if any slip could become a weapon in his hands.

He knew how to play. So did I.

But sometimes, even knowing the rules, you still ended up losing. I looked at him then, with a calm that had taken me years to learn. Not a passive calm, but the kind that comes from knowing you’re in control, even when the ground beneath you shakes.
My posture said everything, like I was wrapped in invisible armor made of patience, resolve, and carefully contained anger.

“You can’t,” I said, with a certainty that didn’t need volume to make itself heard. “You’re a handful. And I doubt anyone could survive even a single day with you.”

He laughed.

It wasn’t a real laugh, not a loud one. It was something quieter, more intimate, almost a purr that hovered in the air like a soft threat. His body didn’t tense. He didn’t shrink away. He didn’t frown.

He simply let that smile—his signature one, the kind that always seemed to hide more than it showed—settle on his face. He stepped toward me, slow, unhurried, with that rhythm of his that said he wasn’t afraid of rejection, because he’d been rejected so many times the pain had grown familiar. He stopped just a few feet away, leaning against the counter like it was a stage, and he was the lead actor, ready to deliver his line with the exact amount of drama.

“So I’m the difficult one, huh, Kant?” he said, that half-smile never reaching his eyes as his finger idly played with the base of an empty glass he’d forgotten to clean. He spun the glass slowly, like the motion helped him stay emotionally balanced.
“A lot of people have tried, you know,” he continued, voice quiet, no need to raise it. “But none of them lasted. None of them could handle it. You’re no different. Believe me.”

He didn’t say it with bitterness. Not with anger. He said it with the sad resignation of someone who’s tried too many times and always failed.

It was more a confession than a provocation. More a painful echo of words he’d probably heard too many times before, of disappointments that had long since embedded themselves into his skin. And even though his tone kept up the act of arrogance, there was a crack.One that slipped through in the silences. In the way he avoided looking me directly in the eye while he spoke.

I didn’t step back this time. I moved closer, with steady steps—unhurried.
Not as a challenge, but as a statement. I stood in front of him, not invading his space, but close enough that he could feel me. Close enough for him to know I wasn’t running, and I wasn’t about to get dragged into his spiral either. My voice came out calm, steady, not a single trace of doubt.

“I’m not like them, Ray,” I said, with a quiet resolve that contrasted with the tension building in my shoulders. “But I’m not here to play your childish games. That’s not why I came.”

I watched him.
I studied him.
And I waited for his reaction.

A mischievous smile slowly curled on his lips with calculated ease, like he was sculpting it just for me—to make sure I saw it, to make sure I knew he was about to provoke me again. That smile of his had a hint of charm, but it was mostly dangerous. It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of smile you learn to fear, because behind it always came a sharp remark, a veiled challenge, or an invitation to cross a line you shouldn't.

His eyes locked onto mine—intense, unwavering—like they were trying to follow my every move, every blink, every slightest shift in expression. He was studying me, watching me with the kind of focus that made it feel like looking away for even a second might cost him something. Like losing sight of me meant losing control of the situation—or worse, losing me entirely.

Then he raised an eyebrow, amused, like he’d just come up with some wicked little plan that only he found funny. As if the whole scene unfolding between us was a secret game and I was the main piece on the board.

“So,” he said, in that voice of his that always danced between challenge and seduction—light as a feather drifting through the air, “if you want to live in this house... you’ll have to be my personal assistant.”

His words hung between us like an open dare, but it wasn’t what he said that changed everything—it was what he did. Without shame, without asking—because Ray never asked for permission—he closed the distance between us, shattering any illusion of personal space, and rested a hand on my waist with a confidence that made my blood boil.

His touch was warm, firm, direct—like he had no doubts about his right to be that close. And then he pulled me toward him with deceptive gentleness, as if he weren’t dragging me into his territory, as if this weren’t just another calculated move in his endless game of provocations. But if he thought he had the upper hand, he was dead wrong.

Without overthinking it—because with Ray, thinking was a trap—I reached for his chin and gripped it firmly, forcing him to look at me, to stop playing for just one goddamn second. I drew him so close our breaths mixed, his exhale brushing against my lips like an unspoken threat. We were mere inches apart, our mouths almost touching, but there was nothing romantic about it. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.

It was pure tension. Pure edge.

“I’m not playing your fucking childish game, Ray,” I said, my voice low but unwavering, like a sentence passed down with no room for appeal.

And just like that, I let him go.

The contact broke all at once, like I was trying to shake off the electricity he’d left in his wake. He stepped back slightly—but not out of anger. No, he did it like it didn’t matter at all, like that, too, was part of the script he’d already written in his head.
He pulled away with that same infuriating ease, and almost immediately, he laughed.

That laugh of his—sharp, mischievous, laced with cynicism—bounced off the walls like an insult dressed in playfulness.

It was nearly impossible to read. So full of teeth, so empty of sincerity.
Like laughing was how he covered himself. Like every burst of laughter was another wall thrown up between him and the rest of the world.

“Ohh, Kant,” he said, still laughing, with that infuriating way of saying my name that made me hate him a little more every time. “You're so easy to provoke, it's actually fun… playing with you.”

And that sentence was the final drop—what shattered the last piece of my patience. It wasn’t an explosion. I didn’t yell, didn’t push him, didn’t curse him out. But it was worse. I looked at him. I looked at him with all the fury I had held back, with the cold, cutting contempt you only give when you no longer have the energy to argue.

And without saying a single word more, I turned around, walked toward the door with firm, decisive steps, and slammed it shut behind me with a sharp thud that echoed through the room.
Not to make a scene.

But because I needed to cut the moment off—cut him off.
I needed air.

I needed to stop breathing in everything he left hanging in the atmosphere: that thick smoke of broken promises, dirty games, and intentions wearing a mask.

Outside, the silence hit me like a wall.
But at least it was my silence.
Because with Ray… the noise never stopped.

𓆩⟡𓆪 ─── ⋆｡°✩ 𝙉𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙨… ✧˚₊ ⭑ ˚₊‧₊˚ ───
⭒ 𓂃｡˚ ❝ 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒓, 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈... ❞ ⌇𓈒
˗ˏˋ ☕ ˎˊ˗ 𓏲 ˖° 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚, 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒆𝒆𝒕.
𓆩⟡𓆪 🎧 ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ 𓂃｡˚❀༉⋆☾ ⊹ ༄

Style had been kind enough—or maybe just a victim of my pitiful face—to let me crash at his apartment for a few days. He helped me move my stuff with that enthusiasm only true friends have when they want to feel useful… or when they know they'll have plenty of material to tease you about later.

And yeah, he spent the whole day doing exactly that. The jokes about Ray, about my poor wounded-puppy face, about my unmatched talent for running from one problem straight into another, didn’t stop.

It was like I had a button on my forehead that said: “Day one without Kant being dramatic: reset the counter to zero.”

After his little emotional stand-up routine, I decided to get ready for work. I’d learned to treat those moments like scenes from a play I was no longer part of. Something I watched from the back row, in the dark, disconnected.
I got dressed the same as always: black shirt, sleeves rolled up, tattoos on display, and that “don’t talk to me unless you’ve got a tip or a new problem” face. Not an official uniform, but it worked as armor.

It was my way of saying: “I’m functional, but emotionally on strike.”

The walk to the bar was short, but thick with weight.

The sky had that heavy leaden tone that threatens rain but never delivers—just like all those promises people make when you’re in love. I walked the familiar streets, nodding to the same ghosts as always: people who didn’t look at me, cars that never stopped, thoughts that wouldn’t shut up.

When I arrived, the noise greeted me before anyone else did.
That mix of clinking glasses, overlapping voices, and pre-show music.
A constant murmur that filled in the spaces we usually avoid when we’re alone.
It was strange, how a place so loud could be the perfect escape from yourself.

I—Plung’s girlfriend and probably the only person with more energy than the coffee we serve at 3 a.m.—was arguing with her boyfriend about the new band playing that night. She spoke with that lively, hyper-enthusiastic voice of hers, and for a moment I wanted to close my eyes and pretend the world was as simple as she saw it.

“I know the band’s going to be amazing! They’re the best! I saw them live, and they’re ready to sing anything,” she gushed, her tone so bright and high it felt like I was being slapped across the face by raw optimism.

Plung, ever the contrarian, responded in his usual tone:

“Babe, I still think hiring a DJ would’ve been better. They can play anything and do proper mixes. Right, Kant?”
He looked at me like I existed only to break the tie in their argument. I already knew the script. That couple worked like a Swiss clock of tension—precise, constant, and ready to use me as an emotional balance mechanism. I was the pendulum swinging between their disagreements, trapped in the ebb and flow of their passive-aggressive affection.

“I think both ideas have their merits,” I replied, trying to keep my tone as neutral as possible. Diplomacy was one of those skills I developed after breaking inside too many times: one learns to stay standing with carefully chosen words.

But it didn’t work. Nothing calms a storm that doesn’t want to be calmed. They went back to arguing, talking over me as if I were just another table at the bar, and not a person with thoughts and a deep desire for someone, at some point, to ask me how I was. Words flew, looks were daggers, and I... I was about to give up. I seriously considered ducking under the bar, grabbing a forgotten bottle, and pretending to have a selective intoxication.

Then I heard it.
His voice.
Ray.

That sound that had lodged itself between my ribs ever since the last time he spoke to me seriously. Since the last time he left. It wasn’t the voice of someone guilty, nor of someone regretful. It was his usual tone: calm, as if his presence weren’t a fracture in my day.
I saw him enter. Slowly. Confidently. With that smile he used like a double-edged sword. And he wasn’t alone. Beside him, a new guy. Young, nervous, with the posture of someone who didn’t want to be there but had no choice. His presence was like a dissonant note in a song that was already hard to listen to.

“We’re not open yet,” I said, my voice controlled, almost polite. But the fake politeness cuts too, and I sharpened it carefully.

Then, with the usual brutal sweetness, I hit his arm.
“Welcome to the bar! We’ll open soon, but you can go ahead and come in,” he said with that gleam in his eyes that almost made everything less unbearable. Almost.

Ray kept smiling. And I cursed silently. That smile had something cruel about it, though he probably didn’t know it. There was a peace in his face that pushed me to the edge. A foreign tranquility that reminded me of everything I still hadn’t gotten over.

“Hi, Kant,” he said, as if nothing had happened. As if the void between us didn’t weigh so heavily. “This is my new roommate.”

And there it was. The sentence. The new symbol of his emotional independence. Of his life without me. He said it so naturally, as if he were just mentioning the weather. As if he didn’t know those words were piercing me. The guy next to him seemed like an accidental presence. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even try to smile. He clung to his own silence like a life jacket.

“Nice to meet you,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the floor, as if lifting his gaze were an act of rebellion, as if looking directly at me meant signing a contract he wasn’t willing to accept. The guy seemed like a lost child, an extra poorly cast in a play that no longer needed secondary actors. And yet, there he was, with his unpolished shoes and a shyness that reeked of guilt.

I leaned in slightly, just enough so my voice could slide between them without anyone else hearing it, except those who were truly paying attention.

"Ray paid you to come here, didn't he? To pretend to be his roommate," I said with a calm smile, almost sweet, as if I were doing him a favor by saying it quietly. The guy nodded, clumsily, and that nervous gesture was a delight for me, a small victory in this absurd game Ray insisted on playing. I laughed, not out of malice, but because the theater was so bad that there was no other choice but to enjoy it.
Plung and I, of course, watched the scene as if we were in front of a Netflix series at its best episode. Their faces were a poem: astonishment, disbelief, and a sadistic gleam of enjoyment.
I turned my attention back to Ray, and I knew immediately that I had trapped him in his own trap. Ray yelled at the guy with an ironic smile, and he ran off like he had just realized he’d walked into a cage with lions. Or worse: with a resentful ex.

"Did you really pay that guy to pretend to be your roommate in front of me?" I asked, approaching slowly, each step laden with intention, with that smile of mine that knew exactly what it provoked. Ray didn’t respond with words, but he sat down and let his body speak: he leaned toward me, closing the distance with a calm so practiced it seemed dangerous.

Plung and I understood the tension in the air. They weren’t stupid. They left with nervous laughter, saying they didn’t want to bother, and I frowned with a mixture of annoyance and secondhand embarrassment. Not because of them. Because of me. For letting Ray have that power over my heartbeat again.

But he didn’t move away. He scoffed. That arrogant and annoying sound he used to make when he wanted to seem offended without actually being so. His eyes, dark and playful, stripped me with the ease of someone who had done it before and knew exactly which buttons to press. He had no right, but he did it anyway. As if between us there had never been an end.

"Does it matter if I paid him? It worked, didn’t it?" he murmured with that reckless confidence of his, leaning even closer. His lips were so close that I could feel his warm breath mixing with mine. My body reacted before my mind, as if his proximity were a spark falling onto a fuse already lit. I pulled away, yes, but I did so slowly, dragging my steps as if there was still a part of me that didn’t want to move away. As if my skin, still feeling his closeness, begged for one more second, for one more fraction of his warmth. I took a glass with hands that didn’t shake, but almost. I started cleaning it with a damp cloth, hiding in that mechanical gesture, as if routine could offer me some control over the tremor in my stomach, over the vertigo of having him so close. As if rubbing the glass could erase what he made me feel with just a look.

"Ray, you’re playing with fire. This is my workplace, not a carnival. Do you think I’m going to let you manipulate me like nothing?" I said firmly, though my voice came out quieter than expected, breaking at the edges. As if my throat knew it wasn’t as strong as I was trying to seem. As if my whole body knew that every time he was near, my will melted slowly, like ice touched by the sun.

He laughed. Not loudly. Not with open mockery. It was a laugh between clenched teeth, raspy, like a malicious secret escaping between his lips. A laugh full of cruel confidence, the kind of confidence that knows every crack in you and isn’t afraid to press right there. He followed me with his gaze as I moved behind the bar, with that shamelessness that was almost a caress, as if he could undress me just by watching. As if my steps were a show staged just for him. As if the air I breathed belonged to him. As if I belonged to him.

"Oh, Kant... you don’t fear fire. You provoke it. You know I like playing with fire, don’t you? Or have you forgotten?" he said, with that low tone that isn’t heard: it’s felt. A whisper that slides like silk over bare skin, that sneaks between the bones, settles in the chest, and vibrates. It made me close my eyes for a second, cursing inside that he could still affect me so much, that he still knew exactly what to say to make me want things I shouldn’t.

I gave him a sharp look, full of warnings and wounds poorly healed. A look that said "stay away" but also "come closer and make it hurt." I ignored him. Or I tried to, even though I knew that any attempt to ignore him was as futile as trying to contain a storm with my hands. I knew that if I kept going, if I responded to him, if I fell into his game, I would lose more than just my dignity. And yet… it wasn’t him who crossed the last line.

"Why don’t you pour me a drink? You’ll be my servant soon enough," he said, leaning on the bar with a sly, cursed smile, full of that arrogance that provoked both hate and desire in me equally. A smile that made me want to throw the glass I had just cleaned at him… or close the distance between us and kiss him until he forgot how to smile like that at anyone else.

I looked at him with impatience. No, with anger. A deep, scarred anger, the kind that hides beneath the skin like smoldering embers, waiting for a spark to reignite. An anger that hurt in my ribs when I took a deep breath, that hurt even more when I looked at him and remembered everything we were, everything we almost were. I sighed, more to avoid exploding than to calm myself.

"Stop thinking you can play with me. You’re just a spoiled brat. I told you once, and I’ll repeat it now: don’t think I’m going to come rescue you when you need it, because it’s not going to happen. Not this time," I said, not raising my voice, but with a measured, calculated coldness that I knew would hurt more than shouting. A coldness that didn’t come from indifference, but from the weariness of still desiring someone who didn’t know how to stay.

I walked away without looking back, as if that would be enough to put a barrier between him and what he made me feel. But I could feel his anger, his frustration, as if it were brushing against my back, as if his breath kept following me with every step. I heard him grab a drink already poured, how he drank it in one go, as if trying to erase the taste of my words. I heard him stand up, push the chair, walk away. I heard him leave.

Ray, though he was many things—beautiful, arrogant, hurtful, brilliant, unbearable—never knew how to stay still when truly confronted.
And I… I stayed in the middle of the bar, with the still-damp glass between my fingers, wondering why every time I thought I had control, he returned with a smile like a sin and made me want everything to burn. That everything should burn. That he should burn me.

𓆩⟡𓆪 ⭑ 𝟐:𝟎𝟎 𝐚𝐦, bathroom 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 ☕
✧ 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆, 𝑹𝒂𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒔...
︶︶︶ "𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑎𝑎𝑎𝑎𝑎... ⌕ ✦"

The night was quite calm, even pleasant. For the first time in weeks, the bar didn’t feel like a battlefield. The dim lights reflected a serene atmosphere, the music played at a tolerable volume, and the customers drank without raising their voices more than necessary. I had asked the other bartender to help me keep an eye on the place while I took a short break. There was something about that night that demanded a breath, a moment just for me. I headed to the bathroom, hoping to find some silence, to get away from the glasses, the forced laughs, and the constant orders. And luckily, I did. There was no one inside. The muffled murmur of the bar’s music barely reached there, and the faint hum of the ceiling lights was the only thing breaking the silence. I closed my eyes for a moment. Peace. Finally, peace.

But it lasted very little.

The bathroom door slammed open, as if someone had pushed it with all the rage in the world. The noise echoed between the tiles, causing one of the stalls to burst open with a violent thud. I jumped, turning around immediately, my heart lodged in my throat. And there he was. Ray.

His eyes were half-lidded, his hair slightly disheveled, and his jacket hanging off one of his shoulders. He was clearly drunk. I didn’t need to look twice to know it; that unstable gleam in his pupils, that erratic way of walking, that unpredictable air… I recognized it from afar. I’d seen him like that on other nights, slurring words, losing himself in glances he couldn’t quite hold. He looked at me with an expression hard to decipher, a mix of contained rage and something else. Something I couldn’t quite read, but that made my body tense up automatically.

He didn’t say anything. He simply started walking toward me with a staggering yet determined step. As if he already knew what he was going to do, as if he’d rehearsed that moment in his head over and over again. He grabbed me by the waist suddenly, without permission, without care, and roughly shoved me against the wall. The impact was dry, and the air left my lungs for a second. His arm pressed beside my head, trapping me between his body and the cold bathroom tiles. He had me cornered.

"What do you think you’re doing, Ray?" I asked, in a dry, controlled tone, trying not to lose my composure. Honestly, I didn’t want to know the answer. He smiled, that damn crooked smile he always used when he wanted to provoke me. His voice came out low, thick.

"You like it when I talk to you like this… up close, while my lips watch yours."
His proximity was suffocating. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, feel the heat of his body with the scant distance between us. I looked at him, confused, disgusted. What the hell was wrong with him? I pushed him without much force, just enough to make him step back. He staggered back a little, but didn’t stop looking at me. He chuckled softly, with that mix of sarcastic and sad tone that came out when he’d drunk too much.

"You’re so sexy when you’re mad. I never told you, but I like seeing you like this," he murmured, barely swaying on his feet.

I crossed my arms tightly, as if that might protect me from his gaze, from his invasive presence, from everything that was beginning to overflow. I placed my hands on my hips and took a deep breath. The kind of breath you take when you know that if you don’t, you’re going to say something you’ll regret. This was one of those moments where everything could fall apart in a matter of seconds. I knew it. I’d felt it before with problematic customers, with friends on the verge of breaking, with strangers who were already broken. And Ray… Ray had that energy. The kind that burns out of control, the kind that scrapes from within.

"You’re drunk. Where are your friends?" I asked, with a weak attempt at control, as if that would be enough to put out the fire that had already begun to burn inside him. My voice sounded more worried than I intended. I didn’t want to show him that I cared. Not him. Not like this.

He diverted his gaze for a few seconds. His eyes wandered to the floor, the walls, everywhere but me. And when he looked back at me, his gaze no longer had that arrogant spark. It was dull. Lost. An abyss slowly opening.

"I don’t know. Boston went off with someone. And the others… who knows," he finally replied, shrugging with disdain, as if he didn’t care, but his tone betrayed him. He sounded empty. Abandoned. He made that hand gesture people use when they no longer expect anything. As if surrendering were the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s when I understood. It wasn’t just the drunkenness talking. There was something more in his words, in his eyes. There was something broken. As if being there, in front of me, wasn’t a scene set up to annoy me or clumsily flirt. It was something else. A poorly disguised plea, a muffled scream that didn’t know how to get out. As if he didn’t know how to ask for help without using his fists or sarcasm. Because that was the only thing he knew how to do well: defend himself before he was hurt.

"Ray… you shouldn’t be alone when you’re like this," I said, lowering my voice, trying to reach that part of him that might still be able to hear me, if there was anything left.

He immediately tensed up. His body, which had been swaying up until then, stiffened as if my words had struck him in the stomach. He looked at me, now with rage, but not the kind that burns to fight. It was the kind that burns to cry.
"And why not? Because I’m weak? Because I break easily? Do you think that about me too?" he spat with an unexpected fury. His voice trembled, not from fear, but from restraint. As if he were about to break and didn’t want to give me that power.
I wanted to stay firm. But his gaze pierced me. And for the first time, I saw something that hurt more than I expected: the sadness in his voice was real. Deep. Old.

"I didn’t say that," I replied, almost in a whisper. I didn’t know if my words would reach him. I didn’t know if I wanted them to.

"But you think it. Everyone does. Everyone thinks Ray is the problem, the drunk, the impulsive one, the one who ruins everything…" he yelled, and before I could stop him, he spun around violently and punched the nearest stall door. The crash of the impact made it slam shut with force, echoing like thunder between the bathroom walls. I took a step back, not out of fear, but out of reflex.

Ray stood with his back to me, breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides. His shoulders rose and fell with difficulty. Everything about his body trembled, as if he were at his breaking point, about to fall apart. He didn’t turn around immediately. He seemed to be fighting with himself, between screaming or breaking something else, or just letting himself collapse.

I didn’t know what to do at first. My instinct told me to step away, to leave him alone, to not get involved any more than necessary. But there was something in him… something in the way his back curved, in how he swallowed the sob that nearly burned in his throat, that made me stay. Not because I wanted to. Because I couldn’t stop myself anymore.

And in that moment, I understood that Ray wasn’t just a drunk guy with attitude problems. He was a bundle of open wounds that no one had bothered to close. And even though it wasn’t my responsibility... there I was, wanting to do it.

"Ray, enough," I said, stepping towards him, my hands raised as if I could calm the storm that was boiling in his eyes. But he stepped back suddenly, stumbling over a trash can that fell to the ground with a sharp thud, spilling crumpled papers and dirty wrappers all over the bar’s bathroom. His body trembled, his lips slightly parted in a grimace of either rage or pain, and for a moment, I thought he was going to cry. But no. He screamed.

"Don’t tell me what to do! You’re nobody to tell me how to live!" he yelled, his voice torn, as if he were breaking from the inside. And then, silence. Only his heavy breathing remained, a kind of anguished gasp that echoed off the dirty bathroom walls. His shoulders rose and fell violently, and in his gaze, there was more than anger: there was a fierce emptiness, a weariness that seemed to weigh on every bone.

The commotion caught someone’s attention from the bar; the door shook briefly from the outside, and a voice asked if everything was okay. I stepped forward, keeping my body firm between the door and Ray, and quickly said:

"All good. I’ve got it." When I looked at him again, I no longer saw the arrogant guy who used sarcasm as armor. What was in front of me wasn’t an enemy, or a headache, or another nuisance. It was someone broken, profoundly alone, with eyes full of sadness and a fragility he couldn’t even hide. I approached cautiously, as if a wrong step might make him vanish.

"Ray, look at me," I said in a low, grave but calm voice, trying to anchor him with my words. "Let’s get out of here."

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t run either. When I took his arm, he didn’t resist. We walked toward the back exit of the bar, away from the lights, the noise, and the inquisitive glances. The night air greeted us with a soft chill, and we kept walking in silence through the empty streets. With each step, his body seemed lighter, more defeated. I no longer cared about his shouts, or his shove, or his words full of rage. I only thought about getting him to safety, protecting what he didn’t know how to protect himself.

When we reached his building, I realized the inevitable: he didn’t have his keys. I checked him out of reflex, gently feeling his pockets, almost tenderly. It wasn’t a surprise that he didn’t know where they were. I found it all crammed into the back pocket of his pants: the car keys, the house keys, a lighter.

"Where are your keys?" I murmured as I carefully searched his pockets. I didn’t expect an answer, and in fact, the one I got was barely a dragged whisper, a mix of broken sounds that could have been a "thank you," or maybe a "sorry." Incomplete words, dissolving in the air as if they were too heavy to be fully spoken. I didn’t leave him there. I couldn’t. So, I took him to his apartment, a place I already knew all too well. It greeted me with that familiar silence that places have when you’ve been there more than once, but they no longer feel like your own.

Everything was soaked in him: the pictures on the walls, the stacked records next to the turntable, his framed portraits on the living room shelf. I paused for a second in front of one of them: a smile frozen in time, far brighter than the one he wore tonight. I let out a dry laugh, almost unintentionally, as if that contrast hit me with an irony that stung.

"You’ll stay with me tonight," I announced with a calmness that left no room for argument, using that firmness one reserves for holding the inevitable, to keep something—or someone—from breaking completely.

He didn’t respond. He barely let himself be guided, dragging his feet, his body worn down by exhaustion. As we crossed the door, I led him directly to the couch. I carefully took off his shoes, as if any sudden movement might wake him from the fragile state he was in. Then I covered him with a light blanket, left a glass of water on the table, and turned off most of the lights, leaving only a small lamp on that cast a warm, soft glow in the corner of the living room.

I stayed in the doorway, watching him for a long moment. His face, even in sleep, was marked by a frown that wouldn’t give up. As if his body didn’t know how to rest, as if even in sleep, his soul remained on guard. There was something deeply sad in that. Something that had nothing to do with the fight earlier, or with his shouts, or the rage. It was something older, deeper. A sadness that had embedded itself in his everyday gestures, as if he had been carrying the weight of something no one else could see for far too long.

And then I thought—with a certainty that hurt a little to admit—that sometimes, even the loudest enemy just needs a place to collapse without being judged. A place where he could stop fighting, at least for one night. And even though I didn’t fully understand why, even though my mind screamed at me that it wasn’t a good idea, there I was, ready to be that place for him.

Chapter Text

𓂃 ˚₊‧₊˚ ⌗ 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒚... ☼

⏳ 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆.
✧ 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆. ⌇

I woke up slowly, with that feeling you get after sleeping way too deeply... and not alone. I turned over, and there was Ray, still tangled in the sheets, his mouth slightly open like he was in the middle of a silent opera. I must’ve fallen asleep next to him without even noticing—Probably after trying to get Ray to sleep last night, he just wanted to talk, lost among the drinks he had on him, quite drunk.

Without thinking too much—because if I thought about it, I’d just crawl back into bed—I slid out from under the covers. I tiptoed out of the room like a ninja, although any attempt at stealth was probably ruined by the traitorous creaking of the floorboards. I stepped into the living room, which honestly looked more like an art gallery trying to be a mansion. The furniture was spotless, so perfect it made you want to leave it untouched. And there it was: the famous red wine stain on the carpet, like a personal signature in the middle of all that luxury. Immortal.

I stopped in front of Ray’s paintings. The same ones as yesterday, sure, but there was something hypnotic about them. The colors, the textures… or maybe it was just my brain trying to function at 6:00 a.m. without breakfast. My watch blinked at me with authority: “Move.” So I did. But not without making a strategic stop in the kitchen.

And upon seeing it, I had a divine revelation: if heaven had stainless steel appliances, they’d definitely look like these. Ray owed me something for all of the turmoil he put me through last night. (and for the wine... and the emotional insomnia), so I did what any rational human would do: I opened the freezer and saw not one, not two, but SEVEN glorious tubs of ice cream.

"One less won’t kill him," I muttered solemnly as I picked the chocolate one—because it’s always been the most reliable thing in life. I grabbed a metal spoon roughly the size of a shovel and left the apartment... or mansion, still undecided.

I mentally said goodbye to the place and left with my loot. The tub, now half full or half empty, if you're feeling cynical), kept me company as I walked toward the bar where I work: Yolo. That’s where I’d left my stuff—and my car—last night. 

An hour later, I was in my car, my things in the back seat and the ice cream still cold in my hand. Not magic. Just commitment. I drove straight to my friend Style’s place—the only mechanic I know who can fix a car while humming ‘80s songs and using a wrench as a microphone.

When I got there, he was mid-job, covered in grease up to his eyelashes, and wearing that smile of his that always looks like a challenge.

“Hope you’re free to fix my beautiful car,” I said, ice cream spoon still in my mouth, flashing a smile that was meant to be charming but probably looked more suspicious than anything.

Style looked me over, raised an eyebrow, and walked toward me like he was analyzing a piece of modern art with engine issues.

I sat down on one of the old couches in his makeshift living room inside the shop. It smelled like gears, smoke, oil, and a hint of sarcasm hanging in the air. Felt like home.

“If your car were as beautiful as you say, it wouldn’t be here so often,” Style said, giving me a pat on the shoulder.

I just grinned and offered him a spoonful of ice cream as a bribe. He took it without hesitation.

“Didn’t sleep here last night? Had a fun little adventure, maybe?” Style asked, one eyebrow raised and that sly smile of his—always a warning sign of an incoming invasion… like this one, where he shamelessly stole the ice cream tub straight from my hands.

I just smiled. I didn’t have the energy to reply with words, and I wasn’t in the mood to fight over the ice cream. Sometimes, it’s just easier to surrender… especially when you know you’ll steal it back in thirty seconds. I watched him enjoy the first spoonful like it had been years since he’d last tasted chocolate.

“Actually,” I started, leaning back on the old, beaten-up couch in the shop, “I was stealing ice cream from someone else’s house while a spoiled, pretty boy slept beside me. And no, before you start imagining the steamy part of the story… nothing fun happened.”

As expected, Style opened his mouth to throw one of his usual cheap-innuendo jokes, but I snatched the tub back before he could say a word. I kept eating, satisfied at cutting him off. Sometimes I win too.

“I was at Ray’s place. I didn’t tell you, but... he’s the one who owns that ridiculously huge mansion I woke up in this morning,” I said, stuffing another big spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. I wasn’t even sure why I was telling him all this. Maybe I just needed to say it out loud for myself.

Style looked at me with a mix of surprise and curiosity, like he was trying to solve some equation he didn’t like—but couldn’t resist working out anyway.

“You were at Ray’s place. Eating ice cream. Sleeping next to him. And you’re still unsure about taking the offer…” he repeated slowly, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Clearly, his brain had only latched onto the juiciest parts.

I laughed, shaking my head, and tapped him lightly with the spoon. He knew exactly what he was doing, and it still amused me.

“I didn’t sleep with him, Style,” I clarified, lowering my voice a bit, as if the topic had suddenly become more intimate than I expected. “I took him home because he was super drunk. Thought I’d drop him on the couch, but I ended up staying... I don’t even know when I fell asleep next to him. But this morning... that house, that loneliness he lives in… it made me think. Ray clearly needs someone. And I… well, I need a home.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Or rather, it wasn’t just about that. It wasn’t the house, or the offer, or even the ice cream. It was him. It was Ray.

Ray, with his spoiled attitude, his sharp, venom-laced tongue, and that air of superiority he wore like armor. But underneath all that, there was a vulnerability leaking through the cracks. A poorly hidden sadness, like a secret badly kept.

I didn’t want to be his friend. At least, not in the conventional sense. But I couldn’t ignore how lonely he was. And that loneliness—so much like mine on certain days—tightened around my chest.

"Then you should say yes," Style said, with that brutal clarity he always had when he decided to get serious. "You need a place to live. Babe’s in college now, living in that condo—not with you. And not even in a proper dorm like he should. You’ve got bills, Kant. You’ve got responsibilities. This could help. Both of you."

And he was right.

Ray needed company. Not someone to save him. Not someone to fully understand him. Just someone who wouldn’t leave.
And even if I didn’t want to be his savior, even if he drove me insane with his constant jokes and endless flirting, there was something in the way he looked at me that quietly asked me to stay a little longer.

It wasn’t love. It was something messier, rawer. It was need.

The spoonful of ice cream I put in my mouth didn’t taste the same. Suddenly, all the chocolate in the world couldn’t sweeten the knot forming in my stomach.

I knew saying yes to Ray would be like signing a contract with unspoken emotional clauses. I’d have to set boundaries, build walls—and still, I knew that guy would find a way to climb over them with a smile and a well-aimed sarcastic comment.

But something in me had already made the decision. The rest was just excuses.

"You know what?" I finally said, looking at Style while he pretended he wasn’t waiting for my answer. "I'm going to do it. Not just for the house. Not just for the free rent. But because someone has to stay...."

Style didn’t say anything for a moment. He just smiled.
And for a second, the smell of engine grease and hot metal seemed to fade, and everything felt a little clearer.

I’d made a decision. I didn’t know if it was the right one. But it was mine.
And for now, that was enough.

“You know that if in the end you don’t go through with it, this is your home too, man. You don’t need to look anywhere else,” Style said, stealing the tub of ice cream from my hands. I smiled again, quietly thinking to myself—I didn’t want to bother them. He and his dad had already done so much for me. I didn’t want to owe them something as big as a home.

I knew the offer was perfect for me. I had to take it before Ray chose someone else as a roommate… though honestly, I doubted anyone would last more than two days.

From now on, I had to accept the fights with Ray, his teasing flirtation—which he only did to annoy me. It wasn’t exactly something I liked. But this was about necessity.

I needed this. Not just for me, but for him. And for my brother, Babe.

⊹₊⸜ ⚙️ 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 ⸝⸝ ✦
⋆₊⊹ ☄️⚙️ ⌇ ⭒ 𝑯𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕.
🌫️☁️⌇⋆˙⊹˚｡⋆୨✧𓆩 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔 𓆪✧୧˚✧˚₊ ⊹𓂃༄

I was genuinely grateful Plug had given me a day off to move in. It had been a rough week, and my head wouldn't stop spinning with everything this change would mean. It was 7 p.m., and the sky was already turning that dirty orange shade I loved so much—especially when I needed to think.

Now, I was standing at Ray's door, in front of that wooden frame that had always felt like a line: between what I wanted and what I was supposed to do.
I took a deep breath, as if that could help me organize the words I didn’t want to say out loud—or at least not in a way that would boost that charming 

idiot’s ego.

I knew Ray was dying to have me in his house. He didn’t say it, of course, but his body language screamed it. I saw it in his eyes every time I looked at him for too long. In the way his body tensed when I got close. In that poorly performed indifference he could never really pull off. And it wasn’t that I was arrogant… even if I was. But it wasn’t just about that. He had stopped looking for anyone else the moment he realized I could take control of his life, guide him, hold him, challenge him.

Ray needed that. He always had.

Like a lost puppy searching for someone to follow—someone who would understand him.

And he had found it.

Because now I was here, at his doorstep, with two suitcases that weighed more in emotional baggage than the clothes inside.

I knocked with my knuckles once, not thinking too much. And then, he opened the door.

Ray.

His hair was neatly styled, like he’d been waiting for me for hours. His face—one that looked like it had been sculpted by an artist obsessed with delicacy—was pulled into the kind of subtle, perfect pout that could’ve floored anyone…

Anyone but me. Not tonight.
Not when I had so much to lose and so much to decide.

He was wearing a black tank top that showed off his shoulders and part of his collarbone, and holding a brown plaid shirt in his hand—like he was either about to get dressed or trying to convince me he looked even more adorable like this, half-undone and homey.

Though he was smaller than me, he had a body that was undeniably easy to admire. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and every movement made the tank top cling to him like it was made for that exact purpose. Like he knew exactly what to wear to provoke me.

“Don’t say anything. I’m moving in with you.”

Those were the only words I managed to say without letting my voice break in some emotional corner of myself. I stepped forward, pushing the door open with my shoulder while dragging my bags through the doorway.

Ray immediately stepped aside, like he didn’t want to interfere with my decision—though his eyes were gleaming with a mix of surprise and something else… happiness? I couldn’t be sure. But that amused smile that crept onto his lips made me clench my jaw.  He knew me well enough to know I hated giving him the satisfaction of being right.
Even if, in this case… he was.

Without a word, I dropped my suitcases on the big couch in the living room. It was too comfortable to be something Ray picked out on his own—someone must have helped him choose it. I turned to look at him again, slowly crossing my arms.

"Where’s my room?" I asked—not annoyed, just with that analytical tone I use when I refuse to show excitement.
There was no point pretending. Not with him.
Not in this space that smelled like everything I once tried to avoid.

I walked a few steps further into the apartment, letting the warmth of the place wrap around me gently. My eyes scanned every corner, searching for something out of place—something that might give me an excuse to regret this.

The dim lights cast long shadows on the walls, and the decor—a chaotic mix between effort and carelessness—still carried his unmistakable signature.
Everything had that functional mess he’d turned into his personal style.

And yet, I didn’t hate it.  It was, in some strange way… comforting.

Ray smiled — not a wide smile, but one full of intent — and walked toward me with the slow pace of someone in no hurry to ruin a moment he’d clearly been waiting for. His steps were silent, almost in cahoots with the air thick with all the things left unsaid. The soft sound of his bare feet on the floor floated between us like a quiet, intimate note. I watched him approach and wondered if he knew the effect he had when he acted so effortlessly calm. Maybe he did. Maybe he used it to his advantage. He knew that easy, natural charm was his best trick.

“Looks like someone changed his mind… and how kind of you to ask where your room is,” he said, his voice — that voice of his that always sounded like it was dragging a smirk behind it — brushing against me like a slow caress I hadn’t asked for, but didn’t push away either. There was no reproach in his tone, just a gentle teasing, like he was walking a tightrope between humor and relief. I looked at him quietly, studying his movements, watching how his eyes shimmered with that spark that always came out when he saw me hesitate, every time I gave in just a little more.

I didn’t answer right away. I took my time, the kind he expected with that impatient patience he had whenever he felt like he was winning something. I just watched him. Let him speak with his body, with that subtle language he mastered without even realizing it — the way he stayed still but said so much with his eyes, with the barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly what effect he’d have and welcomed it. 

He held that relaxed, borderline insolent posture, masking a thrill bubbling just beneath the surface. Like he was waiting for me to step closer, to do exactly what I did next.

I moved slowly, never breaking eye contact. I approached him with steady steps, as if each one carried an unspoken promise. My eyes didn’t stop analyzing him, trailing over him with a determination you could almost feel in the thick air building between us. I stopped just inches away. 

Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, to notice the shift in his breathing, the slight tremble in his pupils as they widened from how near I was. Ray’s eyes lit up with that spark of excitement he always struggled to hide. He stared at me like he was waiting for something, daring me to go on — and at the same time, surrendering to whatever came next.

“I only changed my mind because the offer was… pretty good,” I said in a low, deep voice, letting myself fall into the mood we’d built between silence and stolen glances. I leaned in just enough for my breath to graze his cheek. “That doesn’t mean I’ll be sleeping in your bed.”

I winked, my mouth twisting into a crooked grin, and slowly pulled away — enjoying the movement, knowing his eyes followed me like someone watching something valuable fall from their hands. He let out a soft laugh, more to himself than to me, but just loud enough for me to hear.

“Let’s hope not,” he said with that teasing tone he used to hide how badly he wanted it. “I wouldn’t want to share a bed with such a dull guy like you.”

Then, with a quick motion, he stepped closer, grabbed one of my bags, and shamelessly leaned in. I felt his lips brush my ear — just a warm flicker of a touch, like he was playing with fire and enjoying the burn. I shivered. Not from the contact itself, but from the boldness. From how well he knew what he was doing.

“Oh, and the room’s right over there,” he whispered, nodding toward the door next to the bathroom. His voice had dropped into an almost intimate murmur, like those words were meant only for the space between his mouth and my ear.

I followed his gaze, first toward the door, then back to him. My eyes lingered a little longer on his mouth — on that subtle smirk he thought he was hiding. Had he really just called me boring? …Boring in bed?

A slow, dangerous smile formed on my lips.

Poor boy.

Poor, naive boy who had no idea what he was invoking. If I ever had him submissive, moaning, trembling under my hands, with my name escaping his mouth between gasps and pleas, there wouldn't be a night that could compare. I knew it. And he would know it too.

I turned in his direction, crossing the distance between us with confidence. I didn't say a word. I simply raised my hand and took him by the chin with a nearly reverential gentleness, as if I were touching something that belonged to me. I forced him to lift his gaze, to look me directly in the eyes. There was no strength, I didn't need it. Just the right amount of pressure, firm, laden with intent. My thumb slowly grazed his jaw, while my eyes pierced into his, holding him as if that moment lasted much longer than it actually did. As if time had decided to stop right there, between his labored breathing and my absolute control.

“I would never sleep with you in that bed…” I murmured, letting my words slide slowly, as if each syllable were meant to ignite something inside him. My voice lowered, becoming deeper, more intimate, with that slow cadence that bordered on the forbidden. “And if I did, Ray… I’d give you the best night of your fucking life.”

I saw his pupils dilate instantly. I leaned in, letting the space between our bodies disappear completely, letting the warmth of my chest be felt near his. My breath brushed his neck when I spoke, lowering my voice even further, saturating each word with poisoned desire.

“Because I’d have you screaming my name while you moan and cry for needing me inside you… touching yourself like a desperate man, begging for more. Unraveled.” I moved even closer, the edge of my lips barely touching his ear as I slowly whispered: “While you scream my name in that bed, fucking yourself so hard that you’d never forget me... even if you tried.”

And then I pulled away. With the same calm I had arrived with, as if I had just said something trivial. I released his chin with a soft brush, as if my touch was still imprinted on his skin. I stayed watching for a few seconds, but I wasn’t surprised by what I found: his eyes full of illusion, wide open, as if something had ignited within them. There was no provocation this time. There was something more dangerous. There was attention. Genuine. Silent. Pure hunger disguised as calm.

Ray didn’t say anything at first. He just let the smile spread across his face slowly, as if savoring what he had just heard, as if imagining every word on his body. It wasn’t the usual arrogant smile. It was another one. A darker smile, more contained, more honest in its desire.

“Well…” he finally said, his voice hoarse, barely contained. “We’ll see how long that determination lasts.”

His hand slid down my arm, as if in no hurry, as if every inch of my skin spoke to him. It wasn’t a clumsy touch. It was calculated, intimate. His fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary on my skin, and his gaze… his damn gaze rose and fell over my body with the slowness of someone learning a new language just to savor it. He traced me with his eyes as if imagining how to undress me, how to drag me to that bed we had just turned into a battlefield of war and desire.

“I’ll be willing to test it,” he murmured with that voice full of intention, “to see how good you are in bed.”

I glanced at him sideways. I didn’t respond with words. It wasn’t necessary. The atmosphere was already too thick. My body pulsed with intensity, my breath grew deeper, and yet, I remained firm. I wasn’t going to fall for his game. Not that quickly. Not yet.

Without another word, I pulled away from his touch. I turned with a feigned calm, though inside, everything screamed. I walked with steady steps toward the room, as if the heat his proximity had left me with hadn’t touched me. I crossed the threshold of that house as if it were mine, as if that room full of tension hadn’t just become a battlefield of restrained bodies.

I left Ray there. Standing. Alone. Wrapped in his desire. Wrapped in me.

And the best part... was that he knew it.

⟡𓆪 ⊹ 2:00 AM, even though the body is silent... desire screams ✧

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

☁︎ ˗ˋˏ Sighs in the dark 𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ𖤐

      ╭┈┈┈ ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆

                       │ The silence seems to growl...

          ╰┈➤ ━ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ་ 💭 ་ ˖ ࣪⊹ ━

I spent the whole night organizing my things, not out of real need, but for distraction, to fill the space with something other than thinking. There was something unsettling in the air, a heavy vibration hanging in the atmosphere, as if the walls were whispering something I couldn’t fully understand. I found it strange that Ray hadn’t gone out. He always, without exception, found an excuse to show up at Yolo’s bar, whether it was to drink until his lips went numb, to play some silly game on the machines in the back, or simply to let the music swallow him with its beats until his body couldn’t take it anymore. And yet, not today. Today, there was no music. No eager, joyful footsteps leaving through the door. No forced laughter or strong perfume floating down the hallway.

I knew he was still at home, of course. Because I woke up abruptly, as if my body knew before my mind that something was wrong. I looked at my phone with squinted eyes. 2:03 a.m. It wasn’t the time to be awake, yet the screams breaking through the walls were impossible to ignore. A sharp, hoarse voice, broken with rage... and it was Ray’s. I stayed in bed for a few more seconds, my heart slightly racing. It wasn’t the first time I had heard him upset, but this time, it sounded different. There was a mix of pain and fury I had never heard before, as if he were being torn apart inside, no matter how hard he tried to stay standing.

I got up without thinking much, my body heavy with sleep and the air still warm from the room. I went as usual, shirtless, wearing shorts barely covering my legs. On another occasion, I would have thought about that before stepping out, but now, I just wanted to go to the kitchen for some juice, something to calm this strange feeling that had settled in my chest. As I walked silently toward the door, the voices grew louder, clearer, and what I heard stopped me dead in my tracks for a second.

“I don’t need your damn rules! You don’t tell me what to do anymore! Stop controlling my damn life, father!” Ray’s voice wasn’t just a shout. It was a tearing, open wound that hadn’t healed in years. His body was tense, completely rigid in the living room, and although I couldn’t see his face yet, the way he clenched his fists, his back straight as if holding back a storm, told me everything.

I slipped quickly into the kitchen, trying not to be noticed. I grabbed the juice jug, feeling the cold glass between my fingers, but the shouting didn’t stop. I couldn’t ignore it. It pierced me.

“I don’t want you sticking your damn nose into my decisions! I don’t need your help! If I want to live this life, I’ll do it!” he roared. His voice had cracks, as if it were breaking into pieces as he spoke, like behind all that fury, there was just an abandoned child who didn’t know how to scream his pain any other way.

I set the glass carefully on the countertop. I didn’t move. I didn’t know if I should step out, if I should appear at that moment. What if it just made things worse? Ray was a temperamental guy, and by that, I didn’t just mean his mood swings. He was an emotional bomb. A body living on the edge of its own implosion. I knew he could explode with just one wrong word. But I also knew, deep down, that he was alone with all of it. That he had no one to unload that weight onto, except the phone he was now holding with a trembling hand, arguing with a father who didn’t listen... or didn’t want to listen.

“You don’t understand what my life is like! You don’t know anything about me, really!” he shouted even louder, and it was as if something inside him completely broke. That scream had pain, abandonment, ancient rage. It wasn’t just a fight. It was a cry for years lost, for a buried childhood, for an absent figure who only showed up to judge, only to control, never to embrace.

From where I stood, with the glass in his hands, I felt something tighten around my chest. That scene wasn’t just his. It was all too familiar to me. And I couldn’t help but stay still, as if I were invading a moment too intimate. As if seeing him like this was something he didn’t want to share... even though he was already shouting it out loud.

And yet, there I was. Listening to it all. Wanting, for a moment, to step in, take that phone away, hug him, tell him it was okay to feel like this, that he didn’t have to fight it alone.

“You’re a damn mess! How can you live like this? Without responsibility, without direction, wasting your life on parties and alcohol.”

The man’s voice was as cold as it was harsh, a mix of worn authority and painful disappointment. It came through the speaker with force, cutting through the air of the room like blades. It sounded as if he were there, standing in front of Ray, judging him with his gaze, arms crossed, his morale high and mighty. But he wasn’t. It was just a voice on the other side of the phone. Distant. And yet, so present it filled the whole space.

Ray had the phone on speaker on the table. He stood in front of it, arms tight, his jaw clenched with a restrained rage that seemed about to explode. I watched from the kitchen, still holding the glass of juice in my hand. I had no intention of getting involved. Not yet. But that scene was quickly spiraling out of control.

Ray raised his fist and slammed it hard onto the table. The impact was dry, sharp. It made me jump, my heart tightening in my chest. The glass trembled in my fingers. I quickly left the kitchen, crossing the threshold into the shadows, to find myself face-to-face with him. He had his back to me, his hand red, fingers gripping his hair as if trying to pull his thoughts out by the roots. His breath was erratic. He was shaking.

“I don’t need you telling me what my responsibilities are! I’m an adult and I can do whatever the hell I want!” he shouted, his voice heavy with rage, but also with a pain so raw it hurt to hear.

And then he saw me. He turned suddenly, his eyes wide as he realized he wasn’t alone. Our gazes locked. The contact was like a flash of light. His body tensed even more. The surprise was so strong that he immediately hung up the call, the phone flying across the couch, bouncing off the floor with a sharp thud. He just stared at me, his lips parted as if he was searching for something to say, as if, for a moment, he had forgotten how to speak. But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he spun around and headed straight for the bar where he kept his liquor bottles. His steps were quick, desperate, as if looking for an escape at the bottom of a bottle.

I tried to reach him. I wanted to stop him. It wasn’t the time for him to drown in alcohol.

“Ray, you shouldn’t drink so much...” I murmured, a mix of concern and firmness. But he didn’t listen. He didn’t want to listen.

He pulled away roughly, opened one of the bottles, and drank straight from the neck as if that liquid was an antidote for all his rage. An immediate relief. A way to forget what he’d just been told. I tried again to take the bottle from him, but this time he was more aggressive. He shoved me hard, and the bottle slipped from his hand. It shattered on the floor. The sound of the glass breaking was deafening. The red liquor spilled like blood across the tiles, forming a pool that glimmered under the faint light of the early morning.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Kant! What do you care about whether I drink or not? I don’t need your damn opinion!” he yelled, his fury seeming to have no direction. He wasn’t talking to me, not really. He was yelling at the world. At his father. At himself.

For a moment, I stood frozen. Not because of the scream, but because of what was behind it. The guy staggering in front of me wasn’t just a drunken rebel. He was someone broken. Someone who didn’t know how to hold himself together without everything around him falling apart.

Ray was completely out of control. His steps were clumsy, dangerous.He walked over the broken glass without even noticing. The fallen bottles, the liquor on the floor, the countertop wobbling… it all looked like a scene from a nightmare. I rushed toward him, trying to pull him away from the wreckage, to stop him from cutting himself. I pushed him gently, but he responded with another shove, stronger, more desperate.

“Don’t worry about me, Kant! You just want me for sex. That’s all! I’ll drink whatever I want, fuck you!” he shouted, his voice breaking, his eyes wet with rage or something else I couldn’t or didn’t want to name.

I stood in shock. His words were daggers, cutting into places I didn’t know existed. Tension ran down my spine like a chill. I pushed him, more to get him away from the glass than in response to his comment. But he exploded.
Ray let out a scream full of fury and frustration, and with one blow, he slammed his fist into the countertop, making it crack and split at one end. The wood splintered with a sharp sound. Something broke there, not just in the countertop, but in the air around us. The atmosphere was no longer just tense. It was suffocating.

He turned again without saying another word. He staggered toward his room, but with a furious energy, as if fleeing from himself. He grabbed another bottle from the cabinet before disappearing behind the door. And then, silence.
Absolute silence.

It was just me left. In the middle of the room. Glass of juice in one hand, the other trembling slightly. A broken countertop. Glass scattered across the floor. And the trace of a man who screamed for help in the only way he knew: by destroying himself.

I stayed there for a few more seconds, feeling the echo of his screams still vibrating inside me, as if the walls of this house had absorbed his rage, his sadness… his pain. And I think I had too.

 ִֶָ ☼ 𝟏𝟎:𝟎𝟎 𝐀𝐌 ⋆｡˚ ❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞... 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 ❞  

╭───────⋅⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆──────╮  

🍶 𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑚 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑠𝑎𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑟, 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 🍶  

𓍯 ˚₊ ⊹ “𝐈’𝐦 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐞…”  

🥀 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒑 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔  

╰──────⋅☁︎ ˗ˋˏ𓆩⟡𓆪 ⊹──────╯  

It was 3:40 AM when I finally finished. The mess Ray had left in his wake forced me to stay awake longer than my body could handle. I picked up the pieces, cleaned every corner of the house, and tried to restore some semblance of order. Even though the cracked countertop remained an open wound in the kitchen; there was no way to fix it for now, so I focused on picking up the broken remains and cleaning Methodically, trying to erase any trace of chaos. Everything, except for the disarray that remains within me.

I woke up around 10 in the morning, my body still exhausted, glued to the mattress. Sleep pulled at me strongly, but I knew I had to get up. I needed to brush my teeth, clear my head with a hot shower, and return to myself after such a long night. I got up with a foggy head, still feeling the warmth in the messy sheets, and walked toward the bathroom on autopilot, not noticing the details around me… nor the warm steam escaping from the door gap, nor the light on that revealed I wasn’t alone. I grabbed the handle, the door gave way without resistance, and then I saw him.

Ray. Completely naked. His body unfolded before me like a burning mirage in the middle of that thousand-dollar bathroom. Nothing else mattered: the marble finishes, the unclouded mirrors, the soft lights. I only saw him. The guy, shorter than me, with droplets running down his skin—like even the water, still flowing from the open tap, wanted to stay on his body just a second longer. Something inside me tightened. A part I didn’t want to acknowledge. Because, for some reason, I liked that view. A lot more than I was willing to accept. And that confused me.

There was something different about him. Ray no longer seemed like the angry jerk who had confronted his father the night before. His attitude now was lighter, playful… seductively dangerous. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, with that crooked smile he used as a weapon, and uttered a cheeky line, his voice husky, still wet from the steam.

“Well… looks like you have no inhibitions, Kant. I didn’t think you were so bold.”

Before I could react, he moved closer, slowly, until I felt the heat of his body just inches from mine. He leaned slightly toward my ear, enough to make me hold my breath.

“I didn’t think you were so eager to shower with me.”

I stifled a nervous laugh and put my hands on my hips, trying to regain control of the scene. I let out a sigh that was meant to be indifferent, but I couldn’t deny that my pulse was trembling, that my throat was dry with his proximity. Ray kept playing. Of course he did. And me… I couldn’t fall for that game. Not now. Not yet.

“I’ll let you keep showering… I’m sorry,” I murmured, taking a step back with the intention of leaving, but I didn’t get far. Without me noticing, Ray grabbed my hand firmly, that kind of grip that can’t be rejected without making a scene, and without saying a word, he dragged me with him straight under the shower. His other hand, free and agile, turned the water handle, letting the warm stream start to fall over us, instantly soaking our skin, causing the steam to expand throughout the room like a veil that enveloped us in an intimate, heavy… almost sinful atmosphere.

His eyes, those eyes filled with an unsettling glimmer, slowly scanned my body with shameless slowness. He wasn’t in a hurry to hide his gaze, nor his barely curved smile at the corner of his lips. It was as if he were savoring every inch of me with his eyes. And when he finally lifted his gaze and locked those intoxicating eyes — clear like a sweet and dangerous nectar — onto mine, I felt my breath stop. He looked at me as if I were the only object of his attention, as if everything else had disappeared.

“Don’t apologize… I like this view,” he finally said, breaking the silence with a voice so deep and soft it slid like wet velvet through the steam.

I took a deep breath, trying to hold on to the little composure I had left. I looked at him with an eyebrow raised, allowing myself a low, mocking laugh as I raised my hands and gently pushed him toward the wall. I cornered him there, leaving my hand above, at the height of his face, trapping him between the hot tiles and my body. "I felt the water running over my skin, but I kept it from touching my face. My clothes, soaked and clinging to my body, grew more uncomfortable by the second—almost as if they were reminding me there was no escaping that scene. I looked down at him from above, from that closeness filled with desire disguised as a game.

“What do you think you’re doing, Ray? Do you want me to shower with you?” I said with an ironic, provocative tone, with a crooked smile meant to show control, though my heartbeat said otherwise. “That’s not going to happen.”

We were so close that our breaths mixed, became one, and still, he smiled. That damn smile… the one of someone who feels like they’re winning. And then he laughed. A low, cheeky laugh that vibrated in his chest and went straight to mine.

“Oh, please, Kant… I know you want me,” he replied in a seductive tone, his voice heavy with both malice and desire. He looked at me with a mix of mischief and intensity. “You just need to admit it.”

And without hesitation, as if each of his movements were precisely planned, he slid his hand over my shoulders with an alarming softness, as if he were a faithful lover. We weren’t, not even close. But he knew exactly how to act, he blinked like a mischievous boy and pouted his lips in an act of  feigned innocence repeating his final sentence with a whisper: “You just need to admit it.”

Ray had always been that type of man who got everything he wanted with an explosive mix of tenderness and fierce desire. I had seen it hundreds of times at the bar, taking down one after another with that feline gaze, that charm that combined childlike sweetness with blatant lust. I always called him “the guy with the feline gaze and lustful feelings.” And right now, he had that look fixed on me.

I grabbed him by the chin, lifting it with firm, relentless gentleness, forcing him to look me in the eye. I had to remind him that I knew how to play this game too, and that I wouldn’t always be the one losing control.

“Oh, Ray… you’ve always thought anyone would fall at your feet. Isn't that right?” I asked, my voice rough, dangerous, as I closed the distance even further, as the tension between us became a thread ready to snap.

I don’t know when I lost my sanity. Maybe it was when he tilted his head and started kissing my neck. His lips were soft, but his mouth devoured with intensity; he sucked, licked, tasted my skin as if it were really sweet nectar. And for a second, I thought it was.

I let myself go. I didn’t think about it, not for a second. It was as if my senses had been conquered by the warmth of his skin, by the moisture of the steam, by the way his mouth traced my neck with that desperate surrender. And then, unable to stop myself, I pressed our bodies closer, pressing my chest to his while he delighted in every inch of my skin. His lips descended with hunger and precision, first down my neck, then my torso, until they reached my nipples, where his tongue played with a dangerous softness. The pleasure became physical, it turned into sound, moans that escaped my throat without permission. They weren’t soft. They weren’t shy. They were open, unabashed, liberating moans that filled the bathroom like indecent music.

It was then that Ray broke the contact and looked at me, barely gasping, with moist lips and eyes filled with a mix of lust and something else harder to name. His voice came out soft, a little broken, as if even he was surprised by the effect this had on his body.

“No… not everyone gives in to me,” he said, and those words, though wrapped in desire, carried a veiled confession, as if he felt defeated yet hungrier than before. “But you… you make me want more. You make me want to make you give yourself to me…”

Those last words rang in my head like an alarm. It only took a few seconds for me to immerse myself in the taste of his lips on my body, to lose myself in the pressure of his mouth and the heat of his skin… but then, I remembered. Ray was nothing more than my roommate. A rather annoying, arrogant, and cheeky one, who from the first moment he met me made it clear, without words, that all he wanted from me was this: sex. I had known that since the very first day, when he found out we’d be sharing a room, and his eyes devoured me with the same intensity with which he was now kissing me.

I gently pulled away, with determination. Despite the internal trembling, I stood firm, looking him directly in the eyes while the water continued to cascade over us, soaking our naked bodies.

“You won’t get more of me… I’m not an easy guy, Ray,” I murmured with a mischievous, almost tender smile, as if I were part of his game, but with the rules clear. I winked at him playfully and turned around, letting the water slide down my back as I walked away.

But something caught my attention. As I looked at the floor, I saw Ray’s feet, and on them… blood. Small stains on the soles, signs of the glass that had covered the floor last night after the outburst he had caused. The shower was still on, the steam had already covered everything, and yet the contrast of that blood against the white tiles startled me. I continued out into the hall silently. Not because I didn’t want to, but because saying something at that moment would have meant giving in completely… and Ray still hadn’t earned that.

Chapter Text

𓆩 11:17 𝐀𝐌 𓆪 ⊹ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 ⋆｡˚  

╭────── ⊹ 𝑨 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒂 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆 ˖˚. ⋆ ⊹ ╮  

💬 “𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥.”  

🖤 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆  

👀 “𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝?”  

🤍 “𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝-𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐬.”

╰── ⊹ ⋆ 𝐇𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬—𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝.  

       𝐍𝐨𝐰… 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧? ☁︎︎

It was half an hour later that I made up my mind. I didn’t wait any longer. I walked into Ray’s room with a small first aid kit in my hands, equipped with the essentials. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to treat the cuts he had ignored. Ray probably didn’t even know he had a  first aid kit in the house. 

Ray looked at me surprised as soon as I crossed the doorway, his eyes fixated on the kit as if he were analyzing each item inside. He was still naked, of course, only covered by a towel that hung dangerously from his waist. I approached without saying a word. The silence in the room was thick, filled with something we weren’t sure was tension or desire. Maybe both.

I knelt in front of him, gently taking hold of one injured foot and examining it closely. Small cuts, but deep. They couldn’t stay like that. I took a cotton swab, soaked it in alcohol, and started working carefully. As soon as I touched him, Ray let out a soft sigh. His hand, firm, found its way to my shoulder, gripping tightly. His gaze was locked on me, intense, as if he were trying to figure me out completely. He didn’t look away. And I couldn’t help but smile when I heard that muffled moan escape from him due to the pain.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” I warned him, with the indifference of someone who had seen many wounds. Though, a hint of mockery was hidden in my voice.

I kept cleaning while I inspected the cuts closely. This could easily get infected if it wasn’t treated well.

“You should’ve gone to the hospital. If they get infected, they might end up amputating your feet,” I said seriously, not lifting my gaze, as if it were a truly grave diagnosis.

Ray bit his lip, making an effort not to complain. His expression was a mix of pain and frustration, as if he didn’t know whether to be annoyed by my words or by the stabs of pain he felt. Then he huffed, irritated.

“Yeah, sure… because going to the hospital was the first thing on my mind in the middle of everything that happened, right?” Ray scoffed, with a sarcastic tone, but there was something else in his voice. A hint of exhaustion, of contained pain, and perhaps a bit of vulnerability he hadn’t shown before.

The coldness of the alcohol touching his skin made him react again. This time, it was a low groan, almost a purr that he tried to hide but that slipped from his lips without permission. It was such an intimate sound that it made me stop for a moment. I don’t know if it was his breathing, the way he clung to my shoulder, or how his body trembled just a little, but it made me feel that everything happening between us wasn’t just a game of provocations anymore. There was something more. Something neither he nor I were ready to name.

I looked at him from below, and a soft smile escaped me, as if his reaction had amused me more than it should have.

“"I'm just kidding, you can keep your foot" I said lightly, almost as if it were nothing, while I set the used cotton swab aside and looked for a new gauze to cover the deeper cut.

Ray let out another sigh, but this time it was different. Not of pain, but of relief. It was as if I had taken a weight off him with just that phrase. I noticed it in his shoulders, in how his breathing slowed down, in how his hand dropped slightly from my shoulder, as if he realized he had been holding on too tightly.

“So it was a joke… What a joker,” he murmured, but his voice no longer sounded annoyed. It sounded low, filled with something unspoken. When I looked up, he wasn’t looking at me with annoyance or mockery anymore. He was looking at me with attention. With that intensity of his that disarms, as if at any moment he was going to say something that would change everything. As if I were the final piece of a puzzle he still didn’t quite understand.

And there we were, staring at each other without speaking. His gaze had something that unsettled me. It was quiet, yes, but as clear as a scream. It spoke to me without saying a single word, analyzing me as if he wanted to uncover all my secrets at once. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I didn’t want to.

“Actually… yeah, going to the hospital should’ve been the first thing you thought about,” I said, not taking my eyes off his wounds. “The cuts could have gotten infected if you didn’t treat them properly.”

As I spoke, I gently slid my hand down Ray’s thigh, intending to stabilize him, but the contact made him tense up a bit. He smiled to himself, a gesture that seemed to hold back a sigh, and slightly lifted his head – as if surrendering for a moment to the sensation. I liked that sigh, barely audible but sincere. The kind that said more than a thousand words.

“I’ll put this gauze on you, it’ll work well,” I said while focusing on Ray’s already disinfected leg. I carefully placed the gauze over the cut, pressing firmly but mindful to not cause  him more pain. When I finished, I placed my hand back on his thigh, this time with finality, as if to signal that I was done.

He glanced at me briefly, just for a second, and without saying anything, grabbed the bottle near him, still with some alcohol left. But before he could bring it to his mouth, I placed my hand over his to stop him.

“What are you doing?” Ray murmured, in a tired sigh. I stared at him, but he pushed my hand away with some force and took a swig.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?” I asked, without changing my tone.

Ray shot me a look that, before, would have been filled with fury and defiance, but this time… held only it  soft defeat. He slowly lowered his gaze and sighed.

“You don’t have to watch me drink. I can do it on my own…”

And there he was again. That Ray I knew so well. The one who jumped at every emotion, the one who couldn’t keep his cool for long. The one who turned every word into a spark ready to ignite everything. I sighed deeply, tired, and stood up while gathering the first aid kit.

“Do whatever you want, but I don’t want to pick up broken glass again when you decide to smash another bottle of tequila or whiskey, understood?”

I turned around and left the room. I didn’t have the energy for another argument. But before I reached the door, I heard his steps behind me, a little clumsy, and suddenly felt his hand take mine.

I stopped. I looked at him. And there he was, with that look of his that seemed innocent but knew exactly what it was doing. His lower lip was slightly pouted, forming a cute, fake, Ray-like gesture, and in his other hand, he was still holding the bottle. How could he look so cute with that expression? So sweet, so fake… so Ray.

“Kant…” he whispered, with that soft voice he used when he wanted to get his way. He took my hand gently, moving it slowly, as if afraid I would slip away from his fingers.

For a moment, I hesitated. But then I remembered who he was. I remembered how he behaved, how a single wrong word was enough to set him off again. That unpredictable temper, that emotional rollercoaster that had no brakes.

Without saying anything more, I pulled his hand from mine with a firm movement. 

wasn’t in the mood for games. Not today. Not with his half-hearted apologies or that tenderness that lasted as long as a sigh. I left him there, standing in the middle of the room, alone again, with his bottle, his pout... and his loneliness.

I needed a break from him. And this time, I was going to take it.

Well… that’s what I thought, until night came. As usual, my shift started with disruptions: drunk clients, others who just danced and sang with almost theatrical happiness. But for some reason, my body and mind couldn’t stop thinking about him. About Ray.

My eyes searched for him throughout the bar until I found him sitting next to Boston, a rather flirtatious guy who never missed a party. I knew him well, he had tried to flirt with me on more than one occasion, without success. I’m not attracted to men who walk in smiling as if that’s enough to win my heart…

Next to them was Mew, accompanied by his boyfriend, Top. A tall guy, whom I knew because he sometimes hired me as a bartender for his events. Further back, pressed together into the corner of a love seat was Cheum and her girlfriend, adorable…when they wanted to be. April, on the other hand, had always been the most mature of the group. Even though she didn’t fully belong to this circle, she was the one who helped Cheum stay grounded. Though, I’m not going to lie: I don’t entirely like Cheum. There’s something in the way she scolds Ray, her disproportionate anger… anyone looking in from the outside might think she has a personal vendetta against him. Her favoritism toward Mew and his boyfriend is obvious. The same went for Boston. From my limited perspective, Boston seems to be the only one who manages to not make Ray angry… sometimes.

And there he is, sitting next to April. Ray. Drink in hand, wearing a dark blue shirt that fit his body perfectly. His hair carefully styled, his eyes—beautiful, but clouded by alcohol—lost somewhere in the air. His waist naturally defined under the tight fabric, and on top of that, he wore a white feathered cardigan that gave him a cozy look.

He displayed that sadness so characteristic of him. A sadness that left me thinking about everything that could be behind that lost gaze. I wanted to know… I wanted to understand what was hidden behind those eyes. But at that moment, it didn’t matter. Because his smile appeared, lighting up his face, when he started playing "General Knowledge," that typical game they always left on the bar tables to make clients feel more comfortable. And he… he looked comfortable?

Plug asked one of the game’s questions:
"Who punished Prometheus for stealing fire from the gods of Olympus?"

Ray was the first to ring the bell. He didn’t answer right away. He cleared his throat, as if preparing to give a lesson, and let his gaze sweep over the other players. Some watched him with a hint of skepticism, doubting whether he knew the correct answer.

“Well, the answer is...” he said with a tone of confidence that didn’t go unnoticed. “It’s a question about the history of Greek culture.”

I looked at him, stopping what I was doing. I knew he said it like that just to seem smarter, to play with everyone’s attention. And although his answer wasn’t entirely correct, I knew he knew the right answer perfectly well. It wasn’t a difficult question.

But I also wanted to play. To tease him a little.

So, without thinking too much, I quickly rang the nearest bell. The looks turned toward me… but I was only searching for one: Ray’s. I looked him straight in the eyes, ignoring the rest. I just wanted to play that spark between us and provoke him a little.

Then, without taking my eyes off him, I answered:
“It was Zeus. Zeus punished Prometheus.”

Disjointed applause began in scattered bursts across the room, like little waves of recognition spreading among the tables. Some laughed, others clapped more enthusiastically, enjoying the unexpected turn the game had taken. Plug, amused by the situation, let out a sincere laugh and, with his usual enthusiastic tone, proposed something more.

“We have new points!” announced, excited. “Well, now that you two have taken control… what do you think about having a little game just between the two of you?”

The proposal floated in the air like a spark that ignited something bigger. Without thinking too much, I nodded with a confidence that rose from my chest, as if I had been waiting for this moment. My smile appeared immediately, one of those smiles that say more than they should, filled with a playfulness that couldn’t be hidden. I lifted my gaze and fixed it on Ray, looking for his reaction. And, of course, he didn’t disappoint me.

His eyes met mine right away, and for a brief second, I thought I saw a flash of annoyance, a fleeting spark of anger. But it was just that, a moment, because his expression quickly changed. The anger vanished as if it had never been there, and in its place appeared a proud, almost defiant smile. He brought the glass to his lips, took a slow sip, with the calm of someone who knows they don’t need to rush to win, and then looked down at the bell still resting in the center of the table, as if that was the real beginning of what was to come.

That look said it all. Ray wasn’t just accepting the challenge; he was claiming it as his own. You could see it in his posture, in the way he now looked at the game with new eyes. It was as if, with that simple gesture, he was warning us all that he was ready to play… but on his terms.

And then, just when it seemed like his attention was completely on the bell, he looked back at me. His gaze met mine with strength, with that electric energy that always appeared when we challenged each other, when we provoked each other without needing to say too much. His lips slowly curved into an arrogant, confident smile, as if he already knew the outcome of the game before it even started.

“Alright, Kant… you go first.” said with a firm voice, tinged with that challenging lilt that provoked me more than I was willing to admit.

I looked at him for a few seconds, holding his gaze with that defiant spark I knew drove him crazy. I nodded without saying a word, and with that gesture, the whole place erupted in whoops and excited laughter. The atmosphere ignited as if my simple affirmation had marked the start of something deeper, more intimate.

Plug, without missing a beat, took out one of his colored cards. Elegant, as always, his fingers slid over them until he picked one in a soft orange tone, like the smooth skin of a ripe peach.

“What is the first animated Disney movie?” asked, with a playful voice, the innocent question a stark contrast to what was brewing beneath the surface.

I knew the answer. I had it on the tip of my tongue, ready to savor it. But before my fingers could touch the bell, Ray’s did. Of course, he did. With that precision of his, almost mechanical, almost arrogant. He rang the bell as if he were marking his territory.

“Easy.” said with a tilted smile. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

He looked at me with that damn gaze of his, so sure, so full of vanity. The applause was almost immediate, as if everyone had been waiting for him to show off. Cheum, spurred on by the liquor, hugged him, shaking him like he had won an important prize and filling him with empty compliments. Pathetic. That question was almost a gift, an obvious one. But Ray…Ray smiled as if he had conquered the world.

He knew what he was doing. He knew that smile, that gesture pricked me right where it hurt the most. He took a sip from his glass with the same sensuality with which he answered.

Slow.

Provocative.

And then Plug shuffled the cards again, pulling out a yellow one, shining like a spark of desire.

“How many hearts does an octopus have?” asked, with a mischievous half-smile.

I didn’t think about it. This time my hand was quicker. I rang the bell before Ray could even blink. He was still distracted with his drink, which gave me the perfect advantage.

“It has three hearts.” I said in a firm, clear voice, with that mix of confidence and sensuality that I knew stirred something inside him .

Ray tensed. I saw it. His shoulders, his jaw, that small twitch in his left eyebrow. I knew it hurt him to lose, especially to me. But his smile grew, crooked, full of anger disguised as desire. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, savoring his drink, as if planning how to get back at me.

Plug let out a laugh, and some others joined in. There was even applause. Not for the answer, but for beating him. For showing that I could play this game too, and do it better than he could.

“Good answer!” Plug said, still laughing.

Ray grumbled under his breath, low, almost like an annoyed animal. He took another sip, fast, desperate, as if he needed to put out something burning inside him. Though, of course, in the true nature of it all, the alcohol only made the flames burn brighter . I didn’t want to let him off easy. I stood up with the bell in my hand and walked slowly, provocatively, to one of the empty seats, right next to his. Side by side. Close enough for him to feel my heat, but far enough for him to have to make an effort to reach me.

He looked at me, confused, with his glass half-empty. I met his gaze with a small, tilted, flirtatious smile, and winked at him.
I wanted to play. I wanted to see him lose control.

“I think it’s time to play, Ray.” I said quietly, barely a whisper, loaded with intentions.

I took one of his glasses without permission, without asking for anything, and drank it in one go, leaving my lips marked on the rim. Then I looked at him again, smiling, knowing I was touching his pride... and something more.

I sat back down with the bell between my fingers, absently stroking it as if it were a toy. He let out a low grunt and turned his back to me. But it wasn’t surrender. It was tension. It was contained desire.

The screams of surprise were immediate. Ray’s friends didn’t hide the excitement that grew in the air like thick smoke. Cheum, as always, was the most effusive, encouraging Ray with his vibrant energy, almost as if his soul depended on him winning. Meanwhile, Boston stayed in his world, drinking in silence, either unaware or perhaps too absorbed in that kind of desire that's savored in silence. And Mew... Mew was trying to join the conversation with Ray, talking about possible answers, analyzing the game with his brilliant mind.

“No, Mew.” I said, barely raising my voice but loading it with firmness. “You’re not playing today.”

My eyes met his and he understood. This game was between Ray and me. Only us, no one else.

Just when the atmosphere was already beginning to heat up on its own, Plug took control again. He cleared his throat, raised the microphone, and his mischievous smile said it all. The bastard had something planned. Something he had been cooking up beforehand. I looked at him, expectant. Ray did too. We both knew that when Plug spoke with that look... nothing good —or rather, nothing innocent— was about to come.

“Now that things are getting good…” Plug began,his deep voice dragging each word as if savoring it. “I feel like we should turn up the heat on this game. Make it more... spicy.”

A murmur of excitement spread throughout the room, like a collective sigh. I watched him, not blinking, waiting for the next move. Ray was paying attention too, although he tried to feign disinterest. He didn’t succeed.

“Whoever loses a question or takes longer to answer... will have to complete a challenge…” Plug continued, raising his hand to calm the cheers of those already celebrating prematurely. “The challenges will be chosen not only by me…but the audience as well.”

And there it was. Hell disguised as a game. I knew it. Plug was a damn sadist disguised as a host. His challenges were always dark, sensual, uncomfortably provocative. And the audience...They’re  the same. A group of perverts hungry for thrills. They wanted to see how desire overflowed, how limits were crossed. And tonight, they would.

Without hesitation, I took a sip from my glass. The strong taste crawled down my throat like liquid fire. It was my way of saying “I accept.” Ray did the same, drinking with that mix of pride and desire to compete that makes him
so irresistible.

But Plug wasn’t finished.

“And there’s one more thing” added, with a smile that promised chaos. “Whoever rings the bell will have to take a drink, even before answering. No touching it lightly. If you know the answer, you drink. Then you speak. If you dare, of course..."

The cheers from the crowd rose even higher. Some whooped and clapped, others called for challenges already, as if they couldn’t wait another second to see how everything would turn into a dangerous game of glances, drinks, and dares. The heat in the room was palpable, not because of the temperature, but because of the erotic tension that was growing like an uncontrollable fire.

I nodded slowly, with a tilted smile that I threw at Ray like a challenge. He held my gaze. Intense. Burning. Then nodded too, with his lips barely curving, his glass between his fingers, ego ready to explode...or to surrender.

But he wouldn’t make it that easy.

Ray knew this wasn’t a simple trivia game. This was something else. This was war. A dirty, hot war., Ffull of pride, desire, and fire. And neither of us was planning on losing .

The bell was between my fingers. I stroked it slowly, playing with it, as the atmosphere filled with murmurs and provocations. It wasn’t just the sound of drinks, or laughter, or cheers... it was a collective heartbeat of all the bodies in the room, waiting to see who would fall first.

Several people started approaching my table. A couple of women settled beside me, their arms brushing against my shoulders, their soft, whispered laughter only fueling the heat I already felt on my skin. Some men came over too, patting my back and whispering words of encouragement in my ear. That attention lit me up, fed me. I felt wanted, supported—but above all…challenged. And that only excited me more.

Plug had to raise his voice to quiet the crowd that was already spiraling out of control. Many kept drinking nonstop, others leaned across tables, betting money like it was some underground fight. Chaos reigned, but it had its own hot, addictive rhythm. Most of them were betting on me, I could tell. They watched me hungrily, as if they could already taste my victory. Others, loyal to the bar’s golden crew—the shiny, arrogant circle around Ray—placed their money on him.

In the middle of that fever, Top and Boston were arguing. In the end, Boston, without saying much, bet on me, dropping a few chips on the table. Mew scolded them in a low voice but was visibly upset, as if betraying Ray was nearly a sin.

"You can’t sell out your own friend!" Mew complained, crossing his arms.

"Relax, Mew..." Boston replied with a crooked smile. "Sometimes you have to be realistic."

But Ray didn’t even flinch. He was looking at me… with that smile.

God. That smile.

A cursed blend of sweetness and mischief, like he knew he could burn me to ashes with just a blink. His eyes had that dangerous intensity, like suns about to explode. But I wasn’t going to look away. I wasn’t going to drop my gaze or let him intimidate me.

So I didn’t. I stared right back at him, with the same intensity. I didn’t look away for even a second. I had my drink in hand and I raised it slowly, like a toast. He raised his glass too, without breaking eye contact, and gave a small nod, as if saying: “This one’s for you.” That spoiled, shameless boy... so sure of himself, so damn tempting in the way he provoked me.

Plug raised his voice.

"Alright then… What gas do plants need for photosynthesis?"

Ray reacted instantly. He brought the glass to his lips with a speed that looked rehearsed. That way he drank, the way his tongue traced the rim of the glass before sipping—it was so obvious you didn’t need much imagination to guess how he used it for far more… pleasurable purposes.

Ray hit the bell quickly, downed his drink, and licked his lips like the whole thing was part of his performance.

“Easy! It’s…oxygen,” He announced confidently, with that voice of his that knew exactly how to slip under your skin.

Plug barely smiled.

“Wrong answer!” He said, then turned to me. “Kant?”

I shifted in my seat, enjoying the moment. I knew the answer—of course I did. And I said it with pride, looking Ray straight in the eyes.

“Carbon dioxide.” I paused for a second before delivering the final blow. “Which you’re clearly lacking in your brain.”

Ray let out a sharp sigh and turned his back to me, like I wasn’t even worth the energy. I laughed with pleasure. I loved seeing him like that—frustrated, annoyed, but still just as tempting. That gorgeous brat who had just lost in front of everyone. Spoiled, sure. But so desirable it burned me from the inside out.

Plug continued:
“Alright, the first dare will be…”

He barely got the words out before I cut him off without thinking twice. Something inside me had snapped, something I couldn’t control anymore—something that grew stronger every time Ray looked at me with those eyes full of fire. It was raw desire. Dirty, pulsing. I wasn’t going to wait any longer. The tension we’d been dragging all night couldn’t be contained anymore. I wanted him so badly it hurt, and I knew it. I knew he felt it too. So I went for it.

“I want him to give me a sensual dance.” I said with a deep, confident voice, my smirk revealing everything I’d been holding in. There was no room left for games or shame. Only for desire.

The silence in the bar was instant, like even the air had stopped moving.

I said it with a smirk, overflowing with pride. Ray turned to look at me, surprised, and his eyes—bright and wide—locked onto mine. He blinked with a charming innocence, like he didn’t quite understand what he’d just heard, but that little smile forming on his lips told a different story.

A perfect blend of innocence and mischief lit up his face, like he was pretending not to know the effect he had. He looked at me with that expression—so uniquely his—so sweet, with that soft, flawless pout that seemed made to tempt. And he didn’t need to say a word. Because in that look, in that smile dressed up as purity, was the answer: Ray wanted to do it. And he knew it.

Without saying a single word, he stood up. Slowly, with a teasing calm. Every step he took was a sentence, a hot threat that knocked the air from my lungs. When he stood in front of me, he looked at me like he already had me—like the game was over and I was his.

He placed his hand on my chest and pushed me back, making me lean fully into the chair. His palm felt warm, firm, with a confidence that scorched. He slid his hand down my torso with aching slowness, like he was savoring every second, like he knew he was driving me insane. His index finger traced along my abdomen, skimmed the edge of my pants, and just when I thought I couldn’t take any more—he did it.

He placed his hands on my thighs and spread them wide, claiming his space, leaving me with no escape.

My breath caught. I looked at him. That glint in his eyes was wild. There was lust, there was hunger. He was devouring me with his gaze, and I couldn’t think
straight anymore.

“Plug -, the music.” Ray ordered without taking his eyes off mine.

And then it began.

The slow rhythm filled the air—a deep, heavy beat that vibrated in my chest and slid down my spine like a hot tongue. And Ray started to move. God, the way he moved.

He began with his hips, slow and precise, like his body knew every note. He turned around and dropped down, grinding his ass against my legs. He crouched low, almost squatting, moving like a filthy sigh, and then came back up, pressing against me, letting me feel every curve, every muscle. I couldn’t breathe anymore.

He turned back to face me, and now his torso joined the dance. His shirt lifted just enough to reveal his toned, soft abs contracting with every movement. He touched himself, sliding his hands over his chest, pinching his own nipples, and then moving down again. His fingers toyed with the zipper of his pants, pulling it down just enough to show the band of his underwear—and then he stopped.

He was looking at me. Only me. Like the world had vanished. Like it was just him and me.

I could feel the stares from the rest of the bar. Men, women—everyone was watching him with desire, with lust, like they wanted him for themselves. And that made my blood boil. I wanted to stand up, rip his clothes off in front of everyone, just so they’d know he was mine. That only I could touch him like that. That only I would hear him moan my name.

But just when I felt I was about to lose control—he knew. He leaned in, grabbed my chin with his warm, firm fingers, and made me look only at him.
His eyes were a wildfire.

“Look at me. Only me.” They said, without a need for words.

And I surrendered.

I stayed there, staring at him, feeling how his body burned me even without fully touching me. He sat on my lap and started moving again—this time on top of me.

His ass rubbed against my crotch, his hips moved in slow, deep circles like he was already riding me through my clothes. I gripped the edge of the chair tightly. I was about to moan.

There was no hiding the heat between my legs, nor the way he could feel it—and smiled, proud, knowing he had me exactly where he wanted me.

My heart was racing, my skin trembling, my body burning. That dance wasn’t just a dare. It was a direct provocation. And I… I didn’t want to hold back. I didn’t want to stop anything. Because all I wanted was to end up with him moaning my name, scratching my back, begging for more—
and giving me everything.

Without another word, he stood up, as if the heat he’d left between us meant nothing. I followed him with my eyes, making no effort to hide it. Ray walked away with that stride of his—pure art, pure restrained desire. Every step seemed to mock the effect he’d had, fully aware he had me wrapped around his finger.

I stayed seated, unable to move, burning from the inside out. My thoughts came crashing in, one dirtier than the last. Then, in the silence thick with tension, Boston’s voice cracked through like a dirty laugh.

“Come on, guys! Just get a damn motel already! You pervs!”

Laughter exploded around us. Everyone took it as a joke, as a daring game. But for me… it wasn’t just that. Ray returned to his seat amid slaps and teasing, wearing that smile of his that never seemed to break the illusion of innocence—no matter what his actions said otherwise.

Meanwhile, I was just trying to breathe normally. I failed. I was completely turned on.

Plug resumed his role with a grin, clearly savoring the chaos.

“Well… thanks for that demonstration. Definitely unexpected… but we’re not done here. Next question.”

He reached into the pile of papers and pulled one out. Pink. Soft pastel pink, almost tender—an irony in the middle of that atmosphere charged with sexual tension. He read aloud, clear and steady:

“What animal is known as the ‘king of the jungle’?”

I went for the glass, but Ray was faster. His movements had the precision of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

He took the shot, and the bell rang. A sweet defeat.

I let out a long sigh, frustrated, and pushed the glass aside. I looked up at the ceiling, sighed again. I didn’t even bother to hide it anymore.

“It’s the lion,”He said, glorious, confident, with that sweet voice of his that seemed so unaware of the effect it had.

“Correct!” Plug replied, while everyone murmured, waiting for the next challenge.

“So… our next dare for Kant will be…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence.

Ray cut him off with the calm of someone who knows he’s about to set the room on fire. He turned to me with a dangerous look, that soft pout, and the way he blinked so innocently—like he didn’t know just how filthy his challenge was about to be.

“Kant has to give me a hickey on the neck.”

My body reacted before my mind could. The blood rushed straight to my stomach, my hips, to where it hurt the most. He didn’t shout it, he didn’t make a scene. He said it with that signature smile of his—a mix of sweetness and mischief. A naughty boy trapped in the body of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. And worse, he knew I would do it. Because he was daring me. Because there was pleasure in me refusing, but even more in me accepting.

I sighed, trapped. I stood up and walked toward him. I leaned in with purpose, bringing my lips to his neck. I wanted to do it quickly. Discreetly. But Ray raised a hand—soft, but firm—stopping me.

“Not like that,” He whispered, looking at me like he was stripping me bare— “You have to sit on my thighs… and kiss my neck until it leaves a mark.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I knew it. I knew this dare had something more behind it. I knew with Ray, nothing was simple. Nothing was just a game. He was a spoiled, dangerous, thrilling boy… and maddeningly irresistible. And yet I, years wiser than he, was falling headfirst into his stupid trap.

The stares were sharp like blades.
Everyone wanted to watch. Everyone was waiting.

Without another word, I sat on his lap. But of course he wasn’t satisfied. He grabbed my hips with purpose, squeezed my ass, and pulled me in closer until there was no space between us. I felt his chest against mine, his breath against my skin. Everything about him screamed provocation.

I leaned in, my lips brushing his neck, feeling his racing pulse, his warm skin. I began kissing slowly, savoring him, sucking carefully, leaving marks on every inch with intention. Until I left a hickey—red, angry, perfect.

But what shattered me was his reaction. Ray let out a soft moan, barely a whisper, and then, with his mouth so close to my ear it made my skin prickle, he said:

“You do this so well… I definitely need you to teach me. But next time, I want to be on top of you…with your complete submission.”

That hit like a shot to the chest. I pulled away suddenly, my breathing heavy, my heart racing. And there he was, with the fresh hickey on his neck, looking at me like he’d already won.

And maybe… he had.

Without a word, I returned to my seat, my heart pounding inside my chest. The heat running through my body was no longer just from the drink or the last dare—it was from the damn anticipation. Laughter still floated in the air, dirty jokes and cheers echoing through the bar. The game didn’t stop, and even though I thought there’d be a break after all that, I was wrong.

The next challenge didn’t come from Ray, or from me… and definitely not from Plug. Amidst it all, I’d forgotten Plug’s special inclusion. It was Boston who threw it out there, like he’d been saving it for a while, with that daring look that made me suspect he had this planned all along.

“Do a body shot. Ray has to take a shot from Kant’s body.”

I froze for a second, letting out a sigh full of resignation… and desire. Why the hell did I agree to this game?, I thought. I figured it’d be silly dares, harmless jokes, nothing out of hand.

But this—this wasn’t a game anymore.

And still…I wanted it. Because ever since Ray looked at me that way, there was no turning back.

I didn’t have time to think. Ray was already on top of me, with the same agility he had when appearing in my thoughts. He grabbed one of the shots resting beside me, then looked up to meet my eyes. His gaze said it all: blatant desire disguised as innocence, a feline glint silently asking for permission. And how the hell do you say no to those eyes? You simply don’t.

I stayed still, surrendered, waiting to see what he’d do. He took that as a yes. And without another word, he began.

Ray slid his fingers down the straps of my black uniform vest, pushing it aside slowly. His hands moved with the delicacy of someone who knew every step of the ritual he was about to perform. Then he grabbed my tie and gently tugged on it, pulling me closer to him. He didn’t let go. He held me there for a moment, our faces barely apart, his breath brushing against mine, his lips dangerously close.

I heard Plug's sigh through the microphone, but I didn't look at him. I was completely absorbed in Ray. It was then that Plug spoke, breaking the moment:

"Oh, it seems the plans have changed. You two are the only ones choosing the challenges, right?" he said, addressing Ray and me.

However, neither of us paid attention, too caught up in each other. Finally, Plug set the microphone aside, as if he understood that our gazes couldn't stray from what was happening between us.

He ran his tongue over my lips—slow, wet—like he was savoring them before devouring them. Finally, he let go of the tie, letting it fall somewhere onto the bar. His hands moved with calm, unbuttoning my shirt halfway down, exposing my chest. Not completely, but just enough for me to feel the cold air and the heat of his gaze all at once.

Ray bit his lip shamelessly. Then, without breaking eye contact, he began to pour the drink over my bare chest. The liquid ran down my skin like molten fire. But that wasn’t what made me tremble… it was his mouth.

His tongue followed the trail of alcohol hungrily, moving down my chest, kissing, licking every path like he knew me, like he’d waited a long time to do it. When he reached my nipples, he paused. He didn’t need more liquor. He kissed them directly—with soft lips at first, then his tongue playing in circles, tasting, sucking.

And then he bit.

It was a calculated bite, just strong enough to tear a choked moan from my throat without asking for permission. My whole body tensed beneath him. Ray knew exactly what he was doing. He played with my reactions like a master. He was feeding off me—off my gasps, my closed eyes, the subtle tremor running through my thighs.

And once he knew he had won… he stood up. With that victorious, filthy, delicious smile of his.

Ray got off my lap like it was nothing. I, on the other hand, was burning up, completely unraveled, breathing hard, searching the air for any way to calm myself down. I watched him as he returned to his seat. That damn spoiled brat knew he had all the power. He enjoyed it.

And I… I couldn’t wait to get my revenge.

If Boston—with that grumpy face—would even let us.

Because that night, I knew, wasn’t over.
It was just beginning.

Chapter Text

;;-; ☾ 𓂃𓈒 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐰: 𝐑𝐚𝐲 𓂃𓈒☾  

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ✦ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──  

❝ too loud to think, too soft to run ❞  

⚠︎ shards of words, broken calm, fists & fire ⚠︎

The steel steps beneath my feet felt like they were hardening inside my heart too. With every step I climbed, it became clearer that the wall I had built—cold and silent—was the only thing I knew as a refuge. It wasn’t a home. It wasn’t an embrace. Just an empty space I had learned to inhabit as I grew up.

My life has always been a whirlwind of dark thoughts. Ever since my mother died, a victim of alcohol, I stopped trusting my own mind. Every memory, every idea that passed through my head felt like a ridiculous excuse to justify the pain. I stopped looking for answers and, instead, started filling the silence with noise: parties, hollow laughter, nights that ended in nothing.

My father…he always preferred work. To him, I was just a distant echo. A weight he didn’t know how to carry, a voice he didn’t want to hear. So I grew up looking for support wherever I could find it. I thought I found it in those party friends, in those blurry faces that only existed in loud laughter and even louder music, never present in the quiet of my suffering. Did it matter? Maybe not. In the end, people always said there were friends for everything. And maybe they were just made for that—for drinking, for getting lost with me in the night.

Only Mew, somewhere deep down, showed me a piece of something real. A human gesture. A sincere word. But even then, it was never enough to make me truly believe in anything… until you came along.

Kant.

Your name feels like a heartbeat in my memories.

You were always there. When I fell. When they pushed me. When I was punished for my mistakes. You were the only one who showed up. Not with sweet words or grand gestures, but with that steady gaze that held me even when you didn’t say a thing.

By your side, I came to know something like care. Like a home I never knew I needed.

And so, unconsciously, I drew up a plan. A stupid and painful one: every fight, every drunken mess...it all had a secret reason—just to see you appear. To see you worry about me. To see your eyes, even when tired or full of reproach, settle on me.

To keep getting into trouble, to keep hurting myself—just to see you run toward me again and again. It didn’t matter if it was a stupid fight over a slice of lime in a cocktail, or a damn toilet paper roll in a bar bathroom. Every bit of madness, every tantrum, was a silent scream: look at me, save me, stay.

I liked looking for you in the middle of the noise. Knowing that even if sometimes you frowned or pushed me away in annoyance, you were there. And even if your presence sometimes felt weighed down by exhaustion, even if I was that stone in your shoe that wouldn’t let you walk in peace—your care…your attention…made me feel something I had never felt before.

You made me feel loved.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was pathetic. But in the chaos that was my life, you were the only thing that seemed to matter. Even if it meant making you angry. Even if it meant being cared for like a problem you never asked for. I didn’t care. For me, it was enough that you looked at me.

Because sometimes, one second of your gaze was worth more than all the parties and hollow laughter in the world.

And so, in the middle of this little game tonight, I knew exactly what to do. I liked the way you looked at me—I loved feeling your eyes on me. But this time, something had changed. You weren’t just another spectator, Kant. You, with all your damn stubbornness, had decided to join in. You had crossed that invisible line we always kept between us, and now you were part of this dangerous game too.

Why now? Why tonight of all nights?

I had always liked feeling your rejection, because deep down, I knew it wasn’t real. Every time you pushed me away, you were actually getting closer—even if you refused to admit it. And there you were, once again. Always present. Always inevitable.

I went back to my seat with a satisfied smile, savoring the moment. The taste of your body still burned on my tongue—I could still feel the heat of your nipples in my mouth as I took another drink. I leaned back, enjoying every second like someone savoring a forbidden treat.

Then I saw Plug return to the stage, holding a glass that looked like it had water in it. His carefree smile caught me off guard.

“Well, well…” He announced to the crowd, full of excitement. “Looks like these boys want to play for real—and the night’s just getting started!”

Wasn’t he upset? Hadn’t he noticed everything that had just happened? Apparently not. Plug just kept hyping up the crowd, and this time he brought out a colorful spinning wheel, like the kind you see at carnival games. I laughed to myself at how ridiculous it looked, but we were all too caught up in the atmosphere to care.

“I’m going to spin this wheel,” Plug said into the mic. “When it stops, I’ll ask a question. First one to hit the bell gets a chance to answer. And remember—if you get it wrong, you drink!”

I glanced at Kant from the corner of my eye. He, as always, looked so serious you’d think his life depended on this. He buttoned up his shirt, covering what I had exposed just a few minutes earlier, and I couldn’t help but smirk when I saw, even for just a second, his nipples still visibly hard beneath the fabric. My little victory.

I turned my eyes back to the stage as the wheel spun round and round, the colors blending together until it finally stopped—on a soft pastel pink.

Plug read aloud:

“What is the chemical element with the symbol ‘Au’?”

My mind went blank. Damn it. I knew I’d heard that answer before, but I couldn’t remember it. I was never good at chemistry—why did I have to pay the price for my bad grades now?

I didn’t want Kant to answer. I didn’t want him to win again. But before I could even move, I heard the sound of the bell ringing through the air.

Only… it wasn’t Kant who rang it.

The wheel spun and landed on a soft pink shade, and all eyes in the room turned to Plug, who was ready to ask the next question. Before I could even process what was happening, I heard Boston—sitting right next to me—blurt out an answer without a second thought.

“Cobalt… Oops,” he said, laughing slightly as he looked at me with a gaze that felt far too challenging.

I stared at him for a few seconds, a knot beginning to form in my stomach. What the hell was he trying to pull now? His grin was mocking, like he thought he’d won something. Like he was in control. But then, just like that, his tone shifted.

“I think I got it wrong…” he said, eyes locked on mine, and that look—it was like he was waiting for me to react, like he wanted more than just to get the answer wrong.

He sighed, and before I could say anything, he added with an even more provocative tone,
“I think I should choose my own dare, don’t you think?”
He glanced around like he was the star of the show, like we were all there to watch whatever game he was playing.

The room was silent, everyone holding their breath, waiting to see what he’d do. And then, I heard her. Cheum’s voice cut through the tension.

“What are you doing, Boston? You’re ruining the moment.”

She was right. Every word out of his mouth only made my anger boil over more. But he just laughed—low and unbothered—like the whole thing was some kind of joke, like he was enjoying how pissed off I was. And then came the words—the one line I never wanted to hear.

“My dare is…to kiss Kant,” he said, eyes on Kant like he was some kind of prize he’d just claimed.

The fury hit me like a wildfire, consuming everything inside me. And yet, I was stuck in the chaos of my own mind. Watching Boston move toward Kant—that damn figure who wasn’t doing anything to stop it—it ate me alive. Every step Boston took, every inch closer he got to Kant, made it harder to breathe, like the air was getting heavier, like everything was about to crack.

What was he doing? Why wasn’t he pushing him away? Why was he letting him get so close? I couldn’t understand it.

My breath caught, my heart slammed against my chest so hard it scared me. The rage filled me, spreading like a dark shadow through every inch of my body. My hands, once still at my sides, were now shaking with fury, clenched into fists. My vision blurred, the world around me melting into nothing. All I could see were the two of them—Boston and Kant—separated by a distance that felt unbearable.

The floor creaked under Boston’s boots as he walked forward. Each step echoed in my skull like hammer strikes. But it wasn’t the sound that destroyed me—it was Kant’s expression. That calm, empty look on his face. That damn indifference that made me feel invisible. Didn’t you see, Kant? Didn’t you see what was happening? This guy was about to kiss you! And you… you were just standing there, like it didn’t matter. Is that what I was to you? Just some spectator in your life?

The thought tore through me—and I realized I couldn’t take it anymore.

Without thinking, I stood up so abruptly the chair nearly flew back. My muscles burned as I stormed toward Boston, no hesitation, no thoughts of consequences. The rage clouded everything, and before I knew it, I was on him—throwing myself at him with all the fury I’d kept buried. The punch echoed through the room like a gunshot. I saw his face twist in shock and pain.

But he didn’t react the way I expected. He didn’t back off. He didn’t scream or fight back. That bastard just stood there, still wearing that smug grin I hated so much. Like nothing could touch him.

What the hell is wrong with you?! Why are you still laughing?!
My thoughts tangled with every punch I landed. I didn’t care who was watching, if the room was full of people—I just wanted him to stop looking at me like that.
I wanted him gone.

I was blind with fury, striking again and again. Every blow was my answer to the question that burned inside me: Why? Why wasn’t Kant doing anything? Why was he letting this happen?

My breath was ragged, my fists numb, but I couldn’t stop. I kept hitting, driven by some animal instinct, some irrational need to claim what was mine—to scream at the world that I was here, that I wouldn’t be replaced, that I refused to be invisible. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would explode, but the rage kept me going.

Kant was still there, watching. Not moving. Not even trying to stop me.
And that hurt more than any punch I threw.

Did he not care about what I felt? What was this to him? Just another joke?

Finally, all I could hear was the ragged sound of my own breathing. My hands, now bloodied, started to tremble. The rage still burned, but the energy was gone, draining out of me until all that remained was exhaustion—raw and hollow.

In that instant, I felt it—several rough, clumsy hands gripped me urgently, pulling me back, separating me from Boston as if trying to tear me away from my own pain. The world around me dissolved into shapeless chaos, a dull roar filled my ears, drowning out every voice, every shred of reason. My mind was a crazed whirlwind, dragging me down into the depths of myself, where rage, humiliation, and hatred lived like old, gaping wounds. Everything was blurry, distorted by fury and tears that threatened to burst the dam. Each beat of my heart pounded violently inside my chest, trying to escape, trying to destroy me from within. I could barely breathe.

I could barely stand.

But in the middle of all that mess of shattered lights and cold sweat, my eyes never left Boston. His damn face, that mocking, victorious smile, that smug expression that seemed to bask in my downfall, was the only thing that existed for me in that moment. It was a dart straight to the wound, a brutal blow to a dignity already crumbling to pieces.

The fury struck me like lightning. There was no thought. No reflection. Only a blind, brutal hatred coursing through me from head to toe, demanding action, revenge, destruction. Without thinking, without caring about anything or anyone, I fought against the hands trying to hold me back.

I thrashed like a cornered animal, growling, screaming, letting every fiber of my being surrender to that violence pouring like lava through my veins. My screams—raw, broken—ripped through the air, rising from the darkest part of my soul. I don’t know if it was the savagery of my movements or the fear I glimpsed in their fleeting expressions, but I felt the exact moment those hands let me go, stepping back, terrified as if they’d touched something forbidden—as if, suddenly, they knew I was no longer someone who could be stopped with reason or pleading.

It was too late. Everything was too late.

My crazed gaze fell on the table beside me. It was loaded with glass cups, half-eaten plates, half-empty bottles. In a purely physical outburst of rage, I grabbed it with both hands and overturned it with such violence that everything—absolutely everything—exploded into deafening chaos. The sound of shattering glass was like a gunshot, dry and brutal, followed by a symphony of panicked screams, falling chairs, bodies scattering in all directions. Glasses, plates, sharp fragments flew like daggers across the room, catching the light for a second before crashing to the ground like deadly rain.

I couldn’t see anything anymore. Only the red of rage, only the black of contempt. I shoved aside anyone in my way with savage force, unable to stop the beast devouring me from within. Every shove, every step was a silent scream: I couldn’t stay. I shouldn’t stay. I didn’t want to witness my own humiliation any longer.

So I left. I crossed the threshold like a wounded ghost, like a flayed soul unable to contain its own pain. And then I heard it—Kant’s voice, broken, desperate, calling my name. Once, twice, three times. A fractured echo in the distance. A call that came too late, as always.

He didn’t run after me. He didn’t close the distance between us. He didn’t fight to reach me. He never did. He never chose me. The bitter certainty of his abandonment weighed on my shoulders like a slab crushing my chest. Every word he didn’t say, every gesture he didn’t make, every choice where I was left in the shadows—it all pierced me like invisible blades, opening old wounds that never fully healed.

I swallowed hard, struggling against the knot in my throat, against the burning tears threatening to spill. My hands trembled. My legs weakened. But I kept walking, pushed only by the weight of the rage and sorrow consuming me.

Every step was a titanic effort, every stride took me further away from that place, from those people, from that love that would never be mine. I walked under the city’s dim lights, feeling the cold sink into my bones, dragging with me the shattered pieces of something I once dreamed could have been different. The echo of his voice faded behind me, like destiny’s last cruel taunt.

And as I walked—alone, defeated, with my soul in ruins—one question burned, incandescent, like pure poison in my chest:

Why do you always choose others? Why was I never enough for you? What was it about me that wasn’t worth fighting for? How much more did I have to break for you to look at me the way I always looked at you?

I don’t know how I got there—but I sat slumped on the sidewalk, unable to move forward, my head down, my body trembling slightly from the cold. My tears, no longer bothering to hide, fell freely, sliding down my cheeks like raindrops foretelling a storm far more violent inside me.

The sudden sound of rain hitting the asphalt briefly pulled me out of my daze. I felt the water run down my face, as if trying to cleanse me, as if nature itself were attempting to comfort me with a human warmth that, somehow, still felt insufficient.

I was alone. Alone and broken in a world that seemed determined to remind me of it.

That’s when I saw him. A man approaching, his silhouette outlined against the glow of the streetlights. Without saying a word, he extended his umbrella over me, shielding me from the rain without asking for anything in return. Such a simple gesture—and yet so devastatingly kind—it made me look up slowly, as if I didn’t believe I deserved it.

Clumsily, I began to stand, not quite sure how to interpret this act of mercy. Was it compassion? Just simple kindness? I didn’t know.

“Thank you…” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper amid the downpour, accompanied by a faint, almost childlike smile.

But the stranger didn’t leave. On the contrary, he stepped closer, closing the distance between us.

“Why are you alone?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle murmur that ran down my spine.

I blinked several times, trying to focus, confused. In a brief moment of naïvety , I thought maybe the alcohol had left my system—but the sticky taste on my tongue, the trembling in my legs, and the haze in my eyes reminded me I was still intoxicated. Still completely vulnerable.

Instinctively, I reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on his chest, leaning in slightly, seeking some kind of anchor in the storm inside my head.

He stood firm—warm, solid—and for one heart-wrenching second, my broken thoughts betrayed me. Was it Kant? Was he the one who had come looking for me? Had he crossed the city to find me—lost, wrecked—on some random street?

My heart twisted painfully. I wanted to believe it. I desperately wanted to believe it.

But the closeness turned dangerous when I felt his hand slide down my waist with slow, deliberate pressure, pulling me tightly against him. His face, still blurry to me, leaned down toward my ear. His breath, warm against the cold rain, carried words that slithered across my skin like snakes.

“You shouldn’t be alone… someone should take care of you…”

I swallowed hard. My mind, foggy and aching with longing, still refused to see the truth.

It wasn’t Kant.
It wasn’t his voice.
It wasn’t his warmth.

Something inside me screamed—but before I could act, my stomach twisted violently. I vomited uncontrollably, collapsing forward. The man stepped back with a barely audible curse, disgusted.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, shaking even harder now. My legs were like jelly, my head spinning. The stranger returned, this time more aggressive. He grabbed my arms, forcing me to my feet. His face, though still blurry, was no longer kind. He wasn’t Kant. 

He was a stranger. A threat.

“I’m…I’m waiting for someone,” I lied, desperately trying to shake him off.

“I don’t see anyone,” he replied with a crooked smile, pushing me hard against the nearest wall.

My back hit the wet concrete, and panic flooded my lungs. I struggled, hitting him with all the strength I had, enough to make him flinch—but his reaction was immediate. He raised a hand, ready to strike.

He never got the chance.

A firm hand stopped his in midair, gripping it with undeniable strength. 

A voice—familiar like a happy memory—echoed in my ears.

"He said no."

My heart froze for a second. That voice… I knew it. It was Kant.

Before I could react, Kant pulled me away from the stranger, stepping between us like an impenetrable wall. My eyes, still blurry with tears, searched desperately for his face. The straight dark hair, the unmistakable tattoo on his arm… yes, it was him. It was really him.

But the rage and confusion collided inside me like a ticking bomb. I shoved him hard, nearly losing my balance.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shouted, my voice torn apart by fear and resentment.

"Ray, I couldn’t come earlier—I was working, fuck! Why did you leave like that?" Kant fired back, his voice full of anguish and frustration. He didn’t let me answer, stepping closer, like he was afraid I’d run again.

"The streets are dangerous at 3 a.m., how could you walk around alone like this?" His voice cracked for a second, but Kant didn’t get to finish his sentence—because without warning, I vomited again, collapsing to my knees on the soaked sidewalk.

Kant didn’t hesitate for even a second. He crouched beside me, his big warm hands stroking my back in gentle, almost desperate circles.

"Shh, Ray, it’s okay… I’m here, I’m sorry…" he whispered. His voice was like a balm.  He spoke to me like I was something fragile, something he was terrified of breaking even more.

"We need to go home, okay? Please?" Kant added, lowering his voice into a quiet, pleading pout. His lips formed that soft expression—so uniquely his—that it stabbed something inside my chest. How could he look so beautiful, so damn sexy, even in the middle of all this?

I didn’t think too much. My body, worn out and aching, reacted on instinct. I clung to him, resting my forehead against his chest. Kant smiled, almost relieved.

What was happening? Why was he doing this? Was I dreaming?

I didn’t get the chance to figure it out. My body—betrayed by exhaustion, alcohol, and emotional chaos—finally gave in. I fell asleep in his arms, letting him be the one to hold me, to protect me from everything I no longer had the strength to face.

🍑🍰 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘: 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒕 ❀ 🍑🍰

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

✧₊ 🍑 Between peaches, stolen cakes, and the sweetness of a secret laugh, lips soak up the melody of an innocent moment. 🍰 ₊˚✧

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

The worry had accompanied me all night, like a shadow I couldn't shake off. I couldn't stop thinking about Ray, about what he had done, about what he was feeling. I wanted to be by his side, to make sure he was okay, that he wasn't alone. But obligations kept pulling me back, work kept calling, and even though my mind and heart only wanted to go after him, my body was forced to return to my routine. I tried to get everything done quickly, focusing on what I needed to finish.

As always, my friend was there to cover for me, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. I didn't want to get fired, or have my hours of absence become a problem. The unease in my chest kept building as I tried to concentrate, but thoughts of Ray kept flooding my mind without end.

As soon as I got the all clear I went searching for him. I took him home out of the rain . The first thing I did was give him a warm bath, just the way he liked it. I knew he needed it. Then I changed his clothes, tucked him in, and gently settled him in his room, as if he were the most fragile thing I owned.

Ray was so particular, with his rules about water, about everything. Cold water “damaged his skin,” hot water “burned him.” Only warm water was acceptable, and even though his attitude annoyed me a little, I knew that these small things were part of what made him, him. So, without complaining, I did it, changing the water, adjusting it, as if it were the most important thing in the world. With every action, with every bit of care, I felt something inside me relax, the weight of worry beginning to fade away.

I went back and forth, washing his clothes, cleaning, taking care of every little detail. The clock read 4 a.m., and after much effort, the washer was ready to do its job. I didn't sleep much, just a few hours, until the smell of food woke me up. The daylight was already filtering through the windows when I got up, the exhaustion of work still weighing on me, but a delicious scent made it all disappear. 

I got up, curious, and went straight to the kitchen, where, to my surprise, I found Ray already awake, but with what seemed like a small culinary war in progress.

The table was full of scattered ingredients: strawberries, peaches, cake batter, colorful icing... and, of course, an organized mess that Ray had created. I let out a small sigh, I’m not sure whether of exasperation or amusement, and walked over, observing the chaos.

"What's going on here?" I asked, confusion clear in my voice, but a curious smile was starting to form on my lips.

Ray, with his adorable attitude, walked up to me, never letting his smile fade for a second. With his hands on my shoulders, he looked at me, his eyes sparkling with something between innocence and mischief.

"I wanted to thank you for yesterday." He said, with a sincerity that completely dumbfounded me. But it was when he smiled again, with a small pout forming on his face, that my resistance began to crumble.

"Are you talking about...?" I couldn't finish the question. That look of his, that expression that seemed so pure and full of tenderness, was my undoing. How could I resist a guy who knew how to melt my patience in just a few seconds?

"You're talking about me cooking everything, right?" I said, unable to stop smiling, but I decided it was time to take control. I straightened up, adopting a more serious posture, although my expression showed the opposite. 

"The answer is no," I said, giving him a small tap on the forehead, not mean-spirited, just a reminder that not everything should come so easily for him.

Ray stepped back, his face full of discomfort, like a scolded puppy, his eyes huge and bright, almost apologizing for his little mischief.

"No, you never let me speak and assume the worst," He said with a playful tone, and my smile grew wider.

"It's so we can both cook," Ray continued, with a palpable joy in his voice. As if he were willing to share his "culinary curse" with me, as a way of compensating for everything I had done for him.

But, of course, I couldn't help but add, "What you mean is that I cook, but with you. That's not an apology or a thank you. You should cook for me." I stepped aside, took a spoon in my hand, and looked at it for a moment.

"Cook for me," I said whimsically, feeling a bit of fun taking over me.

Ray shook his head, but not seriously. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed my arm and led me toward the fruits, as if he had everything planned out. As if the kitchen were his little territory, and I, his accomplice in this madness he had created. But, in that moment, I felt something more. Maybe it was his energy, his contagious joy, or maybe the fact that in his presence everything seemed simpler, lighter.

But that relief lasted only an instant, because Ray, in an unexpected move, sat me on the table. My heart skipped a beat. What was he doing? Why was he acting like this? He moved even closer, so close that I could feel his breath, and my eyes instinctively drifted toward his lips, tempted to close that distance. However, Ray didn’t do anything. For a few seconds, we just stared at each other, caught in a heavy silence filled with something I couldn’t name. Until he suddenly pulled a slip of pink fabric from behind me.Without saying a word, Ray gently placed it over my eyes, covering them, as his mouth brushed my ear, so close that I shivered.

"You like to be tied up, don’t you?" He whispered, with a mischievous voice that sent chills down my spine. "But this time it won’t be like that."

Ray slowly stepped back, and although I smiled at the idea, that smile quickly faded, confused.

"What's all this about?" I asked, not hiding my curiosity.

Ray didn’t answer. He simply put a finger to my lips, a clear gesture that I should stay silent. A second later, his voice, playful and sweet, broke the brief silence:

"The game starts now. You’re going to be blindfolded while I give you instructions to make a cake... and some other desserts. You have to follow my orders, Kant."

I heard him move a little away, although I couldn’t see him. I wasn’t sure if he was looking at me at that moment, but instinctively, I bit my lower lip, a nervous gesture I couldn’t control, because his words, simple and playful, had stirred something in me that I had never
felt before.

"It says here that...to make cookies, we need 200 grams of butter...how much is 200 grams? I think..." He trailed off, with that insecurity of his that made me smile, though it also worried me a little.

I didn’t let him finish. I knew that if I let him keep improvising, we'd end up ruining everything, and I was too hungry to take that risk.

"We need a cup...let’s measure it in grams," I said, feeling around for something useful. With the blindfold over my eyes, I moved clumsily, bumping into things, and at one point, by sheer bad luck, I spilled some viscous liquid that felt unpleasantly greasy between my fingers. I grimaced. "This must look awful," I thought, but kept searching until I finally found what I hoped was a measuring cup

"Ohhh, you're so wise!" Ray exclaimed, suddenly hugging me from behind.

His embrace was warm and enthusiastic, and although I reflexively pulled away gently, I couldn’t help but smile. I turned a little, trying to hide it, because I didn’t want him to notice how much I liked his excitement.

"And difficult," he added, jokingly, "but well...it says here that we should  add water to the cup. then, the flour."

I let out a sigh, amused and resigned at the same time. This was going to be a disaster... but for some reason, I was dying to be a part of it.

"Okay, just a second..." I murmured as I fumbled around, searching for the cup.My hand swept across the countertop without success, as if the object had vanished by magic. Something inside me told me it wasn’t a coincidence, that Ray had something to do with it. 

I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him, his vibrant presence, the little spark of mischief that always accompanied his silences. Then, without thinking too much, I let out a soft, almost resigned, "Ray, stop.".

A soft, uncontrollable laugh escaped him, as if he'd just been caught in the middle of his mischief. I heard the faint clink of the cup being placed back in its spot, as if he’d suddenly decided to show mercy. But that wasn’t the only time. No, that was just the first sign that Ray was having one of his days, those days when his way of dealing with everything was to provoke little pranks, like someone who needed to laugh to keep from falling apart.

I carried on as best I could. I added the egg and vanilla to the bowl, whisking carefully, focusing on not making a mess...but of course, it was at that moment when, without really knowing how, a clumsy move tipped part of the mixture over.Splattering the table, the floor, and my shirt. I huffed in frustration, while beside me, I heard a soft, contained gasp—Ray struggling not to burst into laughter. And as if that wasn’t enough, his real attack began; hiding objects and food as if it were part of a twisted treasure hunt.

"Ray, where are the chocolate chips?" I asked, already suspicious.

He didn’t answer right away. I felt him move around me, his silent laughter vibrating in the air, until I heard a mock cough. Then, with a theatrically solemn tone, he proclaimed:

"If you want the chocolate chips, you'll have to kneel and kiss my hand."

His sweet words pulled me back to the moment:

"Then you won’t get the chocolate chips," he hummed, pretending to be sad, though his voice vibrated with a playful joy that almost, almost tricked me.

I sighed theatrically, pretending to be resigned, and clumsily knelt on the cold floor. I stretched my hands into the air, groping for his, hearing his muffled laughter with each movement. Finally, I found his hand—it was warm, slightly trembling from holding back his laughter. I leaned in... but instead of kissing it like a submissive gentleman, I playfully nipped at the back of it.

Ray’s laughter was immediate, an explosive burst that filled the kitchen with an almost tangible warmth. Before I could sit up, I felt something thick and cold fall on my head. The liquid slid sticky across my forehead, forcing me to touch it cautiously. I frowned. Flour? Water? A strange mixture specially prepared for this impromptu revenge?

"Ray!" I exclaimed, my voice full of false indignation that barely managed to hide the laughter starting to bubble up inside me.

I heard his footsteps retreating hurriedly, the sound of his slippers sliding on the floor, and his laughter—so alive, so pure—swept me away like a current. I stood up as best I could, still blindfolded, stumbling forward, chasing the sound of his fun.

It didn’t matter how sticky it was, or the mess around us; at that moment, all that existed was Ray’s laughter and that awkward joy he seemed to spill without measure. Each prank, each little joke, was like a spark igniting inside my chest, burning away any trace of annoyance, lighting everything up with a disordered, impulsive warmth... and so human that it hurt how real it was.

Maybe Ray was hiding his pain behind flour and absurd games, but even through his masks, that laughter felt real—a fragile, honest part of him. I knew he wasn’t joking, even if others believed it. His jokes, his exaggerated cheerfulness, were just another silent way of protecting himself. I’d seen it before—how he could shift from raw pain to laughter in a heartbeat.

I thought of that morning. The fight. The broken bottle. His father’s voice, sharp and cruel, demanding and belittling. And Ray, yelling back, furious and desperate, like he wanted to burn everything down.

Now he laughed, as if none of that had happened. As if the tears and screams hadn’t left a mark. But I could feel it—the weight he still carried. I didn’t believe he was lying to me. Not really. It was a hiding place. A fragile armor of jokes and clumsy touches to keep the world from seeing the wounds still bleeding beneath his skin.

And I... I couldn’t help but love him a little more for it.

Chapter Text

╭─────────༺🕯༻─────────╮
𝔒𝔣 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰
⸻⸻ ❦ ⚰️ ❦ ⸻⸻
❦ ⚰️ ☾ 𝖊𝖈𝖍𝖔𝖊𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐 ☽ ⚰️ ❦
╰─────────༺🕯༻─────────╯

For the first time in a long while, I felt unsettled. Ray was acting... different? He still had that egocentric aura, that way of walking like the world revolved around him, and that tone of voice that could exasperate anyone—but there was something new about him. Something softer, more playful.

Maybe it was the fact that, for once, he was actually trying to follow a recipe without deliberately sabotaging it. Even if that meant asking me three times in under two minutes what temperature the cookies should bake at. I, with a makeshift blindfold covering my eyes—because he insisted it would make the experience “more sensory” and “more fun”—could only frown when I heard a stifled groan, one of those he let out when he burned his fingertips but refused to admit it.

“180°C, Ray,” I muttered, my voice slightly tired but still firm, as I leaned against the kitchen island. “180 degrees. And they need to bake for ten to twelve minutes, no more. If you leave them in too long, they dry out and lose that soft texture inside. You want them to melt in your mouth, not break your teeth.” I explained with confidence. 

I knew it by heart. Ever since I was a kid, my little brother Babe loved homemade cookies. I always made them for him— after I learned to take care of myself and became the older brother he needed. Cooking, baking sweets, filling the house with warm aromas...it was something I was good at. I knew exactly how long each tray needed to be in the oven, how much patience every recipe demanded to turn out just right.

Ray didn’t respond with words. I only heard the oven door open and a faint sigh—probably one of relief—as he slid the tray in, thankfully without killing anyone in the process.

Then came a suspicious silence. One that didn’t last long, because in less than five seconds, he was pressed against me again, practically vibrating with excitement like a sugar-high kid.

“It’s cake time!” he announced with a smile in his voice that had become dangerously familiar.

I raised an eyebrow, still blindfolded. “I hope you’re not about to start hiding ingredients again. You already did it with the chocolate chips. ‘Kiss my hand and I’ll tell you where they are,’ remember? You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Ray let out a little laugh near my ear. He didn’t reply right away. I knew what was coming. I could picture it perfectly—him dragging out the moment like a stage performance, savoring his role as the sensual saboteur.

“Where’s the flour?” I asked, with a touch of real annoyance. My tone came out harsher than I intended, but I was getting tired of the guessing game right in the middle of the kitchen. Blindly, I began running my fingertips over the counter—slow, careful movements, as if every ingredient might be a trap in disguise. I didn’t want to knock anything over, but the uncertainty was irritating…and Ray had an uncanny ability to get under my skin.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, I felt him step closer again. He smelled like sweet dough, dish soap, and that soft perfume he always wore—barely there, but unmistakable. He took my hands gently, like he was already used to me not seeing, like he enjoyed guiding me, using it as the perfect excuse to touch me. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky, with traces of raw dough that clung to my skin. He lifted my hands slowly, deliberately...and then I felt something wet. My brow furrowed immediately. Was that…?

“Don’t tell me you just put my fingers in your mouth,” I muttered through gritted teeth, already half resigned to whatever absurdity he was pulling.

“No,” he replied, dragging out the word with barely concealed mischief. His voice dropped to a tempting whisper—the kind actors use in soap operas right before a ridiculous, passionate scene. “But I thought…if you want the flour, you should pay a small price.”

I leaned back slightly, more by instinct than caution, though I knew it would only amuse him more. His games always ended up in the same place: that blurry line between teasing and desire.

“And what exactly would that price be?” I asked, dryly. Though inside, I burned with curiosity…and something else.

“Kiss my lips,” he said, almost theatrically, with a melodramatic flair that would’ve made me roll my eyes if they weren’t wrapped in this ridiculous blindfold. But he said it with such over-the-top seriousness, I had to hold back a laugh. Like kissing Ray was some kind of pact with the devil. Like he didn’t know how close I already was to doing it.

I scoffed. “I’m not kissing you. Not for flour, not for sugar, not even if you hide the mixer and force me to beat the batter with a stick.”

He didn’t reply. He just laughed. That bold, vibrant laugh of his that always sounded like he was mocking the entire world—including himself. It was infuriating how good it sounded on him. It made my blood boil, how much I liked that damn laugh.

On a sudden impulse I couldn’t even explain—like something inside me needed to reset the balance, or maybe just touch him—I reached blindly for his waist. He didn’t pull away. He never really did. I found him easily and yanked him toward me.

It was far from romantic. We bumped into each other awkwardly. His hips hit mine, and I nearly knocked him off balance. He let out a short, genuine laugh—the kind he didn’t fake—and for a second, I wished the floor would swallow me whole. What the hell had I just done? Who did I think I was? The lead in some cheesy drama? I felt like an idiot. One who couldn’t resist his warmth.

Ray leaned back a bit, but didn’t step away. He was still just inches from me. I could feel the breath of his laughter on my face.

“Was that an attempt at taking control, Kant?” he asked, amused, his voice laced with gentle mockery. “Because I gotta say…it was adorable .”

I growled low in my throat, swallowing the urge to tell him to shut up. I was probably blushing from my neck to my ears—and he knew it. He knew it and he loved it.

“Don’t laugh,” I protested, though my voice had lost its edge. “I’m over this. This is pathetic.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed, letting the words fall like a caress. “Because from where I’m standing…this is hilarious . And by the way…I loved the way you grabbed me. A little more and you’d have gone full caveman.”

I shook my head, pushing him gently in the chest with my fingertips, trying to recover whatever dignity was slipping away from me like flour spilling from a torn bag.

“And I’m still not kissing you, Ray. Keep dreaming. It’ll only ever happen in your wet dreams.”

I turned around clumsily, barely tripping over my own feet as I tried to remember where the big table was—where we’d left everything. The kitchen was a mess: open bags, flour in the air, scattered utensils, and an oven already releasing that warm, tempting smell of freshly baked cookies. But what was even messier was what he stirred inside me. That constant game, that feeling that everything was a dare disguised as a joke. That any moment could end with his mouth on mine.

Everything teetered on a fragile edge. Everything smelled like vanilla, sugar…and emotional danger.

And the worst part?

Some part of me—a part I refused to admit—wanted to keep playing.

✦˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ 🥃 𝑻𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒓 & 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔 🖤  

⟿ 𓆩☾𓆪 𝓣𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔. 🥀  

⸻⸻⸻ ✧ ☁︎ 🖤 🥃 ☁︎ ✧ ⸻⸻⸻  

It had been a little over thirty minutes since we’d started this absurd but strangely entertaining idea of baking a cake together. Ray, against all odds, was behaving... too well. Not that I was complaining, but when someone like him acts with almost ceremonial politeness, you just know something else is cooking besides dessert.

He followed my instructions like I was the head chef on some televised baking competition. “Yes, sir, I’ll mix this now,” he’d say in that mocking little voice he used whenever he imitated authority. I heard him grab something—probably the flour, judging by the soft sigh of the bag opening—followed by a tense silence, like he was measuring the sugar with an unnecessarily obsessive precision. Then he started whisking, and even though I couldn't see him, there was something in the steady rhythm of his movements that screamed ridiculous determination. The same kind he had last month when he swore he could assemble an IKEA shelf for ants.For a moment, I let myself relax, thinking the whole scene was sweet in the best sense of the word. Almost domestic. Almost.

But then came the infamous whipped cream incident. And at that moment—without a shadow of doubt—I knew I’d fallen into his trap. Ray had been too calm, almost cooperative, with a docility that didn’t suit him in the slightest. He let me measure ingredients, handed me utensils, stirred batter like he was the most devoted sous-chef in the world.His smile so wide I could hear it in his voice. He didn’t argue. He didn’t make a single dirty joke. Which, coming from Ray, was the equivalent of watching a volcano take a vacation.

The first red flag came as a drop. Small, cool, almost innocent. It landed on my shoulder like a warning. I frowned, still blindfolded—the same blindfold he had insisted I wear as part of some so-called “game to awaken culinary senses.” Another drop followed, closer to my neck this time. Then another. It wasn’t subtle anymore. This wasn’t random.

And then, like the heavens surrendering to chaos, I heard it—Ray’s laugh cracking through the air. Pure. Mischievous. Shameless. The kind of laugh that offered no mercy.

“You like whipped cream?” he asked between bursts of laughter, his voice vibrating with satisfaction. I shifted, uncomfortable, as the cold mixture slid slowly across my skin.

“Ray, no…” I tried to sound firm, commanding, like that had ever worked on him. All it did was provoke a second wave: a white, sticky cloud that landed squarely on my collarbone, oozing down the center of my chest like a slow-burning tease.

“I’m pretty sure this cream suits you better than any cake,” he said, far too pleased with himself, stepping closer. I could feel his breath near me, his presence practically humming against mine, even with the blindfold still covering my eyes.

“Although…” he went on, his voice dropping a notch, “what I’d really love is a taste of your icing. I bet it's especially sweet."

I said nothing. Because of course I knew exactly what he meant. Ray didn’t believe in boundaries—not between innocence and innuendo, not between teasing and temptation—and living with him was like being stuck in a never-ending game of double meanings. My eyebrow arched on instinct, even if he couldn’t see it. I knew perfectly well that this wasn’t about baking anymore. This was war. And I was losing.

“I prefer the whipped cream on cake, not on me,” I muttered, aiming for indignation but landing somewhere closer to resigned defeat. The kind of tone someone uses when they know they’ve already lost.

“But you make everything look more delicious,” he murmured—and now his voice wasn’t inches away, it was millimeters—“What if we play naughty chef ? I could lick up whatever I spill.”

"Ray..." I tried to warn him, using a tone that was meant to sound firm but was already cracking under the growing heat of the moment. It didn’t matter. He was already squirting more whipped cream across my chest, laughing like he’d just discovered an entirely new kind of mischief. His joy was contagious—almost childlike—but the contrast with the cold cream sliding over my skin stirred something deeper in me: a disturbing mix of desire and annoyance. There was a fine line between teasing and ridiculous, and he was dancing right on it with the same grace he used to shatter my self-control.

With a low growl of frustration, I reached for the blindfold, ready to put an end to the game. I’d had enough—not of the moment itself, but of how easily he could make me lose my mind in less than five minutes. But before I could remove it, I felt the warmth of his hands wrapping around mine. Steady. Warm. Intentional. It wasn’t just about stopping me—it was about claiming his space. His breath, soft but deliberate, brushed the curve of my ear as he whispered, his voice thick with barely restrained lust:

"Not yet…Mystery’s on the menu today."

And just then, as if the universe had chosen to interrupt the slow combustion he’d triggered, I heard a short, muffled whimper. A dull thud followed—a small object falling, hitting the counter. A sudden shift in the atmosphere that snapped both of us out of it.

"Ray! What happened?" I asked immediately, alarmed, as I ripped the blindfold off my eyes.

I saw him crouched down, his hand on his knee. His expression was a strange mix of a grimace and a forced smile that barely managed to say, “I’m okay.” A flimsy mask.

"Nothing serious," he muttered with a shrug. "Just scraped myself. I’m fine, really."

But I knew him too well. When Ray said he was “fine,” what he really wanted was for someone to notice. Not surface-level concern, not empty reassurances. Real attention—the kind that soothes more than words ever could. The kind he maybe hadn’t received that often. And I…I wanted to be different. Not just another one. Not like the others who laughed with him but never saw past his exaggerated gestures.

Without thinking, I moved toward him. I knelt down in front of him with a soft movement, filled with a tenderness that wasn’t usual for me—but that he brought out with ease.

"Let me see," I said gently, and without waiting for permission, I carefully took hold of his leg. "This has to hurt more than you're letting on."

I blew softly over the small wound—no dramatics, no teasing. Just me, the warm air leaving my lips, and him. Ray stayed still. Motionless. As if that one simple, intimate gesture had undone him more than any touch ever could. His eyes, locked on mine, had lost their usual mischief and laughter. What remained was desire. Raw. Tangible. Silent.

The air between us grew heavier. I felt time begin to slow, the sounds of the kitchen fading beneath the shared rhythm of our hearts. It was as if the wound had only been an excuse, a doorway we had to cross to get here—to the edge of something we could no longer pretend wasn’t there.

Ray smiled. But it wasn’t the same smile as before. It wasn’t a child’s grin laced with trouble. It was darker. Older. More vulnerable, too. A crooked smile, loaded with intent.

"Mmm…" he hummed lowly, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips. "You know what might make me feel better?"

"Ray…?" I whispered, still not moving, still unwilling to break whatever this moment was. He was right in front of me, and I couldn’t—didn’t want to—pull away.

"A kiss," he said at last. His tone was deep, rough, almost like a caress itself. "But not on the wound."

And then, he looked at me. Not just a glance—it was a look, direct and unflinching, burning with hunger. There was desire in his eyes, yes, but also a quiet plea. As if what he was asking for wasn’t just a provocation—but something he needed. And in that gaze, so open, so intense, I realized we weren’t playing anymore.

"Didn’t they say a kiss heals everything? I read it in a very serious scientific article," Ray joked, that trademark half-smile curling his lips like a loaded weapon, while he leaned in slowly, deliberately, shrinking the distance between us like there was no other choice. His voice was tinged with that dangerous kind of lightness he used when he tried to mask his want with humor—but his eyes told another story. They spoke of hunger, of carnal curiosity, of a kind of provocation that sought more than laughter.

"We could run an experiment…for science’s sake."

I sighed, feeling the heat rise up my neck, but I tried to hold my ground—even as every inch of his body seemed to know exactly how to ignite mine.

"Are you using your wound to flirt with me?"

"I'm using any excuse I can to taste your frosting," he said, shameless, direct—his boldness lighting up the air between us like the spark of a fire we’d both seen coming. "And to lick the cream I smeared on you…though, if you let me, I could use my tongue elsewhere too. For cleaning purposes, obviously. Hygiene first."

"Ray…" I tried to sound stern, to hold back everything that was spilling over, but it was too late. He was already so close our foreheads were touching, his warm breath mingling with mine in a rhythm we couldn’t tell was laughter or a gasp.

Then, his voice dropped. He didn’t hide behind jokes anymore. It wasn’t a game now.

"Tell me this doesn’t turn you on a little," he murmured, almost hoarse, and the vibration of his whisper hit me straight in the chest—where control was slipping fast. "You, covered in cream…me between your legs…you breathing like that…You really don’t want to taste something sweet?"

I wanted to say no. I wanted to think clearly, to remember that this wasn’t a good idea. That the kitchen wasn’t the place. That he wasn’t the moment. That we weren’t anything. But when he ran a finger along my collarbone, collecting a smear of cream, and brought it slowly to his lips—never breaking eye contact—wrapping his tongue around the gesture like it was sacred, my breath caught. Everything vanished. The kitchen. The walls. Logic. Only him, his mouth, and that look that said everything without saying a word.

I closed my eyes, as if that could shield me from the dangerous pull of want wrapping around me like a storm. But even in the darkness behind my eyelids, I could see him. Feel his heat. His closeness. His effect. It wasn’t just lust—it was the emotional chaos he always brought, like a storm that couldn’t be stopped. Maybe I had enjoyed myself that night at the bar. Maybe I’d let the tension turn into play. But that didn’t mean I could let him take advantage of it now. Not when I wasn’t sure if Ray was entirely sober. Not when the last thing I wanted was for him to think this didn’t mean anything.

I wanted it to mean something. Even just a little. Even if it was a mistake.

And that’s exactly what made it dangerous.

We weren’t a couple. We weren’t friends. We could barely go five minutes without throwing jabs at each other. Enemies, then? Enemies living under the same roof, having heated moments in the middle of the kitchen…it sounded ridiculous. And yet, there we were. Standing at the edge of something that felt so right and so wrong all at once.

Without another word, I pulled away—sharply. My hands were firm this time, and though the contact was brief, it was enough to cut the invisible thread tying us together.

"Call me when the cake’s ready," I said with a smile that wasn’t teasing or tender—but a mask. One to hide the frustration, the want, the surrender.

I walked away without looking back. Or at least, that’s what I wanted him to believe. My eyes, almost instinctively, searched for the tray of cookies, and I silently thanked him—that reckless boy who could make me lose my mind in a second—for remembering to take them out of the oven. They sat there, golden, forgotten between all the tension. I took one. I left.

But the taste didn’t erase the heat he’d left on my skin. Nor the tremble in my hands. Nor the quiet certainty that this… was only just beginning.

⋆｡🕊️ﾟ☁︎ 𝟏 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 ☁︎｡ﾟ⋆ [ 🍃 ]
︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶
╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴ ╴
│❛ s m a l l • s i l e n c e
│ b i g • f e e l i n g ❜
╰───────────❲ ❳

I stepped out of my room an hour later. Ray never called me, and for a moment, I feared the cake had burned. But the air didn’t smell like disaster—it smelled like that warm, sweet blend that fills your chest with something that feels almost like home. I let that delicious scent guide me to the kitchen, and there he was, standing at the counter, focused on spreading the frosting with what looked like a makeshift spatula. He looked serious, almost meticulous, and for some reason, that image felt strangely endearing. A guy like Ray, usually so chaotic, now so concentrated on decorating a cake…it was unexpectedly adorable.

"Not craving my frosting anymore?" I teased from the doorway, a crooked smile playing on my lips.

Ray turned his head and looked at me. His expression lit up with a proud grin as he lifted the cake like it was a masterpiece.

"It’s done. Not the prettiest cake in the world, but it survived," he said with a soft laugh, as if bracing himself for a sarcastic remark.

I stepped closer, letting down my guard just a little. The cake was… well, honest. Frosting dripped unevenly down the sides, some parts a little off, but it wasn’t bad.

"It looks great, Ray." I said sincerely—or at least with enough effort not to ruin his enthusiasm.

Ray raised an eyebrow, amused.

"That’s a damn lie… but you’re still gonna taste it," he said, cutting a slice before I could even reply.

I took a bite, half-expecting it to be clumsy. But as soon as the flavor hit, it caught me off guard. Sweet, but not overwhelming. Warm in texture. I could tell he’d put real effort into it.

"This is actually really good, Ray," I said, glancing at him from the corner of my eye as he shrugged with mock modesty.

He picked up the cake carefully and went to sit on the floor, right next to the kitchen door. He looked at me like he expected me to follow him, so I did—without thinking too much about it. We sat down together, the cake between us, and for a moment, we didn’t say anything. Just quiet bites, like we were trying to taste more than just the sugar.

"I never thought I’d bake a cake with someone..." he murmured suddenly, not looking at me. "No one ever taught me. I just learned by watching stuff, making things up."

He said it like someone making a passing comment about the weather, but there was something hidden in his voice. He stared at the wall, taking small bites of the cake, like the motion kept his mind from wandering too far.

I watched him in silence. I knew about Ray’s infamous father—from the shouted arguments I’d overheard during late-night calls. But now that I thought about it…I had never seen or heard anything about his mother. This house, big as it was, was full only of photos of him. I used to think it was pure vanity. But now I was starting to believe it wasn’t. Maybe there were no family pictures because…there was no family to photograph.

"I cooked with my mom just once," he said suddenly, as if reading my thoughts. "I was really little. I barely remember what it was like...but after she died, everything with flavor just felt a little sadder."

I didn’t know what to say at first. I was surprised he brought it up without me asking. As if the silence in the kitchen had pushed the words out of him. His voice hung in the air, suspended between the smell of cake and the quiet warmth of the moment. I looked at him. He didn’t look like the sarcastic, bold guy I was used to. He looked like a boy who had grown up too fast. And for the first time, I didn’t know whether I should touch his arm, change the subject, or just stay there, listening.

Ray carried a sadness that wasn’t obvious at first, but you started to notice it once you learned how to really look at him. He wasn’t someone who opened up easily, but if you spent enough time around him, you’d begin to see that something inside him was still broken. It was there—in the way he laughed a little louder than necessary, in how he dodged personal questions, or in his habit of filling silence with jokes. It was a quiet kind of sadness, but it was heavy.

I was about to say something—maybe ask if he was okay or if he wanted to talk more about it—but he spoke first.

"My mom died of alcoholism," he said plainly, with a voice so neutral it hurt more than if he had cried.

I stayed silent, stunned by the sudden honesty. I was grateful he trusted me with something so intimate, even if I didn’t know whether saying "I’m sorry" would mean anything. Sometimes, just being there to hear it was enough.

"What kind of music do you like?" he asked right after, shifting the subject clumsily, like he regretted being that transparent.

I followed his lead, not pushing him any further.

"My parents are dead too," I said, calmly, without any drama. "I only have my younger brother. I've been like a father to him since we were kids."

Ray looked at me, surprised.

"And where does he live, if you’re here?"

"He lives in the university dorms. I managed to get him a spot there a year ago, right before he started high school. We still have to pay for tuition, but housing is free thanks to his grades," I explained with a proud smile. "College isn’t cheap, you know that—but he’s always been disciplined. Since middle school, he worked hard to keep his grades up. And now he’s close to qualifying for programs that could cover everything. I’m proud of how far he’s come."

Ray nodded with a faint smile, like it was something foreign to him, yet oddly comforting.

"I never had a brother... Must feel nice. Not so alone."

I nodded slowly. That one sentence said so much about him. About the way he tried to hold on to something—or someone. About why he threw himself so intensely into people, why he drank, why he sometimes seemed to crave attention like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His loneliness wasn’t an act. It was a scar. But this wasn’t the time to dissect him. That wasn’t my role. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

"It is nice," I said. "My brother’s funny, though a little shy. He loves romantic dramas. He devours them in days." I smiled sincerely. "His best friend is his boyfriend now… or they’re getting there. 

but I used to stand up for him against the assholes at school who mocked him for the way he talked, for his interests, for his sexuality. I got into more than one fight because of it. Babe didn’t deserve to carry shame for being who he was.

"Must’ve been hard for him," Ray murmured, not looking at me, as if he was talking more about himself than about my brother. "I mean, coming out isn’t easy. At that age, kids can be really cruel… it must be really hard for him."

"It is... I just don’t want him to go through how cruel people can be," I said, though I didn’t get to finish the sentence. At that moment, my phone rang. I picked it up and checked the notification without thinking much. James’s name appeared on the screen—one of my old flings from the bar. I hadn’t heard from him in weeks. I hesitated for a second, but ended up answering.

"Hey," I said with an automatic smile. "It’s nice to hear from you. I missed your voice."

Ray stayed still. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his expression change. His eyes dimmed slightly, like something inside him had suddenly tightened.

"You want to meet up? Sure, just tell me when," I kept going, trying to sound natural, though the atmosphere had shifted completely.

When I finally hung up and looked back at Ray…he was gone. The cake, too, except for a few cookies left on the table. Only the echo of the conversation remained, the sweet scent still lingering in the air, and a heavy discomfort in my chest. I quickly messaged James with some excuse and shut my phone off completely. Something in me knew I had just ruined something important—something Ray would never say out loud, but had undoubtedly felt.

😼𓆪✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖝𝖙 𝖉𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖞 :･ﾟ✧ :･ﾟ✧

⟡༶ 🍑 "Somewhere, a leopard thong was involved…" 🍷😏

⋆｡°✩ someone's pride may never recover ⋆｡°✩

Waking up early and going out to do the shopping had become an involuntary ritual since I moved into this house. I won't lie and say I did it with a smile on my face or that the morning chill inspired deep existential thoughts. But there was something comforting about those early hours of the day, when everything still seemed suspended in a soft calm, when the world had not yet put on its chaos costume.

I liked that stillness. I liked it even more knowing that Ray was still asleep, probably hugging a pillow or sprawled out on the couch in positions that defied all ergonomic logic. In those moments, when the only sound was the soft brushing of my footsteps against the wet sidewalk or the occasional beep of a distant traffic light, I felt like I owned a tranquility that was scarce for the rest of the day. It was like a silent truce the universe granted me before tossing me back into the whirlwind of living with Ray.

Ray gave me shopping lists that seemed straight out of a catalog titled “How to Ruin Your Digestive System in One Week”: Onion-flavored honey chips, — a culinary abomination probably created during a sleepless night and illegal substances, — hyperglycemic cereals with animal doodles on every corner of the package, and "natural" juices that contained more unpronounceable ingredients than a biochemistry thesis. And although my survival instinct urged me to ignore those requests, I ended up giving in due to a mixture of affection, resignation, and the hope that someday he might crave a vegetable that wasn’t fried.

The truth is, Ray had the picky palate of a spoiled child who grew up surrounded by options but never learned how to cook a hard-boiled egg. I knew this from the first day, when I heard him seriously say that “making dinner” meant ordering sushi from an app, and when it arrived, he didn’t even have the courtesy to put the chopsticks on the table.

Before I appeared in his life, he had a lady who cooked for him — an efficient housewife, professional, and surely very patient. But since she left, Ray had been wandering like an orphan, desperately searching for replacements that didn’t involve personal effort. “I can hire another one,” he said once, stirring his frappuccino as if talking about adding extra caramel, not about a real person. Of course, I immediately refused.

I explained, without raising my voice but firmly, that there was no need to spend more money hiring someone. I proposed a deal: we’d buy fresh ingredients, save money, and I would cook. After all, I liked it. It wasn’t a sacrifice; it was almost a form of therapy. The only thing he had to do was stay nearby, watch, even if it was with that charming cheekiness of his.

He only had to sit and watch me, something he did with a mix of fascination and boldness. The funny thing is that, over time, he started to get interested. It’s not like I was trying to earn a Michelin star, but I taught him the basics: how to chop vegetables without cutting off his fingers, how not to confuse salt with sugar, and never, under any circumstances, let the rice burn (that was definitely a battle). Little by little, he integrated into my cooking routines, and now our nights were filled with singing, fights, and dramatic screams like “This is way too spicy!” or “You put onion in it, and you know I hate onion!”

We started to build a routine. A domestic, imperfect one, yet deeply ours. He was, without a doubt, an adorable nuisance. And although I knew living with Ray meant an emotional rollercoaster, I never imagined it would also mean facing domestic disasters that bordered on apocalyptic.

That day, I came back from the supermarket with my bags full, exhausted but satisfied. I had the usual—what was on his list and what we actually needed—and a few things I wouldn’t justify: a couple of artisanal cookies that had looked at me with tenderness from the display case, and a vegan ice cream that promised to heal any emotional wounds, but was probably just misleading advertising. I walked through the hallway with the usual routine, adjusting the keys, thinking about what we’d cook that night, probably something with rice—without onion, of course. But as soon as I opened the door, everything stopped.

A strange smell hit me first, one I couldn’t quite place: a mix of detergent, expensive perfume, and something definitely rotting. Then came the sound: a constant dripping, accompanied by an electric hum that shouldn’t have been there. And finally, I saw it. Foam. Piles of foam bubbling from the hallway into the living room, as if someone had tried to have a foam party in a giant fish tank. I blinked. Took a deep breath. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that Ray had tried to help.

I blinked a couple of times, stunned, as if my eyes refused to process what I was seeing. The whole living room was covered by a thick, whitish layer of foam that overflowed onto the floor as if it had a life of its own, gliding with an almost theatrical slowness into every corner of the house. The floor, completely slippery, reflected the morning light with a soapy shine that made me think, for a fleeting moment, that maybe I had woken up inside a bad dream. But the cold that crept up my feet as soon as I took a step made it clear that this was very, very real.

“Ray!? What the hell is going on…?” I yelled, with that mix of electric fear and frustration that only appears when you know your house could electrocute you at any second.

The silence that followed was more terrifying than any answer. The only sound was the bubbling crackle of the disaster, the dripping of water from some imprecise spot, and the faint hum of the washing machine that, like a possessed creature, seemed determined to keep spitting out foam even though the world was drowning.

I moved cautiously, stepping through the foam like crossing a minefield. I left the bags on the kitchen table, soaking the legs of the chair in the process. The water reached my ankles, and from the texture of the floor, I knew it wasn’t just water: it was loaded with detergent, the thick, scented kind that promised to leave clothes as white as a saint’s soul but clearly wasn’t designed to be used in industrial quantities.

“Ray, where are you?!” I called again, this time with more desperate urgency.

A voice responded from the back. It was Ray, and he sounded…guilty. A little embarrassed, a little scared, like a cat that broke a vase and now doesn’t know whether to hide or apologize.

“I’m here! In the laundry room!”

A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway, clothes clinging to his body as if he had just stepped out of an Olympic-sized pool. He was wearing oversized boxers with a teddy bear print—ridiculous, adorable—and a white tank top that revealed more than it covered. His messy hair hung over his forehead in wet strands, and his face, still puffy from sleep, seemed incapable of processing the magnitude of the disaster he had caused. He looked at me like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and with a mix of tenderness and irritation, I felt my shoulders sink in an inevitable sigh.

“I tried to wash the clothes, but…I don’t know what happened…” he mumbled, as if that was enough to justify an apocalypse of foam in our living room.

“Don’t say anything!” I cut him off with a quick gesture, gently but firmly moving him aside as I walked toward the heart of the catastrophe.

The washing machine was still running like nothing had happened. Foam was bubbling out from the seams, the lid, from underneath—it seemed alive, vengeful. I turned off the machine firmly and, after a couple of struggles, opened it to face reality. I started pulling out the soaking wet clothes, piece by piece, each garment dripping with soapy water and cheap perfume.

That’s when I saw it.

There, among faded t-shirts, mismatched socks, and a towel smelling of excessive expensive cologne, appeared the most out-of-place item in the universe: a thong. But not just any thong. It was a leopard print thong. With a shiny, suggestive print and a texture that screamed unnecessary luxury.

I stared at it for a few seconds, as if I needed my brain to confirm the obvious. Then I slowly turned my head toward Ray, who was watching me from the door with a look that was a mix of guilty and amused. His smile was faint, almost shy, that kind of smile that screams: “I know you know this is mine, but I’m still playing dumb.”

“I’m one hundred percent sure this leopard print thong is not mine,” I said finally, holding it up with two fingers, like it was evidence in a crime show.

Ray shrugged, feigning innocence, but the blush rising on his face completely betrayed him.

“Maybe…you bought it without realizing…” he stammered, as if that excuse could hold up in any logical plane of existence.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Because obviously, I go around buying vintage leopard print thongs,” I replied, with the sarcastic tone I reserved for only the most special occasions. I flipped the garment over, inspecting it. The fabric was absurdly soft. It had a label in Italian that mentioned something about “fine handcrafted lace.”

“This fabric looks old. I’m throwing it away,” I said, heading toward the trash with determined steps, as if I were carrying out a mission of spiritual purification.

But Ray, in a move as dramatic as it was spontaneous, stepped in front of me. He leapt in front of me with the skill of a theatrical ninja and stopped me with his hands up. His huge eyes were fixed on mine, pleading but proud.

“Okay, I confess…it’s my favorite thong!” he finally said, in the tone of someone revealing they have a secret shrine to Britney Spears in their closet. “It’s fine leopard print. Imported fabric from Italy. It cost a fortune.”

And without giving me a chance to respond, he snatched it from my hands with the precision of a white-collar thief and quickly hid it in the laundry room drawer, as if it were a relic that needed immediate protection.

I watched him silently for a few long seconds, trying to decide if what I was feeling was irritation, fascination, or simply endless resignation. He stood firm, eyebrows raised, defiant, as if daring me to judge him.

“Seriously, you spend money on this?” I finally asked, incredulously, unable to stop a smile that betrayed me.

“And don’t you buy those ceramic-bottomed pans like you’re a professional chef?” he countered, crossing his arms, proud of his comeback.

Touché.

I sighed, letting my arms fall to my sides as I looked at the disaster around us. Foam, water, wet clothes, and a leopard print thong hidden like a national treasure. Sometimes I wondered how the hell I had ended up sharing my life with this human chaos. But other times, like now, I couldn’t imagine the house without him.

—Is that a leopard thong? WHY WOULD YOU WEAR A LEOPARD THONG!? —I exclaimed, my face frozen in a mix of alarm and confusion. I looked at him with calculated seriousness, my eyebrow slightly raised, trying my best to look outraged, though the corner of my lips already betrayed the urge to laugh. I wanted to seem stern, critical… but inside, I was already holding back a chuckle. He knew it. And I knew he knew it.

Ray, far from getting offended, returned my gaze with the nonchalance of someone who believes they haven’t done anything out of the ordinary. He shrugged, as if wearing feline-patterned underwear was as normal as putting on striped socks.

“Because all my clothes were dirty and I didn’t know how to wash them… Well, that’s it, it’s my only clean clothes,” he said quickly, as if that argument was enough to justify the absurd situation I found myself in. I tried to say something, maybe shoot back with a logical reply, but he beat me to it, interrupting me with that swagger of his.

“And also... in case we ever hooked up. I wanted to look cute,” he added, letting out a mischievous smile, the kind he gives when he knows he’s going to get away with it, or at least completely throw me off balance.

I stared at him. Processed. Furrowed my brow as if trying to defend myself from the mental impact that statement carried.

“Hook up… wearing a leopard thong? You have… particular tastes,” I said dryly, though my expression was starting to crack between disbelief and amusement. I added, a little more seriously, “Besides, I wouldn’t hook up with you, Ray. Stop thinking that’s going to happen. It’s not. Seriously.”

I tried to regain control of the situation, focusing on the washing machine, which was still spewing foam like a wounded beast, while the floor seemed to have turned into a treacherous soap rink. I crouched down to pick up some of the wet clothes, muttering under my breath, as Ray, without missing a beat, continued talking as if we were having a perfectly normal conversation.

“I’ve got one in black with white and another in white with orange,” he said, proudly, as if he were listing trophies won in some unusual exotic underwear competition.

I slowly turned my head towards him, dropping a soaked t-shirt on the edge of the sink. I sighed in resignation.

“I’m sure I didn’t want to know that…” I said, and despite everything, a sideways smile escaped me, like a small crack in a wall that thought it was solid.

But then, as if verbal exposure wasn’t enough, Ray decided to deliver the final blow. With utter lack of shame, he dropped his shorts in the middle of the soapy mess and revealed, indeed, a black and white leopard thong. He wore it with obvious comfort, as if it were a regular part of his wardrobe for hanging out at home. He was only wearing his white tank top, wet and clinging to his body, and that revealing piece of clothing that now could not be ignored.

And that’s when I knew I had lost.

“I can’t with this,”  I muttered, feeling frustration wash over me. Without thinking too much, I looked down and picked up his underwear from the floor, holding it firmly. Without giving me time to regret it, I headed for the door with determined steps. In one swift motion, I opened the door and pushed Ray out, dropping him into the cold morning. The door slammed shut with a sharp sound and, at that moment, the tension disappeared.

I left him out there. Alone. In his tank top and, of course, that damn leopard print thong he was wearing right now, me with his shorts in my hands.

I leaned against the doorframe, unable to hold it in any longer. Laughter exploded from me, shaking me so violently that I could barely catch my breath. The image of Ray out there, half-naked, surrounded by confused neighbors, was too much. I couldn’t stop. It was just too funny.

“Damn you, Kant, let me in! People passing by are giving me weird looks! Lady, I swear I’m not an exhibitionist!” he yelled from the door, pounding on it desperately, his voice holding that mix of indignation and embarrassment that only he could pull off.

I shook my head as I walked away from the entrance, still laughing loudly, tears in my eyes and my stomach aching. I returned to the foam, which now looked like a mist from another world. ​

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the door opening. Apparently, Ray wasn’t as stupid as I had thought; he had managed to get in on his own, probably through a window or the old copy of the key he swore he had lost.

“Did you have fun out there, Ray?” I asked, feigning calm, as I tossed his shorts toward him without looking.

But when I turned around, the scene completely took me by surprise. Ray wasn’t alone.

Standing in the doorway next to him was his father...with Ray’s shorts hanging from his head like a grotesque crown of humiliation. He had caught them square in the face, and his expression said it all: anger, confusion, and that kind of disappointment only a father could perfect.

“What the hell is this, Ray?!” he bellowed, pulling the garment off his head with a sharp motion. His gaze jumped from the foam chaos in the living room to us, his eyes sparking with judgment.

Ray, who had already put the thong under his shirt, met the look with a mix of discomfort and defiance. He didn’t say a word. He simply walked over to his father, took the shorts from his hands with a quick, almost violent motion, and clenched them tightly in his fists.

I saw his jaw tighten, how his shoulders trembled slightly. But that fury wasn’t for me. No. It was for what that figure in front of him represented. For the shame. For the untold history between them. For everything they could never say without shouting. 

Chapter Text

🌌📖 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐾𝑎𝑛𝑡’𝑠 𝑃𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑉𝑖𝑒𝑤 🧠✨

│ 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑎𝑠𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑐ℎ. │

╰─────────── · · · ───────────╯

It would be impossible to predict the future right now. If I had known the day would end with me witnessing one of the most uncomfortable and confusing scenes of my life, I definitely would’ve thought twice before chucking that thong . But no, Ray’s father wasn’t angry about what I feared. He was mad about something completely different: the foam covering most of the house, as if a soap storm had exploded inside. His expression was stern—the kind of anger even a grade school kid would recognize at a glance. I was frozen, unsure whether to step in or stay quiet, because any word said at the wrong time could push Ray straight into the abyss of an argument that would surely set him back emotionally.

“What is all this, Ray?” his father asked, his deep, accusatory voice cutting through the air, his eyes fixed on him with a mix of disappointment and anger that felt like a slap.

Ray didn’t take long to answer, and his tone was a blend of frustration and restrained fury, like something he’d been holding back for a long time. “Why do you have to come now? You hardly ever show up… besides, it was just a mistake.”

“A mistake, Ray?” his father repeated, raising his voice just enough to hurt without shouting. “Look at this house. And on top of that…why are you wearing that?” His finger pointed directly at the leopard-print thong Ray had on. The silence was immediate. Ray looked at me, eyes wide, cheeks burning. Was he blushing? Oh, god. He definitely was. He was getting ready to speak, but I knew him. He was going to say something that would ruin everything.

I jumped in without thinking. “Actually, sir…it was my fault,” I blurted out quickly, my voice barely steady. “The clothes were really dirty and I forgot to turn off the washing machine. Everything got soaked and…I lent him something from my sister.” I didn’t have a sister. I didn’t know if that excuse was clever or pathetic. But I said it anyway, like a lifeline tossed into a shipwreck. I cursed myself internally while Ray looked at me, even more surprised.

“You have a sister …?” he murmured, but I didn’t let him go on. I couldn’t risk him calling out the lie.

“I’ll hand wash the clothes. Right now,” I said, stepping back and leaving them alone. I needed that scene to end fast.

I went to the laundry room and gently closed the door behind me. I leaned my forehead against the wood. My heart was pounding. I wanted to listen in, to know if Ray was in trouble again, but silence wrapped around me. Maybe I was far enough. Or maybe the conversation had turned private, restrained, dangerous. I stayed there, pretending everything was under control. I started drying the clothes, cleaning up the foam disaster, scrubbing the floor as if that would calm me, as if each movement might undo what had happened. The room ended up spotless, and the clothes were hanging to dry. For a few minutes, I could breathe.

But then I remembered. Ray was with his dad. I went back to the living room, holding on to the naive hope that he’d be there—maybe angry, maybe tired…but present. He wasn’t. I went to his room. Nothing. I searched the whole house. Empty. He was gone. His father too. The house was just an echo.

Should I be worried? Was I overreacting? Maybe he just needed some air. But I knew Ray. I knew how impulsive he could be, how he needed to run when things hurt. I grabbed my phone with trembling hands. I called him. Once. Twice. Six times in total. I felt like an abandoned husband, desperately calling a partner who no longer wanted to answer. It was ridiculous…but I couldn’t help it. Something hurt. A gut feeling, a stab in the chest. I hadn’t heard a fight, but what if there had been one and I just didn’t notice? I’d been so focused on cleaning that I’d lost track of time.

I checked the clock. 4:30 p.m. Four hours had passed. Four. I didn’t know if Ray had left right after the conversation. I didn’t know anything. Only that I had to get ready for work—but how could I, with this knot in my stomach?

7:00 p.m.
It was time to leave. I put on the usual clothes: dark pants, a black shirt, hair slicked back with my fingers, not putting much effort into it. I glanced at myself in the mirror, just to make sure I didn’t look worse than I felt. I was about to walk out, but something stopped me. I couldn’t leave—not like that, not without thinking of Ray first.

I prepared a warm plate of food, simple but enough. Something that would remind him someone was thinking of him, even if I didn’t say it out loud. Next to the food, I left a note on the table: “Call when you get there. Or whenever you want. I’m here.” Maybe he wouldn’t come back that night. Maybe he wouldn’t even read the note. And yet, I wrote it. Because some part of me always hoped he’d return, even if just for a few minutes.

Ray never found refuge in a house or a warm bed. His real home was a bar with lowlights, loud music, and glasses that never emptied. Why? Because a broken man doesn’t look to rebuild—he looks to forget. And no one forgets better than someone who drinks to silence the things he can’t put into words. I knew that. As a bartender, I saw those stories every night…but with Ray, it was different. I knew it from the first time he walked into the bar. He wasn’t just a customer—he was an open wound with an easy smile. And I hadn’t realized how deeply I knew him until I started missing him even before he left.

He didn’t come for fun. He came to escape. Parties, lights, bodies melting into smoke and liquor. All of it was anesthetic. And though I didn’t judge him—we all have our ways of surviving—it hurt to see him fading a little more with every drink.

I checked the clock again. I left the food next to the note, closed the door quietly, and stepped outside. Maybe I’d see him later, hopefully arguing with someone or laughing like nothing was wrong. Maybe he’d even throw one of his dumb jokes at me. But deep down, I knew—he’d be in pieces.

7:30 p.m.
I arrived at the bar. My shift didn’t officially start until 9:30, but I always got there early. There was something comforting about that in-between time, before the crowd, when silence was only broken by the soft hum of the machines and the creak of chairs being straightened. I arranged the bottles, checked the bar, and set the clean glasses in place. Everything as it should be. As if I could organize my own head through the ritual.

But that night, the air felt heavier. Like something was missing. The hours passed slowly. Music began to float timidly between the walls, and the first customers walked in, laughing loosely, their steps unsteady. I saw Cheum chatting with Boston. Cheum’s girlfriend was there too, smiling like nothing could possibly go wrong that night. But Ray wasn’t there. And neither was Mew.

I crossed my arms for a moment, pretending to look for something among the bottles—but I was really just searching for a clue. Were they together? The thought bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Not out of jealousy. It was something else… a kind of discomfort I didn’t know how to name.

I was about to pour myself a glass of water when a familiar, unpleasant voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Kant, haven’t seen you since game night…I’d like a piña colada.”

Boston. His tone carried that mix of mockery and cheap charm. Like everything he said was designed to make you uncomfortable and seduce you at the same time. His voice grated on me, but what he did next was worse. As he spoke, his hand brushed against mine—deliberate, measured. It wasn’t an accident. It was intentional, like everything he did.

I pushed him away firmly, but without losing my composure.

"A piña colada? How sweet. Didn’t think you were that type. It’ll be a challenge to make you like it," I replied with a half-smile as I turned to prepare the drink.

But he didn’t stay still. I saw him, out of the corner of my eye, move to the other side of the bar, crossing the space I’d mentally assigned him. Always crossing lines. As if he got a thrill out of throwing people off. As if he couldn’t breathe without stirring something up.

"So, is a piña colada only for sensitive guys…?" he said, getting closer with that sly grin I hated so much. "Or is it simply Ray’s drink?"

And there it was. His name—shot like a bullet into a lukewarm night.

"Ray has a refined, delicate palate," I replied, not looking directly at him but placing every word with care. "If you’re trying to be like him, maybe a French Martini would suit you better. Although…he also enjoys aged wines. The expensive kind. The kind not just anyone knows how to appreciate. He’s got the taste of someone clearly spoiled."

I smiled elegantly as I set the drink down in front of him. It was my way of drawing the line. A way of reminding him that not all of us are willing to play by his rules—at least not tonight.

"Ooh…" Boston let out, wearing that tilted grin he always used when he wanted to seem more charming than he really was. "So the best-dressed bartender in the place knows Ray’s fancy drink list by heart. What are you hiding, Kant? You didn’t used to pay that much attention to him…" he said, picking up the freshly served piña colada only to set it aside like it meant nothing.

His tone—syrupy and laced with venom disguised as flirtation—made me lift a brow slightly. Boston had a particular talent for poking exactly where it hurt, even if he didn’t always hit the mark. But this time, he did. And he knew it.

"Studying customer’s drink preferences is something any bartender with patience should do," I replied calmly, stepping a little closer—just enough for him to feel the brush of my words. "Does that bother you?"

I looked at him without blinking, reading his expressions like an open manual. Sometimes I wondered if some part of him was dying to be seen the way Ray was. And while my tone remained neutral, the blow landed exactly where I wanted it to.

"Because I know you'll never get as far with me as Ray did." I added with a faint smile, laced with a quiet irony that didn’t need explaining.

It was a jab disguised as casual conversation. I knew Boston had tried to get close to me faster than anyone else in that damn bar. Flirting, measured gestures, unnecessary touches. All of it had been as calculated as it was pointless. Not that Ray had succeeded either, of course…but with him, it was different. He didn’t even try. And that made him more dangerous.

Ray, with his chaos wrapped in a broken smile, was a spoiled kid in my eyes. Nothing truly serious. Someone too damaged to even dream of stability—yet still…someone who slipped into my thoughts more often than I wanted to admit. I hated him a little for that. Or maybe I hated myself for letting it happen.

Boston smiled, this time with a darker gleam in his eyes.

“So Ray did manage something? Come on, Kant…you know Ray will never really be your type,” he said with that effortless tone of his, like he hadn’t just thrown a velvet-wrapped stone.

I opened my mouth, ready to hit back with something even sharper, but before I could speak, someone on the other side of the bar called me. One of those interruptions that feel like a miracle. 

“Sorry, Boston,” I said, turning away with deliberate grace, as if nothing he said had touched me. “But it’s time for me to go.”

I didn’t wait for his reply. I crossed behind the bar with steady steps, silently thanking whoever had rescued me from that stupid conversation. Not because it made me uncomfortable…but because I was starting to understand too well what Boston was hiding behind his words.

 And I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

I threw myself into the work with the kind of efficiency that came naturally to me, letting the clink of bottles, the crackle of ice, and the steady rhythm of orders fill the space where his voice had been.

I kept working as if nothing had happened. Boston didn’t come near me again—maybe he realized there was no point in provoking someone who had already lost interest. The night unfolded like so many others: lined-up glasses, mouths asking for more liquor than they could handle, hollow laughter, and background music trying to hold together an atmosphere that gradually crumbled with every drink.

I don’t know if minutes or an hour passed. Time, in places like this, melts into smoke and alcohol. But then I heard it: the unmistakable sound of glass shattering on the floor. Then came the scrape of chairs, heavy thuds, and the rising murmur of the crowd swelling like a wave. A group of men shouted, cheering on the fight, ecstatic like they’d paid to watch it. The women, more aware of the disaster coming, screamed for someone to step in.

I frowned. It wasn’t my job to break up fights between idiots—that was the security guard’s responsibility—but something made me look. And then I saw it. A black vest with feathers on the shoulders, just like the one Ray used to wear when he wanted to grab attention without saying a word. My stomach twisted.

“Ray…?” I whispered, with more anxiety than I cared to admit.

Before I could think twice, I left the bar and pushed through the crowd. As I moved closer to the heart of the fight, the commotion grew more violent, more suffocating. I made my way through frantic bodies and shoves until I finally had him in front of me.
“Ray!” I called out, raising my voice.

But when the figure turned around, my expression fell apart—it wasn’t him. The face, the eyes, even the stance…none of it matched. I froze for a second, just long enough for the chaos to reach me. There was no going back. A hand shoved me hard, and another landed a direct hit to my side. I lost my balance.

I fell sideways, gasping from the impact. My cheek slammed against the cold floor as the bar’s buzzing became muddled, distant. The lights flickered once, as if unsure whether to stay awake or give in to collapse. And then, suddenly, everything went dark.

The shouting doubled. People, now disoriented, began to move in a panic. I tried to get up, but in the confusion, more than one person stepped on me or tripped over me without realizing. A heel scraped against my jaw; a knee dug into my shoulder. I pulled out my phone almost by instinct, searching for some light. Several others did the same, creating erratic bursts that lit up confused faces and scattered fragments of disaster.

From the stage, a figure rose, standing out among the shadows: Yo, the owner of the bar, with a mic in one hand and her phone lit in the other.

“Guys? Can you hear me?” Her voice rang out through the speakers, clear and commanding. “Don’t panic. It’s just a blackout. The bar is closed—please head to the front door. It’s open. Use your phones to light the way.”

Her tone was firm yet calm, and it managed to bring the chaos down a few notches. People started moving like a disoriented herd, following the dim glow of their screens.

Yo stepped down from the stage with purpose and came toward me. She helped me up without saying anything at first.

“You really are cursed to show up where no one asked for you, kid,” she muttered as we walked together toward the bar. “How did you end up in the middle of a fight?”

“Maybe…I just walk, and the curse follows me,” I replied with a bitter smile. “I never come out clean from these things.”

I thanked her with a nod and grabbed my things. The cool night air hit me as soon as I stepped outside—a reminder that the world kept turning out there, indifferent to the mess inside. I took a deep breath, letting the wind ruffle my hair, and instinctively pulled out my phone.

No calls. No messages.

Zero notifications from Ray.

⋆｡˚☕︎༘ 𝑺𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒑𝒔 & 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 ⋆｡˚🥃༘  

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── 🖤

 𝒂 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒔, 𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒂𝒔𝒕

 ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── 

9:30 a.m.

I woke up earlier than usual, which was rare for me. My body begged to stay in bed, but my mind wouldn’t give me a break. I guess, deep down, I was grateful for having slept a bit more than expected, even if it hadn’t been real rest. Last night’s blackout had forced me to leave everything unfinished, to shut the world off ahead of schedule. It wasn’t exactly welcome, but it allowed me to come home earlier. Maybe that’s why, in the anticipated silence of this morning, I held onto the absurd hope that Ray had come back too. That the blackout had been a pause for both of us, a break in this strange routine we had been dragging along.

But when I walked through the door last night, the apartment was as silent as ever. Not a single trace of him. The food I’d left out was still on the table—untouched, cold, like the floor beneath my feet. No note, no message. The letter I’d written the night before lay on the ground, folded in half. I didn’t know if it had fallen by accident or if he’d thrown it away. I just bent down, picked it up without opening it, and went to bed. No questions. No answers.

Now, with the soft morning light filtering through the bedroom window, I stood in front of the stove. The air smelled of hot oil and toasted bread. I was making a simple breakfast: eggs, sausages, and a couple of slices of toast. Nothing fancy, just enough to keep my stomach from being empty and my thoughts from spiraling. My hands moved on autopilot; it was my way of keeping my mind busy when anxiety threatened to climb. The knife on the cutting board, the toast in the toaster, the pan sizzling...a routine that, for a moment, made me feel in control.

Then I heard the door open. That sound—so familiar and foreign all at once—sent a jolt through my chest. The click of the lock, soft footsteps, the slight creak of the floor. I didn’t turn around. Not out of pride, but because I didn’t know what expression I was wearing. I pretended nothing was happening, that the world didn’t shake a little every time Ray left without a word and came back like nothing had changed. My fingers kept turning the sausages as if the whole world depended on them not burning.

Only when I felt a hand on mine did I force myself to look. I didn’t need to see him to know it was him. His touch was unmistakable, even when it wasn’t tender. I turned my head and looked up. There he was. Ray. He was wearing sunglasses that definitely weren’t his and clothes that didn’t fit the way he usually chose to wear them. Too careless to be casual, too unfamiliar to be coincidence. He looked…like someone else. Or maybe he was still him, just a version I didn’t recognize.

“You’re late,” I muttered, my voice lower than I intended. I pulled my hand away from his and turned my eyes back to the pan, pretending nothing affected me.

Ray let out a short, dry laugh, laced with that mocking tone he used when he wanted to get under my skin. He took off the sunglasses and dropped them on the table with unnecessary force, like he needed to fill the air with noise.

“Am I supposed to let you know when I’m not coming back?” he said, jaw tight, eyes sharp. And then, with a provoking smile that didn’t reach his eyes— “Or maybe I should warn you when I’m about to fuck someone else?”

I froze. His words hit me with the full weight of all the resentment he’d been holding in. The sizzle of the oil was the only sound brave enough to break the silence after that. I stayed still, clutching the spatula like it could somehow anchor me to reality. I felt something inside me crack—slowly—like a fracture that had always been there but chose that moment to split wider.

I couldn’t tell if he was trying to hurt me or test me. If he was angry or just hated himself enough to sabotage the little we had managed to build. Because it wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. Like it wasn’t worth holding back. Like he didn’t care if he broke me a little more.

I swallowed hard and forced myself not to turn around. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing my reaction. Not this time.

“I don’t need to know who you sleep with, Ray. I don’t care,” I finally replied, voice flat. But even to my own ears, it sounded like a lie.

I turned off the stove. The smell of the nearly charred sausages was starting to make me dizzy. They weren’t completely burned—just a little. I moved the pan aside with a mechanical gesture and left it on the counter, as if I were walking away from a crime scene. There was no point in pretending it was just another ordinary morning anymore.

“Are you jealous?” Ray asked, his voice softer now, like he suddenly realized the line he had just crossed.

I looked straight at him, arms crossed tight across my chest. It was an instinctive move, defensive even, but I also needed to show I wouldn’t let him drag me into whatever game he was playing. Not that it made a difference. If anything, Ray seemed even more turned on by the fact that I was trying to draw a line, trying to maintain some kind of control or distance.

“You should stop playing and…” I started to say, but I didn’t finish.

In one quick, deliberate motion, Ray grabbed one of the sausages from the plate and took a bite right in front of me. They weren’t even hot anymore, but that wasn’t the point. He did it too close, way too close. It was a clear provocation—almost childish—but charged with that dark magnetism he always carried.

“You should stop trying to control my life,” he snapped, still chewing, eyes locked on mine with that defiant look that always made my blood boil. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He dropped the rest of the sausage back into the pan with contempt and walked off without another word, heading into his room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

I stood there, spatula still in hand, the breakfast completely ruined. Not physically—the sausages were still there—but emotionally, thanks to his bad temper. And then I asked myself again—I’d lost count—why do I keep falling into the same damn pattern? Why is it so hard for me to accept that taking care of broken boys isn’t always noble or brave? That it’s not my job to save them. Especially not when they’ve already made peace with their own chaos.

Ray didn’t just need help. He rejected it. He clung to the darkness like it was the only place he’d ever felt he belonged.

I let out a long sigh and dropped into the nearest chair. The breakfast was still warm, but I wasn’t hungry anymore. I didn’t go after him. I was upset too, and I knew if we talked right then, it would only make things worse. Ray had always been a tough case. No matter how close I tried to get, he always had that armor on—hard, impenetrable. And honestly? Today, I just didn’t have it in me to try and break through it.

*✧･ﾟ:* 🥃 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓴𝓮𝔂 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 *:･ﾟﾟ✧  

          ❝ 𝐑𝐚𝐲'𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐰 ❞  

╭───────╮❖╭───────╮❖╭───────╮  

   𝓑𝓪𝓻 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓸𝓵𝓼 & 𝓫𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓼   

  𝓖𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓯 𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓵, 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓼 𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮  

╰───────╯❖╰───────╯❖╰───────╯

The days began to stretch out, as if time had stopped existing and was sinking with me into some kind of senseless limbo. Kant and I started drifting apart. It wasn’t sudden—it happened like a rope slowly tightening until it snapped. I tried to reach out many times, to take his hand like I used to, to wait for his touch as if it were my only anchor. But every time I tried, he simply pulled away. He looked at me with that expression that said nothing but meant everything.

Yes, I was harsh. Too harsh. I pushed him away, hurt him with words I should never have said, with actions I should never have repeated. Still, I clung to the idea that maybe he wouldn’t leave completely. And he didn’t.

Kant was still there. We watched movies together in silence, and though we laughed at times, once the screen went black, he would leave. He forbade me from drinking at home—not in a violent or authoritarian way, but with that gentle manner of his that only frustrated me more. How could he possibly give me rewards for every day I didn’t drink? On the first day, he explained it softly, like he didn’t want to hurt me more than I already was. I disagreed. We argued. Well, I yelled. He just listened. That pushed him even farther away. Still, he stayed. Just enough for me to know that there was still something between us that wasn’t entirely broken.

On the second day, he brought me some small chocolates. The next day, a plant. He said we could take care of it together. I named it “Little Kant,” and he said nothing, but I started noticing him talking to the plant while he cooked, watering it gently, calling it “Little Kant, the tiny plant,” like it was a secret just between the two of us. It was ridiculous, but it made my heart shrink. For a moment, I wanted to believe there was still something in me worth saving.

But the shadow always returns, doesn’t it? One night I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt empty, alone, defeated…so I drank. All night. Until Kant came back from work and found me like that. He didn’t yell. He didn’t judge me. He just sat beside me, gently tried to move the bottle away without hurting me more, and stayed with me. He was kind. Kind enough to stay the whole night in bed with me, holding me in all my fragility, like I was something he wanted to protect. 

And slowly, we started talking again. I couldn’t stand having him distant. I’d gotten used to his presence the way an addict clings to a dose of relief. It was a relief when he came closer again, when he apologized for pulling away. I didn’t say a word, I just hugged him—as if that could hold all I was feeling. But things are never that simple. Because then James showed up. That damn guy who always called Kant, who came to the house with that confident smile and locked himself in Kant’s room. They said he was just a friend, but I knew better. I saw it in the way Kant looked at him. And it ate me alive. It tore me apart inside.

So I drank again. This time without hiding it. Without guilt. Because what was the point of pretending I could get better, if every time I tried, something new dragged me right back down?

🎓💼 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝑹𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒚 🏫✨

│ 𝑁𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎... 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠. │

│ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝑹𝒂𝒚’𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 is 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒓. │  

I got lost in the background voices, disconnecting from the world while Cheum talked to Mew and Boston about the grand opening of the hotel. We were sitting at one of the university tables, surrounded by the usual buzz of rushed lunches and last-minute assignment deadlines, but my mind was no longer there.

Her words reached me like distant echoes, meaningless. It had been days since I stayed at Mew’s house after the argument with my father, and I still hadn’t gone back to Kant. I lied, yes. I told him I needed space, that I couldn’t take it anymore… but the truth was different: I hadn’t slept with anyone else. Not when my body, my skin, my damn bones still craved only him.

Cheum spoke with enthusiasm about the big opening party that was coming up, part of our final project for university. Everything was almost finished, except for that “Grand Finale” she wanted so badly. But at that moment, I couldn’t care less about the hotel, the party, or the project. Because just a few steps away from me was him…Kant.

He was dressed as always, with that understated elegance that drove me crazy. Tight black pants, perfectly fitted to his body, and a white belt that contrasted without asking for permission. He wore a cotton shirt so soft I could almost guess the texture just by looking at it, with one button undone, just enough to reveal the start of his tattoo on his chest. The damn guy knew exactly what he was doing. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing his marked forearms, the ink on his skin challenging anyone who dared look too long. He looked made to be touched.

He was finishing a call, and as soon as he put his phone away, he hugged a guy. Small, a bit shorter than him, with a face that looked like he hadn’t lived half of what I had lived last year. And that was enough to ignite something in my chest.

I didn’t think about it. My steps carried me toward Kant before I could reason. My friends shouted at me from behind, confused by my sudden disappearance, but their voices faded into the air. I was already in front of him.

Kant looked at me as if he didn’t know why I was there. The guy next to him watched me, curious, but I was already analyzing him without shame. Is this how you preferred them now? Young, soft, with no scars? Was I so easy to replace?

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Kant?” I said with a sideways smile, though my eyes were fixed on the guy like knives wrapped in velvet.

Kant sighed and slowly turned toward me, that expression of patience mixed with repressed desire on his face. “You don’t need to meet everyone who’s part of my life, Ray,” he said in a calm voice, but his tone carried that rough note I loved provoking.

“Come on, Kant… Who is he?” I murmured with a sly grin and moved closer. I slid my arms over his shoulders as if they were mine by right, and leaned in just enough so our mouths were only inches apart. I could feel his breath. “I’m not a dog that barks… or bites,” I whispered close to his ear.

Kant chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Of course not. Dogs are adorable. You… you’re a hot feline, Ray.”

His voice pierced me to the bone. He didn’t put his hands on my waist. Not yet. Always playing halfway. Always maintaining that margin of self-control, as if he didn’t know I was his weakness.

“A seductive feline? You flatter me…” I replied, lowering my gaze and pretending to be shy, while I barely bit my lower lip. I knew he was looking at me. I knew exactly what I was doing.

But I locked eyes with him again. “And him? Is he your new boyfriend? Have you gotten over James already?” I asked, savoring every word, letting the doubt and venom do their job.

Kant chuckled softly, and finally, his hands slid to my waist. He pulled me toward him gently, but firmly. “I’m not James’s boyfriend. And you don’t care who he is…”

Before I could respond, the guy spoke. His voice was clean, clear. “Bro… who is he, is he your boyfriend?”

‘Bro’…?

I pulled back suddenly and looked at him more closely. Suddenly, I remember that Kant has a brother.Babe. The much-mentioned one. The heat of the scene turned into a cold lightning bolt in my chest. Damn.

Silence.

And yet, while the fire extinguished in my body, a part of me knew this wasn’t the end. Kant was still playing. And I was still falling.

Chapter Text

╭─────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────╮
🥀 𝙿𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚅𝚒𝚎𝚠: 𝚁𝚊𝚢 🥀
❝𝑾𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔.❞
╰─────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────╯

Maybe, in that exact moment, shame was everything. My cheeks were burning as if I had just confessed an intimate secret out loud, but oddly enough, fear... fear seemed to be afraid of me. I didn’t know where to look. Everything felt blurry, ethereal, like the world had decided to stop right when I most needed to think clearly.

Still, my eyes didn’t hesitate for long. As if magnetized, they searched for his. Kant.

I looked at him boldly, with that playful spark that always lit up when he was around. A mischievous smile curled my lips—the one I used to provoke, to challenge, to see how far I could push him without breaking him.

“Weren’t you going to introduce me to your brother?” I asked, breaking the silence with feigned ease, though my heart was pounding beneath my chest.

My gaze left Kant’s for just a second to focus on the guy next to him. I reached out my hand with the same confidence that had wrapped around me since I first saw him.

“I’m Ray, your brother’s future boyfriend…Maybe now you can call me brother-in-law,” I added with a charming smile, fully aware of the weight of my words.

The younger guy looked at me with surprise at first, but quickly responded kindly.

“Ohhh, so you are his boyfriend…I’m Babe, his younger brother. Nice to meet you,” he said, stepping closer, arms open to hug me.

But he didn’t get the chance. In a quick, almost territorial gesture, Kant gently pushed him aside, stepping between us as if his body already knew what his words still didn’t dare to say.

I felt his presence closer, his breath soft against my neck, and without meaning to, my gaze dropped to his lips, which moved with that impatient calm only he could have.

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he murmured firmly, though there was a shadow of contradiction in his voice. “I’m not an easy man, Ray. But right now, I need to take my brother to the address.”

As he spoke, his eyes searched the area for a sign of where to go. His furrowed brow gave me the perfect opening.

“I know where it is,” I said without much thought, intertwining my fingers with his like it was the most natural thing. “I’ll guide you…you don’t seem to know where it is, anyway.”

I dared to say it with shameless confidence—the same kind I used to hide the fact that, inside, he was tearing me apart.

Kant held my gaze for a long second. It was as if his eyes wanted to say more than his mouth would ever allow. There was desire, restrained anger, and something deeper, darker… a need for control that only made him more fascinating.

"Fine, take us," he finally agreed, without breaking eye contact.

And in that moment, I knew that no matter how much he denied it, he had already let me in. His eyes screamed it—those eyes that seemed to pierce through me, devour me, as if I were something forbidden he craved to possess entirely.

I forgot we weren’t alone. I forgot that Boston was probably watching us closely, like a hunter waiting for someone else to slip. And instead of holding me back, that only intensified my desire to kiss him right there, in front of everyone—to claim what wasn’t mine yet, but already belonged to me.

But then his younger brother’s voice cut through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

“But brother… we’ve been here before,” Babe said with a frown. “You know where the dean’s office is.”

Reality slammed back between us like a door snapping shut. Kant looked away, uncomfortable, while I simply smiled, still with our fingers intertwined. If this was a game, I had already made my move. And he…he was already playing with me, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

༶•┈┈┈ 𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 ┈┈┈•༶  

       🌙⌇quiet clocks, soft glances, shifting air⌇🕰️

After nearly an hour of waiting, while Kant and Babe spoke privately with the university dean, the atmosphere between us started to grow heavy—too quiet. The tension floated in the air, suspended like mist between unfinished conversations. When they finally came out of the building, their faces showed exhaustion… and something else—something I didn’t want to interpret.

I decided it was best to change the focus, lighten the moment, and suggested we grab a coffee. I had a special place in mind, a hidden gem only a few knew about—far enough from the student crowds, but still within the orbit of the university.

“I know a nice café nearby. You’ll like it,” I said softly, not looking directly at Kant but hoping he would be the one to catch the real invitation beneath the words.

Babe was the first to react. He walked ahead quickly as we arrived, and when he saw the front of the place, he stopped suddenly—like time had paused just for him.

“Ray! This is… beautiful. Rustic, warm… I didn’t imagine you knew spots like this,” he said with a genuine smile, running off to pick a table by the windows.

I simply smiled. Kant, meanwhile, looked at me as if trying to read beyond my gestures.

“I’m surprised you like places like this. Doesn’t seem like your style,” he said—not looking at the café, only at me. His gaze held onto mine with a curious, almost challenging edge.

“Maybe there are things you don’t know about me,” I replied lightly, letting my words hang between us with a weight he didn’t miss.

We stepped inside. The café’s interior glowed with a charming warmth. It was a small space, but it had soul. Filament lamps hung above the tables, casting an amber light that embraced every corner, highlighting the grain in the wooden floor and the worn iron of the old chairs. It felt like walking into a time capsule—one where everything became intimate and personal.

The walls were decorated with old photo frames, mugs hanging like trophies of past stories, and soft lights outlining people’s faces gently. Through the large windows, the gray afternoon sky reflected in the customers’ cups, creating soft, almost cinematic glimmers.

The glass door bore a sign that read “Home Cafe.” A sweet little coffee shop, which instead of taking away from the charm, gave it that honest touch of something made with love, not perfection.

We sat down. I ordered a cappuccino; Kant, as always, a black coffee with just a pinch of sugar; and Babe picked a strawberry milkshake—playful and sweet, just like his personality. After a few minutes, Babe got up to explore the place, curious, touching books, plants, and hand-written menus. I let him go without asking.

I was left alone with Kant.

The silence we shared wasn’t awkward—it was charged. He looked at me differently. As if he were measuring every detail, resisting something he no longer knew how to ignore.

"I see your brother really likes this university," I said, trying to spark conversation, but also subtly steering it into more intimate territory.

"He loves it. Says it has everything he's looking for… And I want a good future for him," he replied sincerely, adjusting himself in the chair. His body leaned just slightly toward mine, and his eyes sank into mine. There was a connection, a magnetic pull.

"And you? Shouldn’t you be in class?" he suddenly asked, in a more serious, protective tone. Like a young adult who couldn’t help playing the older, more responsible role…though by the way he looked at me, I knew there was more behind his words.

"Oh, come on. You’re older, but that doesn’t mean you have to treat me like a kid," I replied with a tilted smile, and without thinking too much, I slid my hand onto his thigh.

He tensed slightly. He didn’t pull away, nor did he remove my hand.

"Don’t start playing daddy," I said with the same sly smile, somewhere between disdain and flirtation, while my hand slowly crept further, resting gently on his thigh. I glanced sideways at him, knowing exactly what I was doing.

The movement was slow, calculated, almost innocent. But it wasn’t. I felt his body stiffen, almost imperceptibly, like he was holding his breath for a moment. I looked at him boldly, knowing he hadn’t expected this kind of boldness in the middle of a quiet café.

Kant turned to me with that expression only he could wear — a mix of disbelief, challenge, and restrained desire.

"‘Old’?" he asked under his breath, not breaking eye contact, as if trying to strip my intention apart word by word. "Was that an insult…or a provocation?"

I didn’t answer. I smiled in silence, keeping my hand where it was, applying just enough pressure for him to notice. His gaze dropped for a split second, like someone giving in to a temptation too strong to resist. Then, without another word, he took my hand firmly — not to move it away…but to guide it higher.

He dragged it slowly up his thigh, deliberately leading it to the most intimate part of himself. I felt it. Hard. Throbbing. Ready. I brushed against him through the fabric of his pants, and even though the contact was light, it carried the weight of a storm barely contained. A tense, demanding, eager erection. And all of it… because of me.

I stroked with my fingertips, a soft, almost reverent touch, like someone unveiling a secret beneath a dark sheet. Kant flinched. His body arched slightly, lips parting in a held breath, eyes fluttering closed for a fleeting second — as if he were about to say my name…or moan it.

That’s when Babe appeared.

"There you are!" he announced cheerfully, bursting the spell like a splash of cold water. "Cappuccino, black coffee, and…my milkshake."

Kant and I turned our heads at the same time, like we’d just been caught red-handed. We withdrew our hands in a flash, returning to our original positions as if nothing had happened, though the heat lingering between us was impossible to ignore. The air smelled of coffee… and tension.

Babe placed the drinks in front of us with an innocent smile, unaware of anything strange, while I picked up my cappuccino and brought it to my lips. I drank slowly, purposefully, letting the foam linger like a mischievous treat. I glanced sideways at Kant while I slowly licked the foam from my lips. I knew he was watching. I could feel it. I could almost hear the rush of his pulse under his shirt.

He said nothing. Just wrapped both hands around his coffee, like he needed something to hold on to — something to keep him grounded.

His cheeks were flushed, not from the warmth of the drink, but from the burning memory of my fingers in his lap.

I smiled at him…speaking without a single word.

“It’s nice to finally meet my brother’s boyfriend,” Babe said, with a smile that was anything but innocent.

It wasn’t a casual comment tossed into the air. No. Hiseyes, full of mischief, knew exactly what he was saying. He knew I wasn’t Kant’s boyfriend—he’d heard him say it with that damn coldness he used whenever he wanted to build walls: “He’s not my boyfriend,” he’d said. As if there was nothing between us. As if the desire, the fire, the nights, and the looks that lingered until they consumed us didn’t deserve a single word.

Fucking bastard.

He always ruins the good moments. Always hides behind that mask of self-control… until I push him to the edge. And he loves it.

But when Babe looked at me, he did so with a knowing glance, like he was reading every inch of my body and understood exactly what was going on under the table. I was about to answer with a joke, something light to keep the mood steady, but Kant beat me to it, speaking with that dry voice of his, trying to draw lines where there were none left.

“He’s just my roommate,” he said, lifting the cup of coffee to his lips. As if that could neutralize the heat already seeping through our skin.

Babe smiled, clearly enjoying the tension.

“Oh… that’s a shame, you would’ve had a cute boyfriend,” he said, lips closing around the straw of her milkshake. I looked him in the eye. Smiled. I wanted him to know I wasn’t playing fair anymore.

I brought my cappuccino to my lips slowly, letting the foam stick like honey. When I lowered it, my words came out soft but sharp, laced with double meaning.

“Well…”

“Ray will never really know what my mouth tastes like. Not entirely,” Kant cut in suddenly, with a sly, dark smile—like a challenge.

Excuse me? Was he seriously saying that? That I wouldn’t get to taste those lips that looked sculpted to be kissed until marked? He was out of his mind if he thought I’d let that slide. I looked at him, and my eyes must’ve set him on fire, because his smirk widened slightly.

“Oh, brother…can I get a slice of cake?” Babe interrupted with cheerful innocence, looking at Kant.

He nodded distractedly, and Babe, quick as a child with permission to sin, jumped up and ran toward the counter.

The air turned heavier. Charged. Erotic.

“So I don’t get a chance to taste your lips?” I asked, with a slow, poisonous smile as I leaned toward him.

Kant looked at me. His pupils were dilated. The game aroused him as much as it did me, no matter how hard he pretended it didn’t. He leaned in close, so close his breath brushed my ear like a burning caress

“You want me so badly, Ray,” he whispered, and that sentence, spoken with such certainty, shot through me like an electric current straight to the center of my body.

Heat surged all at once, blood rushing south, and my body reacted like he’d summoned it.

Without thinking, I slid one of my feet under the table and gently rested it on top of his shoe. He didn’t react at first…until I moved up. And up. Until I pressed against him with blatant boldness. That’s when he slapped my thigh—hard, like he wanted to mark his territory—and grabbed it with purpose.

His hand was large. Firm. Masculine. And the way it moved up my thigh felt almost sacred. Like he was ascending a pagan altar, ready to make a sacrifice. The sacrifice of self-control.

He reached where it hurt the most.

My erection was there, hot, trapped behind fabric, throbbing like a caged beast. And he… he knew. He felt it. He touched me with his open palm, pressing exactly where I needed it. My body trembled. I bit my lip, but a moan escaped anyway, soft and treacherous.

Kant didn’t look away. He held my gaze as he touched me—slowly—like someone who knew exactly how to make you beg without saying a word.

I was going to come if he kept going. Right there in the damn café. And the worst part: he knew. And he loved it.

Then, just as my back arched slightly and a gasp betrayed me, his hand moved to my mouth, covering it.

“Shhh…” Kant whispered, his deep voice sliding across my skin like a filthy, dark, inescapable caress. His face was so close I could feel his breath against my cheek—warm, intimate. And that smile…that sly half-smile curling his full lips drove me absolutely insane. A smile that knew exactly what it was doing, that enjoyed having me trembling from just a few touches. “Don’t make a sound, Ray.”

His hand stayed over my mouth, pressing gently but firmly, with a twisted sweetness—as if he relished every little reaction I gave. I hated him for it. I hated him with a passion so deep it blurred into desire. I hated him for having that kind of power over me, for turning me on like that in the middle of a public place. But I also loved him.

I loved him with the urgency that comes from raw lust—with that desperate need to melt into his body, to be ruined by him in the nearest available space, to be taken against a wall, a sink, a fucking car if necessary. I wanted to tear his clothes off, lick his throat, bite his lips until they bled and make him moan my name through broken gasps. I was so hot, so fucking close to the edge, that one more word, one more touch, and I would’ve come right there under that damned table.

But at that moment—like the universe mocking me—his hand vanished from my crotch. As quickly as it had come, it was gone. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just touched me exactly where I needed it most, like he hadn’t made every fiber of my body shake with a single stroke. He pulled away as if he didn’t care, as if my desire was just a game to him. And yet…in his eyes, there was still that dark spark, that restrained hunger telling me that yes, he wanted me as much as I wanted him—but he was going to keep playing at his pace.

That’s when I noticed: Babe was coming back. Kant straightened like nothing had happened, slipping back into his role as the indifferent older brother, and picked up his coffee cup with all the calm in the world. He took a long, elegant sip, like he hadn’t just set me on fire from the inside, like his fingertips weren’t still soaked in the heat between my legs. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even move.

Every muscle in my body was tense, burning. My pulse throbbed in my crotch, my throat, my lips. Every part of me screamed for him. I was a mess of desire, my body on the brink of collapse, needing somewhere to explode.

Babe sat down cheerfully, holding his cake in his hands, completely unaware of what had just happened under the table, smiling with innocent delight. He asked if anyone wanted a bite, as if everything were normal, as if the air wasn’t thick with sexual tension so heavy it could be sliced with a knife. But I couldn’t think about sweets or whipped cream. I had only one image in my mind—fixed, indecent, impossible to ignore: Kant. His tongue. His mouth. His body on top of mine. That damn smile while he made me beg for more.

I didn’t look at the cake. I looked at Kant. I looked at him with hunger. With the unshakable certainty that I wasn’t going to let him slip away this time. Because I didn’t want a piece of cake. I wanted his tongue on my neck, his hands on my hips, his body melting into mine. I wanted his moans in my ear, his nails digging into my skin, his hips slamming into mine until I couldn’t say another word that wasn’t his name.

And this time…

This time I wasn’t going to be left wanting.

˗ˏˋ 🕰️ 𝕒 𝕗𝕖𝕨 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕦𝕥𝕖𝕤 𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕥 𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕖 ˎˊ˗  

        ⊹ ₊˚༄ 🏠 𝓟𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓻 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓼 ₊˚⊹ 

Every thought that crossed my mind had a single name: Kant. I hated him for that. I hated how he got under my skin, how he lingered in me even when he was no longer there. We were walking back home after a night filled with silences that spoke louder than any words. We shared the bathroom, as always, but this time he was the first to leave for his room. He left me alone. Frustrated. Burning.

I went back to mine too, slammed the door shut, and collapsed onto the bed. But it wasn’t enough. His presence was still there—ghostly, throbbing in every corner. My body was begging for more. For something only he could give me, even if he didn’t know it.

I got up. Walked like something was pulling me, unstoppable, lungs gasping for air. I crossed back into the bathroom, shut the door behind me with a dull thud, and leaned against it for a second, breathing hard, eyes closed, tongue anxiously licking my lips.

My body was already hot, wet, completely ready. I didn’t need lube—my skin was sweating with need. I pulled down my pants and underwear without thinking. My erection was stiff, pulsing with desperation. I sat on the edge of the tub, tilted my head back, and let my mind fill with him.

His voice. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. How his fingers had slid along my thighs this morning while he whispered things that shattered me inside. His touch was branded into me, and my skin still remembered it like a burn.

I wrapped a hand around the base of my cock and started stroking—slow at first, then faster. I imagined his mouth trailing down my body, his lips closing around my nipples, his tongue licking the tip of my erection. Each fantasy sparked another, like a cursed chain.

I moved faster, a moan slipped from my throat and made me bite my lip. My back arched against the cold bathroom wall, my hips falling into rhythm. My hands traveled to my neck, wrapped around it, and I let out a sigh followed by an uncontrollable moan.

“Kant…” I gasped his name without thinking. Once. Twice. As if I could summon him. As if he might come and finish what he never started.

And then, as if my words had conjured him, a voice cut through the air.

“Not so fast, Ray…”

I froze. That voice.

I turned my head. Through the frosted glass of the remodeled door, I saw his shadow. Kant was there. Leaning against it, breathing heavily. He had heard me. How long had he been standing there?

“K-Kant…since when…?”

But I couldn’t finish the sentence. Because my traitorous body kept moving. I couldn’t stop. Not with him listening. Not with that voice on the other side.

“Your moans, Ray…keep going, please. I’m right here,” Kant said, his voice shaky, breathless, trembling between gasps. He sounded desperate. He sounded like he was…touching himself too.

“Kant…I…”

“Don’t stop,” he cut in. “I want to hear you. Do what I say. I’m going to guide you.”

A shiver ran from the base of my spine to the back of my neck. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. I wasn’t mine anymore. I was his.

“Ray,” Kant whispered in that deep voice that undid me from the inside out, “moan my name. I want to hear how it sounds on your lips when you're like this…filthy, broken, needing me.”

And I did.

“Kant…fuck…Kant…”

His name escaped my mouth like a choked moan, almost a forbidden prayer. It poured out of me with the same urgency as the air filling my lungs. Louder each time. More desperate. Until I screamed it, body trembling, soaked in desire, as if saying it could tear him out of his room and pull him on top of me.

From the other side of the frosted glass door, his voice hit me like dark thunder, a growl that shook me to the bone.

“That’s what I like…” His tone was thick, low, rough with lust. “Don’t stop. Now you have me. Only me, Ray. No one else is ever going to make you feel this way.”

His voice was all I needed. It was enough. Liquid fire rushing down my spine, an invisible caress sweetly strangling me.

“Kant…” I whispered between gasps. “You drive me insane…”

“I want you to think about my mouth. Sucking you. Tasting every drop like you’re the only sweet thing left in this rotten world. Imagine my tongue slow, dragging over the tip of your cock, devouring you like the sin you are.”

I closed my eyes, heart pounding, breath shattered. My hips lifted on their own, reaching for him in the empty air. I saw him in my mind—on his knees in front of me, lips wet, eyes staring up as he took it all.

“Yes…fuck, yes I’m imagining it…”

My fingers wouldn’t stop. My body arched with every stroke, every thought. I was so hot it hurt. Everything inside me twisted for him.

“Kant…” I gasped, voice trembling. “Are you touching yourself? Tell me. I need to hear it. I need to know you’re as desperate as Im.”

Kant didn’t hesitate.

“I’m touching myself for you, Ray. Only for you. For your fucking moans. For the way you say my name like it’s the only thing that matters. If I could open that door right now, I’d have you against the wall. I’d fuck you until you couldn’t breathe. I’d make you scream until your voice was gone.”

The moan that ripped out of me was almost animal. I clutched my legs, sweating, skin on fire. The image was too much—him, so fucking commanding, so completely owning me without even laying a hand.

“Don’t come yet,” he ordered, and his voice cracked like a whip. “Wait. Not without me. Not until I say. Are you going to be good, Ray?”

I bit my lip, trembling, one breath away from release.

“Yes…yes, I will…”

“That’s what I want. I want you to hold it. I want you to burn. To be so full of me it hurts. To need me so badly your body begs for my mouth on your cock.”

His voice was growing more guttural, heavy, right on the edge. The sound of his breathing cut through me like a vibrating echo.

“Now go slow. Just the tip. Imagine me sucking it. Licking it with my hot tongue. Feeling it pulse in my mouth. Can you feel it, Ray?”

“God…yes…yes, I feel it, Kant…”

“I want you to come only when I tell you to. I want to hear you scream for me. I want you to come knowing it’s me who’s taking you all the way to fucking heaven.”

“Hmmm…Ray…Ray, please…”

His voice was barely a hoarse whisper on the other side of the fogged glass, but as soon as he said it, it broke into a brutal, raw moan, like his whole body was collapsing under the weight of desire. I pictured him falling to his knees, losing control. Was he sitting on the edge of the bathtub? Standing, gasping, one hand gripping the wall, the other buried between his legs? I didn’t know. I couldn’t see clearly. But I could hear him, and that turned me on more than any image could.

“Ray…I’m so hard, so fucking hard just thinking about you…” His voice cracked again, breath ragged. “Are you the same? Are you touching yourself like I am, imagining me inside you?”

His words burned my skin. There was no need to lie. I was already on the edge, gasping, trembling, thighs spread, fingers slick, my cock throbbing between my legs as if the mere sound of his voice could make me come without touching myself any further.

“Ray…” he said again, with a voice so filthy, so delicious, so deeply masculine, “Are you that hard for me? For me, Ray? For what I do to you without even touching you?”

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t. The climax was rolling over me like a massive wave. My throat opened in a scream, my body arched, and Kant’s name exploded from my lips. I screamed it with my soul. I screamed it like someone confessing both their sin and salvation at once. Kant. Kant. Kant. He was everything in that moment. Him, his voice, his breath, his desire.

“Does it feel good?” His tone was now crueler, more delicious. “That’s how it would feel if I were touching you. But I won’t, Ray. Not yet. You’ll have to do it on your own. You’ll have to roll around in all those dirty fantasies you have about me. Do you want me to touch you? Tell me, Ray. Tell me.”

I wanted the earth to swallow me whole from how hard I felt. From how vulnerable. From how desperate.

“Kant…yes, fuck yes…I want you to touch me. Come closer. Look at me. Don’t you want to see me? Don’t you want to see me with my legs open, masturbating for you?”

I spread my thighs wider, skin wet, shiny, exposed. My hands didn’t stop. I needed it. I needed him more than I needed to breathe.

“Ohh…Ray…” he whispered like an animal, “I want you more than anything.”

And then it happened. I heard the door open. The wood creak. The steam escape. And there he was, in the doorway. Naked. Standing. Eyes fixed on me. His body was a damn Greek god: perfect, defined, taut. His eyes locked onto mine and I felt everything around me crumble. It was him. His wet hair, his chest rising and falling, his hard, pulsing erection pressing against his stomach.

“Ray…I couldn’t resist. I want to see you. I want to see how you touch yourself for me. But I’m not going to touch you…yet. Like I told you: I’m going to guide you.”

He came closer, slow, with feline lust. I watched him, blurry with sweat, tears, and desire that pierced me like a spear. I let myself go. I switched hands like he told me, faster, deeper, searching for that exact spot that would push me to the edge.

Then, without warning, he grabbed my other hand firmly. Lifted it up. My fingers were covered in cum, what was left of me after spilling so much. I saw him bring his mouth close and lick it. Slow. Every finger. Every trace of me. With a wet tongue, with a look so intense I felt like he was undressing my soul.

“Ray…you taste so delicious…to me.” —he said, his tongue still dancing on my thumb.
Kant didn’t take his eyes off me. Didn’t blink. He looked at me as if I were his offering, his feast, his damnation. I kept masturbating, breath erratic, trembling from head to toe.

“Weren’t you not going to touch me?” —I said between gasps, with a crooked smile, sweat running down my back.

Kant didn’t smile. He just held my gaze, licking my middle finger like it was something sacred.

“I couldn’t resist tasting you…”

And that was it. That broke me. Desire hit me so hard my body shook uncontrollably. I came again with a torn scream, while cum shot out onto my chest, my stomach, my still-wet fingers. Everything tensed inside me, as if Kant had ignited an erotic bomb with his words, his lips, his tongue, his fucking presence.

I fell back, chest rising and falling, feeling completely possessed, consumed, marked. He hadn’t touched me like he promised. But he’d already done everything to me

Chapter Text

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆  

       𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ  ༉‧₊˚ 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝓍𝓉 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 ⋆ Point of view: Kant ⋆  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝒲𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ 

The red lights flickered relentlessly, blending with the vibrant rhythm of the music that pounded against the walls like a wild heartbeat. And between each flash, the memory of what had happened last night caught me mercilessly, wrapped in a dense mix of desire, confusion, and an insatiable hunger that only he seemed to awaken in me.

Ray.

The whisper of his voice still echoed like a direct order to my body. I couldn’t lie to myself: being near him was an exercise in self-control I had completely lost. Did I regret what we did? I wasn’t sure. The only thing clear was that my desire had defeated my judgment, that the physical had overpowered the rational.

And yet, the most dangerous part wasn’t falling for his delicious taste. The truly alarming thing was realizing how my interest in him went beyond sex, beyond that night. It was absurd to try to justify everything with what happened in that bathroom. No…this was no longer just a game.

Did Ray and I hook up? Yes. But it wasn’t just that.

And while I wouldn’t mind doing it again in the slightest, the unsettling part was something else: my feelings were starting to escalate. Flirting with someone like him was an emotional game of Russian roulette. And even if I pretended to be indifferent, I knew Ray could feel something was brewing between us too. He knew. And so did I.

But nothing prepared me for what I saw that night.

I was behind the bar at Yolo, mixing drinks with the same efficiency I tried to use to mix my emotions, when I saw them. Ray walked in, smiling, holding hands with a man. A stranger. A solid punch to the chest, straight to the gut.

I sighed.

Classic Ray. He had come with a purpose: to provoke me. To make me bite the jealousy bait. I knew him too well not to see what he was doing. And then, shamelessly, he stopped in front of me, gently holding that man’s arm like they were a newly-in-love couple. I couldn’t help but let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

Ray was a lost cause.

"Can I get you something?" I asked, with all the politeness I could fake.

He looked at me with that expression of his — half smile, half dagger.

"Yes, I’d like…" he said, then turned his head slightly. "Kant, this is Luke.!

I looked the stranger up and down calmly. He had a carefree air about him, maybe a little too confident, like he knew exactly what role he was playing in this strange performance. Ray, of course, never did anything without a purpose. There was no doubt he was trying to provoke me, testing the waters to see how I’d react to his little show.

Still, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

I leaned against the bar with grace, feigning disinterest as I picked up a clean glass and began polishing it with a cloth.

“Pleasure to meet you, Luke. Anything special you two would like to drink?”

I asked, now more relaxed, drying a glass with an old rag. I leaned on the counter, offering them my kindest, almost bored smile.

“Two martinis,” Luke replied confidently, but Ray cut him off.

I nodded, keeping a neutral, almost indifferent expression as my eyes settled on Luke. I waited for his choice as if that were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

“A gin martini, please,” he said firmly, like he knew exactly what he wanted.

I nodded again, this time more briefly. Professional. I didn’t bother looking at Ray. I knew his preferences by heart. They were as familiar to me as the echo of his footsteps, as the exact tone of his voice when he wanted to manipulate me. He didn’t say anything either. He just held my gaze with that deceitful calm he used whenever he wanted to provoke me without saying a word.

I turned away from his presence and slipped behind the bar with swift, sharp movements. I mixed the martini with an almost mechanical precision. Every motion held a quiet, restrained rage, meticulously concealed beneath the routine of work. I prepared his favorite drink as if I didn’t care. But I did care. I cared too much, and that bothered me even more.

And then, as if he knew the exact moment my guard dropped, his voice cut through me. Deep, soft, with that veiled intention only he could master.

“And you, Luke…are you the kind who kisses on the first date?”

I didn’t need to look at them to picture the scene. I knew it by heart. Ray didn’t need to touch to seduce. All it took was the tone of his voice, the tilt of his head. I knew he wasn’t trying to impress Luke.

I huffed, trying not to show anything, and kept working. Even so, I couldn’t help but listen in. Their conversation reached my ears as if there were a direct channel between them and me.

Luke let out a soft, confident laugh. “It depends… if the guy’s worth it. Are you worth it, Ray?”

I had to walk to the far end of the bar to get the ice, and unfortunately for me, the bucket was right next to them. I passed by without rushing. My eyes met Ray’s for a brief second. And right in that moment, as if everything had been scripted, he took Luke’s hand.

Perfect.

“I’m pretty sure I am,” Ray replied, puffing out his chest just slightly, with that false modesty that was so typically his, while making that pout I knew all too well—the one he used on me when he wanted to get his way.

My stomach twisted, but I kept my face still. I dropped the ice into the glasses and returned to mixing the drinks, this time with more speed. I didn’t want to keep listening. But I couldn’t help it.

“You’ve got a healthy dose of confidence. I like that. I like men with self-esteem,” Luke said, and his tone was lower now, more direct. I caught it in the corner of my eye: his hand was moving up along Ray’s jaw, caressing his face like he was trying to read it with his fingers.

I grabbed the ingredients without looking at them. I didn’t need to see more. I’d already seen enough.

“Are you free tonight? I live alone” Luke continued. “And honestly…that black tank top should be on the floor.”

His fingers slid down, brushing the fabric of Ray’s shirt, threatening to slip underneath. The ice in my hand cracked as I squeezed it without meaning to. Still, I forced myself to keep going.Ray didn’t pull away. On the contrary, he leaned in a little closer, with a smile that hid much more than it revealed.

“Wow, you move fast,” he said, amused. “But…I’d have to ask my roomie. He can be a bit…dramatic sometimes.”

Roomie. He said it with such calculated ease, such venom, that the provocation was unmistakable. Me. He meant me. As if we only shared a space, just a routine…not a bed less than twenty-four hours ago. Dramatic. I laughed inside. Yesterday, his back still bore the marks of my nails. Yesterday, he screamed my name with a broken voice. Yesterday, he begged me not to stop. And now this?

But that was fine. If he wanted to play that game, I could play too. Coldly, I finished the drinks and returned to the bar with the kind of elegance I’d learned to use as a shield.

I placed the glasses in front of them. My smile was polite, perfect. A work of art.

“Here you go,” I said as I set both drinks on the bar, my gesture composed and my voice just clear enough to sound friendly—but neutral enough to leave no room for interpretation.

Luke nodded with a cordial smile, still unaware of the tension floating between us like invisible smoke.

“Thanks, Kant. Very thoughtful,” he said, looking at his martini as if this were just a normal evening.

Ray, on the other hand, didn’t just take his glass. He extended his hand deliberately slowly, brushing my fingers with the tips of his, almost as if caressing the moment. Then he looked at me with that expression of his—half amused, half dangerous—his eyes shining like he’d just won a small battle.

“As always, you knew what I wanted,” he murmured, with a barely contained smile, as if that comment were a secret between the two of us.

I didn’t move. I didn’t back away. Nor did I hold his gaze.

“I have a good memory,” I replied, my tone so flat it could have belonged to any indifferent waiter in the city. But the tension in my shoulders betrayed me. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. If I did, if I lingered on his face, maybe I’d give him exactly what he wanted.

I turned efficiently, wiping glasses that didn’t need cleaning, pretending to be busy with invisible details. My body was meters away, but my senses stayed with them. I could smell Ray’s cologne mixed with Luke’s. I could feel their movements behind me, their looks, the silences that spoke louder than any words.

“Is he always this serious?” Luke asked, his tone almost curious, probably without malice, though his comment fell like a stone in still water.

Ray laughed softly, the sound like a taut string being pulled.

“Only when he feels uncomfortable…or jealous.”

The phrase was said with Ray’s usual mix of tenderness and venom. Ray had a wicked skill for slipping truths disguised as smiles. Luke laughed, naive, not understanding the trap hidden in that answer. But I did. I understood every word.

I pressed my lips together slightly, wiping the glass in my hand harder, as if that could erase the feeling of his touch from moments ago. I wanted to believe I could ignore it, that I could keep control—but Ray knew exactly which strings to pull. He knew me too well. He knew how to play, and worse, he knew I’d play along even if I refused to admit it.

“Jealous?” I repeated softly, barely audible, just to myself. What a ridiculous word. What a stupid feeling.

And yet, there it was. In my chest, beating with a quiet rage. It wasn’t about Luke. It wasn’t about the contact. It was about what Ray was trying to say without saying it. Because in that moment, with every smile he gave that stranger, he was claiming attention. Mine. The same attention I gave him last night, when the world was just his skin beneath my hands.

I could see them through the glass reflection behind the bar. Ray had leaned slightly toward Luke, his lips close to his ear, saying something I couldn’t quite hear, but it made the other man laugh again. That gesture, one I’d seen so many times directed at me, was now being shamelessly offered to someone else. Or maybe it was strategic. Ray never did anything without intention. This was a show—one staged just for me.

I couldn’t help but smile. It was a slow, restrained smile, as if it bloomed from a dark corner deep in my chest where pride mixed with desire. I knew what was going to happen. I was waiting for it, with the exact patience of someone who has prepared their revenge with salt instead of poison.

Luke brought the glass to his lips and drank without suspicion. I watched every movement: the way his fingers wrapped around the glass, the slight raise of his eyebrows as he tasted the martini, salted more than it should’ve been…way more. Yes, I had overdone it. But I hadn’t put anything harmful. Just the exact flavor of my annoyance, seasoned with jealousy.

I wanted Ray to see it. To understand that someone like me can’t be replaced so easily. Not by just anyone. And certainly not by some generic bar guy who didn’t even know how to order a proper martini.

Luke swallowed hard. He shot me an accusing look and stood up so abruptly he almost knocked over the stool.

“What the hell did you put in my drink?” he snapped, furious, his voice rough from the burn in his throat.

I put on my best look of surprise. The most charming. I looked around as if I were really trying to figure out what had happened. My eyes landed on the salt shaker, in plain sight.

“Oh… shit” I said in a sweet, almost innocent voice. “Sorry, I think I added salt by mistake. Silly me! But there’s bottled water…oh, wait, no, it’s all gone. Though you could try the bathroom tap…if you hurry.”

 “What a shame,” I added with a smile. “They cut off the water today, didn’t they?”

My smile was as fake as it was dangerous. Ray looked at me then—first surprised, then with an expression I couldn’t quite place. Admiration, maybe? Or desire, poorly disguised. Maybe both.

“Kant’s right. No water,” Ray said with an amused smirk, barely holding back laughter. “If I were you, I’d go buy some…before things get worse.”

Luke didn’t need more. He hurried away, trying not to mutter curses under his breath. Ray barely waited for him to disappear down the hall before bursting into laughter—those deep laughs that vibrated from his chest and made his voice sound darker, more delicious.

“I can’t believe it. God, Kant…you’re so jealous, it shows even in the cocktails.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand with a dangerous naturalness, as if he had every right in the world to do so. He pulled me a little closer to the bar, shortening the distance between us. His gaze was pure mischief, but his eyes…his eyes spoke of something else. Of shared nights. Of sweaty secrets. Of bodies trembling together.

I looked at him, pretending disbelief, but I didn’t pull away.

Ray wrapped his arms around my shoulders, enveloping me in the familiar warmth of his body. His breath brushed against my neck. Then, soft as a promise, he kissed my cheek. A short kiss. Almost innocent. But it burned like fire where his mouth touched me.

I smiled. A slow, feline smile, as if I was about to hunt something.

“Do you really think that?” I murmured, moving closer, letting my nose barely brush his.

Ray nodded, his lashes trembling with a blink that made him look much sweeter than he was. Adorable, but lethal.

“But I’m not a toy, Ray,” I whispered then, my voice lower, firmer. “You can’t use me when it suits you and leave me on a shelf when someone else shows up.”

I took his hands and gently pushed them away. But he didn’t pull back. He stayed there, like my rejection was just another part of the game. Like he was waiting for the next move with a smile on his lips and dilated pupils.

The bar kept spinning around us, but in that moment, Ray and I were the center of something thicker than air, something electric, filled with desire and that delicious discomfort that comes with poorly handled jealousy.

Then, with total shamelessness, he said:

“Kant, last night…I couldn’t touch myself all night. I tried to be quiet with the moans, not to wake you…but I couldn’t calm down. You heated me up so much…” His voice grew huskier, more intimate. “I still crave your mouth. Your tongue.”

My fingers clenched hard around the cloth I was using to clean, while my breath quickened silently. I glanced at him sideways. Some customers watched us, somewhere between scandalized and curious, but Ray didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t care.

“And in the morning,” he continued, lowering his voice but not the intensity, “I touched myself again. I was hard since I opened my eyes. Thinking of you. How you looked at me while I came.”

I lightly hit him on the head, trying to hide the flush rising in my throat, like a slow fire I couldn’t put out. He pretended to be hurt, rubbing himself with one hand and making that pout of his…the one that split me in two.

“You’re scaring the customers with your dirty carnal desires, Ray,” I said, going back to cleaning the bar, though my hand trembled a bit.

He leaned close to me, whispering right at the edge of my ear.

"What if what I want is to push them all away?… Because in the end, the only one I want is you" said Ray

His words hung between us like an invisible caress, a hot whisper that brushed the skin without touching it. My chest tightened beneath my shirt, muscles alert as if his voice could pierce the fabric. I didn’t answer immediately.

The bar between us suddenly felt too narrow, too intimate. Ray knew exactly how to bend the air, how to fill the space with that presence of his charged with dangerous magnetism. A charming arsonist.

But then, as if bored of his own game, he took a sip of his drink with the theatricality of someone delivering a final verdict and said, with a mix of disdain and whimsy:

“You never let me really be happy. How boring you are, Kant. Old and boring.”

I looked at him with a slow smile, barely curving my lips, as if I were entertained by his spoiled provocation. Again with the age thing? So predictable...and yet, I loved that he repeated it. Because beneath the insult was a confession. The hidden desire. The fantasies that never quite made it into words but slid between glances, between moans on the edge of the forbidden.

“I’m starting to think your thing with my age isn’t just an insult anymore,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a fetish.”

Ray lifted his glass with an almost sensual slowness and examined it, as if the crystal held a secret. His expression suddenly turned serious enough that I thought he’d noticed something strange. I leaned in a little, feeling a slight unease…had something slipped into his drink? A fly, a drop of wax, a bad feeling?

But then he spoke, and his voice pulled attention back into the abyss of his game.

“It’s not a fetish. It’s a desire.”

He said it so calmly, so certainly…that for a second, the world seemed to fall silent. But that solemnity lasted as long as thunder takes to become an echo. In a blink, he smiled again. And it wasn’t just any smile. It was one of those that rise from the chest, like steam on wet skin after sex. Innocent on the outside, but corrupt to the bone.

“But you know what’s more fun than having a drink?”

I looked at him without answering, but my expression spoke for me. I knew him. I knew what he was about to say would be worse. Bolder. More shameless. I crossed my arms, lifted my chin, then lowered it just slightly, as if giving him permission to drop his next indecency.

But he said nothing.

No. Ray had never been just words. He was always body, gesture, contact. Everything about him was physical. And then he showed it. He stuck out his tongue and slowly traced the rim of his glass, like licking a lover’s mouth — like it was me.

His eyes never left mine for a second. There was a challenge in his gaze, a fire refusing to die out. He took a sip while his lips still glistened with the trace of his tongue and then, without breaking eye contact, set the glass back on the bar.

“That…would be way more fun than sitting here drinking.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. The image of his mouth was still fixed in my mind, like a fresh tattoo that never stops hurting. Sex instead of drinking? That said a lot coming from him. Ray, the lover of excess. The shameless hedonist. And yet, I knew it wasn’t just desire speaking in his voice: it was provocation. A carefully woven strategy to make me fall into his trap. To make me be the first to break.

But no. Not this time.

I stepped toward him without warning, closing the distance with one calculated step. We were just inches apart. I could smell the liquor on his breath, mixed with his perfume, that warm, spicy scent that always reminded me of a rainy night and tangled sheets.

“Be direct,” I said, my voice low and firm. “No childish games. We’re not playing cat and mouse, Ray.”

I held his gaze just a second longer, long enough to make it clear I wasn’t falling. That the power was still mine. Then I calmly stepped away, slipping through the spaces at the bar, denying him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Ray stood up abruptly, his body radiating that mix of wounded pride and unsatisfied desire he struggled so much to hide.

“Fine. Your loss,” he said, as if he could take control again with those few words. He drank the rest of his glass in one theatrical gulp.

I looked over my shoulder at him, still smiling.

“Remember to pay for that drink before you go. I already charged it to the system,” I said, teasing.

I saw the flash of frustration spark in his eyes just before he turned and disappeared into the crowd. I lost sight of him within seconds.

And I smiled.

Oh, Ray. So handsome, so hungry, so spoiled. I loved seeing him like that. Desperate. Frustrated. Because I knew he would come back. He always came back. Nobody played like we did. Nobody ignited so easily. Nobody knew how to put out that fire.

Not even me.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆  

      𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ ༉‧₊˚𝟜:𝟘𝟘 𝒶.𝓂. ⋆ Off the Clock, Out into the Night ⋆  

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝒾𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Even though the bar lights flickered as always, even though the rhythm of the music kept marking the artificial pulse of an endless night, my mind no longer reacted the same. There was a weariness that nested slowly, like a chronic illness. Hearing the same songs every day, on loop, without emotion or novelty, made the music — that art that used to caress my senses — turn into an annoying buzz, like the drip of a poorly closed faucet. Some customers shouted for the same old hits, lacking curiosity, lacking real desire for the unusual. They liked the predictable. The digested. And I had to smile.

The smell of alcohol, at first seductive, even exciting, had turned into a dense fog that made me dizzy more than any liquor. Like working in a chocolate factory and coming to hate cocoa. I served drinks with an almost mechanical skill, but without the slightest interest in tasting even a drop. The vice wasn’t for those who serve it every day. My soul was starting to soak in routine, that gray, suffocating repetition that makes even nights feel the same as mornings. Tasteless. Without surprises.

I always wished to leave early. To get to my apartment, take off my clothes with a delicious slowness, let the silence fill my ears, and fall asleep between the sheets, holding on to the illusion of dreaming about something simple and pure, like a cat purring on my chest. But since Ray entered my life — with his chaotic energy and his voice like a spark in the middle of ice — not even sleep was entirely mine.

Since we moved in together, every early morning was a rollercoaster without brakes. I heard him laughing loudly with his friends on video calls, arguing on the phone with someone different every week, coming home drunk, yelling in the hallway, crying with rage while hanging up calls from his father…At first, I didn’t care. It wasn’t my business. But when you start to know someone, see them beyond their facade, when you memorize the way they breathe while sleeping, the exact way their lips curve when they’re about to say something cruel but funny… then you’re screwed.

Ray became the center of my axis. Not out of romantic love, at least not yet. It was something rawer, more instinctive. I had become a satellite orbiting around him. I saw him at the bar at night, endured him in the apartment during the afternoons, and my only real refuge was that strip of morning when he went to university and I could be Kant again: the quiet guy who cleans his cup without noise, who savors solitude as if it were aged wine.

That night, after closing the bar — with a tired body and dulled emotions — I went as usual to the back parking lot. I checked twice that everything was locked, lights off, alarm on. I didn’t want surprises. But then, just as my keys jingled in my hand, I saw him.

A silhouette.

Ray.

He was there, leaning against the wall, barely lit by the grim light of a rusty lantern. His jacket was crooked, his hair tangled, his gaze lost. A scene that seemed pulled from a confused dream, one of those where the real and the dreamlike blend without asking permission. I stopped for a few seconds, motionless. My stomach tensed. Not from fear, but from that damn impulse to run to him. What the hell was he doing here at four in the morning?

As I got closer, I noticed he couldn’t hold himself up well. He was staggering, off balance; his body seemed too fragile for the amount of arrogance he usually carried. When he was about to collapse, I acted on reflex: I grabbed him by the waist, my arms clung to him with a mixture of strength and tenderness that even surprised me. I caught him before he fell. I felt his warm, soft body yield against mine. His breath smelled of vodka and sleeplessness.

In that instant, the world stopped.

Ray said nothing, he just let me take him. And I did. Because even though I swore never to let him tangle me again, there I was once more, with him in my arms, feeling that despite everything, that gray routine I hated so much only made sense if his chaos was in the middle of it.

And yes…that chaos had a name. Ray.

"Ray…it’s four in the morning, what are you doing…?"  I whispered, more tired than surprised, although deep down, was I really surprised?

The night had that kind of false stillness, the kind that feels heavier than noise. A decadent calm, stained with vomit on the sidewalks, flickering neon lights, broken laughter from drunks who no longer knew if they were laughing or crying. And in the middle of it, him: Ray, staggering, with a cloudy gaze and cheeks reddened by alcohol and cold.

Before I could even focus on his face properly, he planted a kiss on my cheek. It was brief, clumsy, aimless. But it left me frozen. Not because of the contact — which I already knew all too well — but because of what it meant: that impulsive, childish gesture, like a kid seeking affection at any cost. I smiled, though inside it hurt a little. It always hurt.

"When you drink, you’re even more spoiled than usual." My voice came out with a tired hint of humor, as if trying to find tenderness where there was also alarm. "Should I be worried? Because what really worries me is…where are your friends?"

My eyes lifted, scanning the place. The front of the bar was the same: a chaos of staggering bodies, taxis double parked, forced laughter, moans dragged across the pavement. But I didn’t see Mew. And if he wasn’t there, it was a bad sign.

"I don’t know…He said Boston would take me home…" Ray murmured, his words sticking to his tongue as if he were speaking underwater. His body swayed lightly, like it could break with a stronger breeze.

Boston.

That name hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Damn Mew. I knew perfectly well what Boston was: a bomb disguised as cheap charm, an opportunist with an easy smile. He was never reliable. Especially when it came to Ray. Taking care of him wasn’t something someone like Boston could — or would want to — do.

My jaw tightened without meaning to. The impulse was automatic. Without another word, I stepped forward, grabbed him by the waist — a curve so familiar under my fingers I no longer knew if I recognized it out of habit or repressed desire — and carried him to my car. I opened the door quickly, with the same urgency you feel when you find something fragile thrown in the middle of a highway.

Ray didn’t resist. He was defeated. Vulnerable. I helped him settle into the seat carefully, like he was made of glass. He let himself fall without strength, as if he could finally surrender all the weight of the world. I tried to recline his seat, to get him to lean back a little, so at least he could sleep the rest of the night with some comfort.

I watched him silently for a few seconds. His long eyelashes, damp from the wind, messy hair falling over his forehead, the exposed neck thanks to that damn shirt that never fit right. He looked so fragile. So broken.

Oh, Ray…why do you always end up like this?

I knew I shouldn’t judge him. It wasn’t my place. But I also knew how hard it was to break out of that cycle: alcohol as escape, toxic friendships as company, loneliness disguised as euphoria. I had seen it too many times in my childhood: adults drowning in drinks and excuses, dragging their misery like a shadow they couldn’t shake.

And yet, Ray wasn’t like them.

Or maybe he was.

But seeing him there, defeated, worn down by the early morning and his own lack of control, made me feel something I didn’t expect: not anger, not exhaustion…but an absurd, almost visceral need to protect him. Not from superiority. Not like someone saving a wounded person. But like someone who understands — because he’s felt it too — how damn hard it is to live with an open wound that no one else sees.

I got in the car, closed the door with a long sigh, like someone locking themselves into a silent promise.

I didn’t mind taking care of him.

I didn’t mind being the one there when everyone else failed.

I didn’t mind that his mess interfered with my routine.

Because deep down, and even if it was hard to admit, taking care of him made me feel comfortable. Necessary. Valid. As if, for one night at least, my presence had a purpose.

And if that purpose was him, Ray, then I was willing to stay a little longer in that chaos

Chapter Text

🌌💙 ⋆｡°✩ 𝓟𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓥𝓲𝓮𝔀: 𝓡𝓪𝔂 ⋆｡°✩ 💙🌌  

╰┈➤ 𝓝𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓮𝔃𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼  

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

It didn’t just start from that moment—saying we grew closer would be far too simple. Everything shifted after that night he saw me touching myself. Since then, the dynamic between Kant and I began to blur, like an invisible line had quietly moved without warning.

And if it weren’t for that damned man who showed up out of nowhere, always wearing the same clothes like some homeless guy who had adopted our home as his shelter…The first day he came over, Kant and he locked themselves in his room without saying a single word. Why would you do that, Kant? What was the need?

Overthinking became an unavoidable habit. Ever since that man started coming over every day, Kant began to drift away. It wasn’t sudden, not abrupt—but it was constant, like the sea eroding a rock. Day after day, that man, that stranger I barely knew and had only met weeks ago, was taking the space that used to be mine. He was stealing him from me. Who even was he?

By the second day, I learned his name was James. I overheard it during one of those early visits, like he was a landlord doing his rounds. I asked Kant how they met, but he dodged the question. They just shut themselves away, laughed…and I tried not to imagine what else went on in there. But it was impossible not to. I wasn’t stupid.

Then came day three. And the next. And the next. James showed up every morning, like he was Kant’s legitimate lover. He ate with him, whisked him away for hours, and I wouldn’t see either of them again until nightfall—when Kant passed by like a shadow to grab his work uniform. I tried to talk to him, more than once, but he would only smile, stroke my cheek, and kiss my forehead like I was some confused child—as if that was enough to keep me calm. But how could I be? Was that man more important than me? Didn’t he have a home? Didn’t he have anyone else’s routine to fuck up?

I didn’t know who he is or why he’s here. But what I do know is that he’s all over Kant, all the time. Literally or figuratively—I didn’t know. And the worst part? No one would even tell me. I was being replaced. And that hurt more than I was willing to admit.

Everything changed one night when I went to the bar and told Mew everything. Unfortunately, Cheum overheard. Though honestly, I don’t regret it. That night, the three of us started digging into James. It felt like a quiet crusade—a mission to reclaim what I felt was mine.

Thanks to Kant being a good old sentimental millennial with still-active social media, we found James’s Instagram. And once Cheum took over, it was only a matter of time before we knew it all. His school, his major, his friends, his public records.

All under the classic excuse she repeated like a mantra:
“A girlfriend needs to know everything about her future wife.”

And even though I laughed in that moment, deep down I knew that it applied to me too. I needed to know who that guy was. Not out of jealousy—not just that. But because, somehow, he had become the obstacle between Kant and me. And I wasn’t ready to give up.

I probably should’ve been grateful, in some twisted way, for Cheum’s unmatched talent in the art of stalking. Seriously, it was almost admirable. It wasn’t enough for her to just type in a name and scroll through a couple of pictures. No. She went further—connecting the tiniest details, piecing together scattered info like she had a mental map where every post, every like or comment was part of some bigger puzzle. And that’s how it all started. How the chaos unraveled. A single search—out of curiosity, jealousy, or just the desperate need to understand—and suddenly we knew more about James than Kant might’ve confessed in years. Or maybe just didn’t want to.

“He’s an art student,” Cheum announced with a triumphant tone, like she’d just won a small battle in our quiet war against the unknown.

I leaned over to glance at her phone screen. Sure enough, there it was: a photo of him standing next to a poorly finished plaster sculpture, captioned “Final project: emotional structure of the pain of the lost.” Ridiculous. But in a strange way…it kind of fit.

“Does that include tattooing courses?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, skeptical—still trying to process the idea of someone majoring in skin-piercing like it was an artistic thesis.

“Apparently, yes,” Cheum replied, zooming in on a blurry image of a flyer. “He’s posted stuff from a specialized academy. One of those intensive summer programs. At least three months, with live model training.”

“People actually study that?” Mew blurted out, half-laughing, though his expression mirrored the same disbelief I was feeling. Her voice was casual, but her eyes didn’t lie. Cheum was just as uneasy.

And that’s when it all sort of clicked—at least on the surface. James had met Kant at a tattoo shop. Of course. Kant had this habit of marking his body whenever something important happened. He’d told me that once, like it wasn’t a big deal—like his scars were just footnotes in his emotional biography. He even mentioned he wanted to learn tattooing himself someday, said he saw it as a form of contact art—something intimate, something that meant more than just aesthetics. An act of permanence.

And now, suddenly, this James—emerging artist and tattoo apprentice—was showing up as the new central character in the story.

“He’s clearly trying to get into his bed,” I muttered, arms crossed, staring at James’ profile on the phone screen like I could interrogate him through it. There was something about his smile that irritated me. That kind of face that knows it’s charming. That fake humility in the captions, like he didn’t realize how good he looked.

Cheum gave a dry chuckle, but her eyes were sharp.
“Just his bed?”

Mew and I exchanged a glance. Not of relief. Of concern.
There was something off about all of this, and we both knew it. Kant wasn’t stupid. He was private, sure—but not naive. And yet, there he was, opening the door—literally and figuratively—to a guy he barely knew. A guy who had somehow slipped into our lives with alarming ease. Like he’d been watching for a while and knew exactly where to enter.

Cheum kept scrolling like a pro. Her fingers moved fast over the screen, switching between apps like she already had a protocol for situations like this.

“He doesn’t come from money,” Cheum said suddenly, eyes still on her phone, like she was reading a horoscope instead of someone’s makeshift bio.

“Excuse me?” Mew raised an eyebrow, leaning in.

“I figured it out from his posts. The places he goes, the clothes, and a comment from an aunt on a birthday picture. She wrote something like, ‘Keep pushing forward, you’ll make it.’ Classic family-struggling kind of message.”

We both stared at her—equal parts confused and impressed. How could she know that? How could she deduce that? It was like she had a trained radar for reading digital subtext, for decoding an entire life through emojis, photo backgrounds, and tagged names.

Mew shook his head, half amused, half worried.
“You really need to stop stalking people. Seriously, Cheum. This is...borderline illegal.”

“I’m doing it for you guys,” she replied, still scrolling like that was reason enough. “This is for Kant. For your emotional well-being. For the group’s peace of mind.”

I didn’t know whether to thank her or change the Wi-Fi password. But there we were—the three of us, in the dim corner of a half-empty bar, sitting around a sticky table, surrounded by poorly washed glasses and a couple of melted candles—digging into the life of a total stranger like he was a potential criminal.

The worst part? I didn’t even feel guilty. I felt...justified. Because if James was here to stay, I at least wanted to know what I was up against.

And with Cheum as our detective, truthfully, there weren’t many secrets left that could survive for long.

“What if all of this is just paranoia?” Mew asked quietly, almost like he didn’t want to disturb the fragile balance of the moment.

“Maybe it is,” I admitted. “But I’d rather be paranoid than blind.”

Silence. The only sounds were the faint hum of the bar lights and a pop song playing in the background—something about losing something that was never really yours to begin with.

🌙༶•┈┈┈┈┈༓☾⋆｡˚ 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓝𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓝𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 ˚｡⋆☽༓┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•༶🌙  

         𓆩✩𓆪 𝓦𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝓯𝓵𝓸𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴  

𝓓𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼 𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

It had almost become routine. James came over often, like a light shadow that gradually grew more defined with each passing day. At first, he didn’t stay long—just a couple of hours, enough to share a few awkward laughs and glances that seemed weightless, inconsequential. But that night…that night was different. Something in the air shifted, something invisible yet absolute. The food was still warm when I heard Kant’s voice—soft, the way he sounded after my nightmares or during a relapse—telling James he could stay in his room.

He said it naturally, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and yet it felt like his words went straight through my chest. I looked at him, waiting for the punchline, a twisted joke, one of those ironic remarks he used to throw around just to mess with Cheum. But it wasn’t that. Kant looked at me for barely a second, like he couldn’t hold my gaze any longer, then lowered his head and kept eating, as if nothing had happened. I did the same. I don’t know why. Maybe pride. Maybe because chewing food was easier than swallowing the thought of someone else sleeping in his bed now.

An hour later, the footsteps had stopped. They’d locked themselves in his room, and the sound of the bolt sliding shut felt like a sentence being passed. The lights in the living room were off, the TV was still on with the volume low, and I was there, alone, with a remote in my hands and my head somewhere else entirely. It was midnight, and I couldn’t sleep. Insomnia was an old companion, but that night it wore a new face.

That night, it was James. That man had chosen the one day Kant had off—the day that used to be ours. Our little ritual of escape: terrible movies we ended up hating together, board games Kant always won with subtle cheating, improvised dinners on the living room floor. It wasn’t just a way to pass time. It was how he held me together, how he distracted me, how he took care of me so I wouldn’t drink again. And it worked. Somehow, in that small, simple gesture, Kant gave me the will to stay clean for one more day.

I never said it out loud, but I was always grateful. And now, behind that closed door, his laughter sounded different. It was loud—too loud. Kant laughed in a way I thought was only mine to hear, a strange sound coming from him, like he was finally letting himself be happy…just not with me.

Relapsing always came hand in hand with pain. I knew that. I had learned it the hard way. And while the laughter kept echoing from the bedroom—loud, alive, painfully real—something inside me was breaking beyond repair. Was Kant laughing like that because of James? Was Kant... touching him the way he once held my trembling fingers? Was he offering him his back to sleep against, the way he did for me when the world felt unbearable? No. It couldn’t be. I didn’t want it to be true. And yet, everything about that night told me otherwise.

I tossed and turned in bed, trying to ease the knot in my chest, but the desperation grew like a sticky shadow, thick and suffocating. I got up suddenly, more pushed by anguish than will, and went straight to the small drink cabinet in the living room. I didn’t think. I didn’t reason. I just opened bottle after bottle, as if I could drink down the rage, as if alcohol could silence their voices, their laughter, that terrible image of Kant sharing with someone else what I had believed was ours.

The first drink hit me hard. The second, worse. My hands were shaking, and the tears came without permission, without control. And still, I kept going. The third glass crashed to the floor, and the sound felt distant, like it was happening in another room, in another life. My mind was scattered, floating between memories and the poison burning my throat. The world blurred, my feet moved on their own, guided by something deeper than thought. It was like watching myself from the outside, like my body was nothing more than a vessel for pain.

I don’t know how many bottles I touched, or how many glasses fell. But the sound was enough to break the spell. That’s when I saw him. Kant, rushing out of his room, the door still half-open behind him, his face tight with worry. Kant wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of grey pants he hadn’t finished pulling on, and sweat glistened faintly on his chest. His eyes found me instantly. They saw me broken. They saw me lost. And still, I didn’t know if that was enough.

But in that moment, I couldn’t think about my vulnerability, about that broken part of me that was collapsing inside, screaming silently. No. All I could think about was his body. About how he looked, and how someone else had seen him. Had they slept like that—together, skin against skin—with that false tenderness he now offered to someone else? Kant used to sleep without a shirt, I knew that, I remembered it with cruel clarity. The warmth of his back, the steadiness of his breathing, like sleeping beside me made him feel safe. Didn’t he put a shirt on? Didn’t he feel shame? Not even for me? My stomach turned violently, and before I knew it, I hurled the bottle against the wall with a force I didn’t know I had. The sound of shattering glass reminded me that I could still feel, that I was still there, even if in pieces.

Kant’s voice filtered through the broken glass, distant and warped, like half-remembered memories, like echoes of something that had once mattered. They were forgotten echoes in my ears, desperate for blood and pain. Soft words, gentle phrases trying to hold me back, as if he still could, as if he still had that power over me.

“Ray, are you okay?”
“Ray, you could hurt yourself!”
“Ray, you started drinking again, please talk to me, we can fix this…”

That damned understanding voice. That softness that still tried to hold me even now, when I was no longer his priority, when his bed was no longer a refuge for me. Kant was holding me, with hands shaking from trying to contain the chaos, and I didn’t care. I shoved him. I did it with all the rage and pain that couldn’t fit in my body, as if I could return all the nights he left me alone with a single blow. Kant looked at me, startled, but his expression hardened quickly, and for the first time in a long time, I saw in his face that seriousness that told me he wouldn’t play along anymore.

“I didn’t know you liked boring men, Kant” I spat, my voice cracked, breathless, soaked in alcohol and jealousy, as I shoved him against the wall, trapping him between my arms and the desperation.

Kant rolled his eyes, like he was tired, like my misery hurt him more than my words. Then he looked at me. Steady. With that calm he sometimes used when dealing with my relapses—but this time, it was different. Firmer. Colder. Distant.

“Ray, I understand you’re not okay, but you can’t treat me like a punching bag. There are boundaries between us. I won’t let you cross them,” Kant said. Firm voice. Calm. But it was clear something inside him was starting to break too.

I didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. Not him, not me, not what I was doing. Because the truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what I was doing. I had no control over my words, over my hands, over the world spinning like a goddamn roulette with no brakes. I was drunk. Lost. Drowning in a night I could only wish would end. But there he was—James—standing in the doorway, probably enjoying every second of this misery that had become a show.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care about Kant. It was that I didn’t know how to stop hurting. I didn’t know how to silence the storm that had been building inside me for days. The image of him with James—laughing, sharing what once had been mine—it was like someone had ripped the memories out of me and stuffed them into another skin, another body that wasn’t mine.

“Do you think I’m just your fucking entertainment?” I shouted, my voice in tatters, choking on the words and the poison burning through my insides. “You think you can watch me touch myself, want me—and then sleep with someone else like it’s nothing?”

Kant didn’t flinch, but his eyes… his eyes held that shadow that broke me more than anything he could have said. He placed his hands on my shoulders—careful, firm—with that fake calmness that now tasted like betrayal. How could he touch me like that and still be so his?

“I think you’re confusing things...Ray…”

That voice. The one that used to make me stop, breathe, see. Not this time. I wasn’t going to let him talk. I couldn’t. His words unraveled before they even reached me—white noise, soulless phrases. Confused? Me? What a fucking joke. So he could blur the lines whenever he wanted, but I had to stay in the lines he drew and redrew at will?

“So you’re saying I’m just a fucking toy?” I screamed, my voice splintering like my vocal cords couldn’t take the weight anymore. “Is that what I am to you? Something to use when there’s no one else?”

The tears came without permission—angry, frustrated, with that bitter taste betrayal leaves behind, even when you’re not sure it actually happened…but it feels as real as the broken glass I’d shattered earlier. I shoved him again—but this time, it wasn’t him who stumbled. It was me. It was my world that shook.

Kant held me for a moment, but then he turned his head. Not to me. Not anymore. To James. To that silent spectator who was drinking in every fragment of our ruin like it was some goddamn reality show.

“James, you should leave,” Kant said, with that sudden coldness he used when things were slipping through his fingers.

I saw it. I saw him gather James’ things without even looking at him, rushing him to the door, pushing him out of our home like guilt could be expelled with him. The door closed. And then, finally, he looked at me. Only me. The way it should have always been.

I laughed. It was a broken laugh, false, like a laugh that stumbles on the lips and dies choking in the chest. I walked toward him, staggering, eyes locked on his, words burning on my tongue like fire.

“It’s adorable how you try to be with others when I know you only want me in your bed,” I said, my voice low, dragged out, like a filthy whisper. Like it was a truth etched into his skin.

Kant stepped forward before I could get any closer. He stopped me. His hands on my shoulders. His gaze serious. Steady. He turned me around with a gentleness that felt almost cruel and pressed me against the wall—not with force, not with anger, just… restraining me. Like he still wanted to protect me from myself.

“Listen, Ray… you’re drunk. I’m not doing this right now. I know better than to talk to you when you’re in this state.”

“Don’t tell me what I am!” I shouted, my voice tearing out of me like something splitting from the inside. “Don’t psychoanalyze me like you’re better than me! Don’t try to soothe me like you’re fucking innocent!”

I hit the wall with a closed fist—not hard, more as a way to keep myself standing, like the sound might drown out the weight crushing my chest. Kant was still there—so still, so maddeningly calm—and that only made it worse. It destroyed me to see him so composed while I was falling apart. Didn’t it hurt him? Didn’t he feel anything?

“You taught me this, Kant,” I spat, eyes soaked, voice hoarse. “You taught me to look for you. To need you. To believe your bed was a safe place. And now you say no? Now that someone else is warming your side, you shut the door on me?”

He closed his eyes for a second. Took a deep breath. Kant always did that when he was about to lose his patience— and that...that broke me.

“Do you really think that badly of me, Ray?”
His voice wasn’t harsh, didn’t carry a blade, didn’t come with reproach. It was soft, like it genuinely hurt him to ask. Like each word cost him something inside. But I couldn’t meet it with the same calm. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reflect. I just screamed.

“If you want me so badly, then do everything with me that you do with him!”
The words came out like a knife—merciless, unfiltered. It wasn’t true. Or maybe it was, from the place where it hurt. From where everything felt like a minefield of insecurity and abandonment.

Kant took a step, maybe to stop me, maybe to come closer. But I didn’t let him. I tried to shove him away, to push him with every bit of anger I carried. But he was stronger—so much stronger—physically and emotionally. He grabbed my shoulders, firm but gentle. And he covered my mouth, desperate to silence the venom I couldn’t control.

“Fuck, Ray…” he murmured, his voice breaking in a tense sigh.
“I’m not sleeping with anyone. James was just teaching me how to tattoo… he’s clumsy, yeah, maybe it looked like something else… but it’s not. It never was.”

And then everything shattered. My eyes, my hands, my whole body. Everything shook as if the structure holding my pain together had finally collapsed. The tears came down like a flood, unstoppable, and without hesitation, Kant held me. He wrapped around me like he could glue my pieces back together with the warmth of his chest, like he still believed I was worth holding like this.

“You need to stop thinking I have eyes for someone else, Ray,” he whispered, his voice close to my ear, like he was speaking from inside me.
“Because I’m sure… I’m sure I love you.”

That word hit me like sunlight breaking through a crack in a dark room.

 How could he love me like this—broken, intoxicated, full of fear and jealousy?
How could he look at me and still choose me, even when I did everything to push him away?

I looked at him. Really looked at him. And I kissed him. Not because it was the right moment. Not because I thought I deserved it. I kissed him because it was the only thing that could quiet the storm inside me.
A kiss like a muffled scream. A kiss trembling with rage, desire, and guilt.
A kiss that burned—not with passion, but because it tasted like a last chance.

Kant didn’t pull away. He didn’t hesitate. He kissed me back, harder, with a need he hadn’t let himself show before. His lips were both balm and flame. And between short breaths, between sighs mingled with the salt of my tears, he said:

"But if you really think you can do it better...then teach me. Show me how to love without fear."

His words blended with his breath, with my anxiety, with the dizzying vertigo of knowing that he was offering me his body and his heart—here, now, even like this. And I kissed him again. We kissed like the rest of the world had ceased to exist, like there was nothing beyond the skin that wrapped us. I lost myself in his mouth, in the rhythm of his breathing, in the trembling of his hands on my back.

I don’t know how we ended up in his room. I only remember his arms lifting me like I weighed nothing, like I was more fragile than a promise. He walked backwards, guiding me toward his bed, and I held onto him the way someone clings to the edge of a dream they don’t want to wake up from.

"Ray…Ray…" he said, resting his forehead against mine, his eyes deep as the ocean, full of tenderness—but also storm.

"Kant…" I whispered, barely finding my voice, my gaze surrendered to his, like I could finally see clearly after a long, emotional hangover. Because that’s what he was. Water after fire. Clarity after intoxication. The only cure for my own poison.

I touched him gently. His cheeks, his lips, the line of his neck. I felt every inch of him as if it were the first time. And yet, he felt so much like mine. As if our bodies had been searching for each other across lifetimes. As if they had finally found one another in this room, on this night, beneath this complicit silence.

"Tell me…" Kant murmured, his forehead still pressed to mine, his voice made of promises and fear, with a tremble just barely there. " Tell me I have your permission to stay with you tonight. That you’re not lost in the alcohol. That it isn’t the intoxication speaking for you…That you really want this. That I won’t regret holding you, touching you with this love that overflows from me, caring for you even if you never ask me to. "

I stayed silent for a moment. I felt his breath brushing against my skin, his hands holding me with a tenderness that ached. There was no pressure—only patience. And in that patience, I knew he was my only refuge. I pressed my forehead to his, closed my eyes, and at last, without screaming, without running, I simply whispered:

"Stay. Stay tonight. Just… take care of me. Don’t leave me alone."

Kant’s expression shifted into something infinitely tender. He caressed my cheek, kissed the corner of my lips with a softness that felt like sealing a silent pact, and without another word, he held me in his arms until my knees gave out, then carried me gently to the bed. He took off my shoes, arranged my body carefully on the sheets, and without touching me more than necessary, lay down beside me. There was no urgency. No desire masked as need. Just his arm wrapping around me, the warmth of his chest pressed to my back, and his low voice whispering that everything was going to be alright.

"I’m here, Ray… I’m not going anywhere."

And I stayed like that, buried in his chest, while the world stopped spinning for a moment. I felt his fingers comb through my hair, slow and patient. Every now and then, he murmured something incoherent—a soft "shh," a gentle "just rest," a quiet "it’s over now." I don’t know when exactly I fell asleep, but I do remember this: for the first time in a long, long while, I felt safe.

Chapter Text

🍇⋆｡˚☽༓･*˚⟡ 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓭𝓪𝔂 ┊ 𝓟𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓿𝓲𝓮𝔀: 𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓽 ⟡˚*･༓☾˚｡⋆🍇  

   ⊹ 𝓘𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓷𝓮𝔀 𝓭𝓪𝔂… ⊹  

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

All I felt now was a whirlwind. My thoughts had no shape or direction, just an unrelenting gust of wind tearing through my bones, shaking every part of me that had tried to stay calm. I had confessed my feelings to Ray. I had said them out loud, let them escape. But that confession, however important, was only the tip of the iceberg. Behind it, there was a quieter story, a more intimate one. A story that began long before this chaos, back when I met James.

James was just a kind boy—one who offered to teach me how to tattoo. There was no hidden agenda, no game. I had been interested in the art of ink on skin for a long time, but I had never had the courage to share that with anyone. Not even with Ray, not until much later. When I finally dared to take that small step, I went to a quiet academy, a place where I could just be another student, where no one would ask too many questions. That’s where James appeared, simply wanting to share what he knew. And for a while, I thought everything was calm, manageable. But it wasn’t.

Because while all that was happening, my feelings for Ray were starting to grow like invisible roots beneath the ground. Not suddenly, not dramatically, but with that kind of slow ache that hurts. It was as if every word he spoke, every clumsy gesture or poorly hidden glance touched me with more force than I could bear. I don’t know when the exact moment was, but I suspect everything changed the night I saw him touching himself. Not because of the act itself, but because I saw him vulnerable. I saw him human. I saw him real. And something in me shattered to let in the certainty: I loved him.

But it all started days ago…or maybe before that. Maybe it was love at first sight, the kind you try to deny with anger, with sarcasm, even with a bit of hate. Because in my mind, this was never just physical. It was something deeper, something growing quietly long before I even realized it.

It was in every argument over small things, in every glance held a second too long, in every touch disguised as an accident. Every word we exchanged was a spark; every fight, a clumsy way of staying close. That feeling didn’t explode into existence—it grew slowly, like a crack opening patiently until it broke everything.

And while I pretended to be indifferent, deep down I already knew: that love had begun to bloom. Not urgently, but with the stubbornness of something inevitable.

I loved him. Not for what he claimed to be, not even for what he showed. I loved him for everything he tried to hide. For his poorly masked sweetness. For the way he sought me out with simple excuses. For his silent need to be loved without having to ask for it. How could I accept that feeling, when my life had always been something else? When I was convinced that love was just a word people used to disguise their emptiness?

I tried. I swear I tried to convince myself it was just desire. I wanted to fake disinterest, keep my distance, play the role of the composed one. But it didn’t work. Because every time I saw him in that bar, waiting for my attention, pretending to be indifferent while his eyes shimmered with urgency, my heart clenched. He didn’t know how to ask for love, but he needed it. And I…I wanted to give it to him. Gently, tenderly, with all the fear that came with it.

I didn’t understand why I felt all of this until I realized I was in love with his smallest gestures. With how he asked me to go with him for the simplest things, as if those shared tasks were excuses not to be alone. I fell for his need for closeness, his messy flirtation, the way he provoked me just to make sure I was still there. Ray, my sweet, confused boy…I don’t know the exact moment my heart stopped obeying me, but it did. And ever since then, every time you were near, I felt my chest ignite with something I didn’t even want to name—because naming it might mean losing it.

And how do you fight something like that? How do you battle your own heart when your mind is screaming at you to be reasonable — telling you he’s not ready, that you’re not ready either? I tried. But I couldn’t. I pretended not to care, yes. I smiled sideways when you teased me, I feigned indifference to my jealousy. But inside, every one of your little scenes, every silence, stabbed me like tiny thorns.

To love you meant accepting that it was going to hurt. That you weren’t simple. That I wasn’t either. That love, in our story, couldn’t be clean or straightforward.

And yet, I loved you.

Oh, my sweet suffering…I didn’t know what it meant to love. I’d never cared for anyone beyond a single night. I never stopped to consider what staying meant. Since my parents died, my life had become barren ground. I left every part of myself outside. I built walls around me. And yet, there you were, resting on my chest, playing with my fingers with a disarming innocence.

As if nothing, with the softness of someone unaware of the weight their presence carries, you murmured whatever came to mind while our breaths mingled in the silence of my room. You didn’t seek sex. You didn’t ask for explanations. You were simply there. And for the first time in a long time, I felt I wanted to stay.

Not to test. Not to explore.

I wanted to stay…to protect.

“Kant…I’m sorry for what happened today. Really. I don’t…I don’t know how things got so out of control,” Ray said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, almost like saying it out loud would shatter everything again. His fingers idly played with the folds of the sheet while his head remained resting on my chest. I smiled quietly to myself. There was no need to look into his eyes to know how heavy it weighed on him. His body spoke for itself.

I hugged him tighter, pressing my fingers into his back as if that could close the space between us, as if that gesture could tell him it was okay, that we were still okay. I wanted to see his face, but I preferred him to stay like that—calm, breathing against me. He was comfortable, and that was all I needed for now.

“Ray…no one else is ever going to make me feel the way you do,” I murmured, with a honesty so clear it surprised me. I lowered my voice a little and, unable to stop myself, let a smile slip into my tone. “Were you jealous?”

I said it as a little joke, but the truth was yes: he had been jealous. And I…I liked it more than I should admit. Not because of the drama, or the argument, but because it meant he cared. It meant something inside him was stirring, that he didn’t see me as someone passing through

The truth was, there was no one else. There couldn’t be. This feeling had taken me by surprise, and there was no way out anymore. I knew it from the very day I saw him walk into the bar with his friends — half lost, half provoking, as if he didn’t know the chaos he could cause.

From that moment, something inside me just stayed watching him. Then came the nights spent together, the fights over video games, the jokes, his awkward but genuine way of trusting me, of letting me take care of him. I saw him try to make me laugh when I didn’t feel like anything. I saw him cook with that strange devotion just to thank me for a bad day. I saw every gesture, every tiny detail. And I understood that what he gave, he gave sincerely. Ray had his own way of loving — maybe confusing, but honest.

“That guy wanted to be in your bed, I know, Kant,” Ray suddenly murmured, breaking the silence with that tone somewhere between annoyed and hurt that only he could have. “Besides, he doesn’t have the best money…he couldn’t buy you all the clothes you like. He only studies art. I could buy you better clothes. You dress like an old man, by the way.”

I looked down at him with an expression mixing offense and disbelief. Old man? That was downright disrespectful. My clothes were elegant, classic, tasteful. I wasn’t going to dress like some lost teenager stuck in the nineties. Old man? Please. This guy had no idea what good fashion was. But before I could answer, something made me pause.

“Ray…how do you know James studies art?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait…have you been looking into him?”

Ray lifted his face, pretending innocence. It showed in his eyes, in the way his lips tried not to smile and miserably failed.

“I said it out loud, didn’t I?” Ray murmured, bringing both hands to his face, covering his eyes as if he could erase the slip he’d just made with a gesture. He closed his eyes tightly, furrowing his brow, like he was silently cursing himself. It made me smile, but it also awakened an unexpected tenderness. That reaction of his, so human, so far from the indifferent and mocking image he usually showed, was almost like seeing the real skin beneath a mask of irony.

He didn’t need to say it again. Yes, he had said it. And no, there was no way out. So I just nodded, keeping my calm expression and the faint smile that had settled on my lips. I watched him quietly for a few seconds, letting him stew a little in his discomfort — not out of malice, but partly because I liked seeing him like that: vulnerable, exposed, unintentionally sincere.

Then, trying to change the subject with obvious awkwardness, he leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled the blankets up with both hands.

“Oh, look, it’s really late already. Three in the morning. Should we sleep?” he asked with fake enthusiasm while covering us up to our faces, as if that could hide not only our bodies but the whole conversation under the blankets. That need of his to avoid the topic gave me even more reason not to let go.

I uncovered myself without much hurry, pushing the fabric aside with one hand, and looked at him with a mix of amusement and genuine curiosity. Then I gently took his arm and lifted him just enough so our eyes were level.

“Yes, Ray. You said it out loud,” I confirmed softly, with a tone that felt almost like a caress, but could also be a sentence. His face tightened, as if he knew he wouldn’t come out of this unscathed.

“And now I want to know why,” I added. “Why did you look into him? I’m not going to lie…it’s kind of strange, but also…I don’t know, sexy. In a twisted way, of course. Like those movies where the jealous guy starts connecting dots and does things he shouldn’t, but he does it because he cares. It has its charm. A little disturbing…but charming.”

Ray pouted, failing miserably to hide it. He tried to act uninterested, but his face betrayed him completely. His eyes lit up, like he didn’t expect me to say that. Like part of him thought I’d be annoyed, but another part — maybe the one that knows him best — already knew I would find it amusing.

“Well…” he began, his voice dropping a little, softer, almost like he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue. “Cheum helped me a bit.”

That confession came out like a whisper, but heavy enough to make it denser than it seemed. It wasn’t just admitting he had searched for information about James. It was acknowledging that he had felt jealousy, that something stirred inside him enough to move from insecurity to action. Ray wasn’t someone who expressed his feelings easily; he disguised his fear with sarcasm, his need with jokes, and his affection with contradictory gestures. So the mere fact that he admitted to doing something like that, even indirectly, said more than any open declaration.

“So you involved Cheum in your little private investigation, huh?” I asked with a crooked smile, stroking his cheek with my thumb, still warm from his embarrassment. Ray nodded, shrugging like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he murmured. “I just wanted to know who that guy was. Why he looked at you that way. Why you smiled back. I started thinking things. I couldn’t help it.”

“And what did you find out, Detective Ray?” I asked, crossing my arms theatrically while watching him with interest.

“That James studies art. That he’s been working at a tattoo place for a while. That he doesn’t have good money. And that he has a horrible Spotify playlist,” he answered with mock seriousness, but without stopping sneaking a glance at me, maybe looking for a reaction.

I let out a genuine, warm laugh. Ray could be many things, but never boring.

“A full dossier,” I commented. “Did you also find out his blood type?”

“Almost,” Ray replied with nervous laughter, hiding his face against my neck.

I hugged him again, this time more calmly, with genuine affection. I felt his warm breath against my skin, and in that comforting silence, I realized something important: it didn’t matter the jealousy, the doubts, or the little mistakes. What mattered was that Ray was trying. His way, yes. But he was trying. And that, coming from him, meant much more than it seemed.

"You don’t need to keep digging, Ray. If you have doubts, if you're scared, just tell me. I don’t need anyone else. I’m here, with you. And not by accident, not out of habit. I choose you, every single day," I said with a faint smile, closing my eyes as if that confession allowed me to finally rest. I tried to lighten the moment with a joke. "Even when you trash my wardrobe without mercy."

Ray didn’t respond right away. He simply sighed and let his body settle closer against mine, like my chest was the only place he could truly be at peace. There was a pause—not uncomfortable, but the kind that makes room for what actually matters.

"Alright," he murmured softly. "I like when you say things like that."

"What? That I’ve got better taste than you?"

"No," Ray replied, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "That you choose me. Every day."

I opened my eyes then, and looked at him with the calmness of someone who had been thinking far more than he’d said. I knew I had to be clear, direct, not let our emotions get lost in assumptions or poorly interpreted silences. There was something I needed to say—not just for him, but for myself too.

"And I do, Ray. I choose you, every day. But I also think it’s only fair you know what’s really going on. James…he’s just teaching me something new. In this case, tattooing. That’s all it is. I’m sorry if I made you doubt, if I gave you any reason to imagine something else. Maybe I wasn’t aware of how it might affect you, and that was a mistake. I sometimes forget you’re not in my head. That you can’t read what I feel or think. And I didn’t give you time or explanations. That was wrong."

I swallowed hard, knowing what came next wouldn’t be easy to admit, but it had to be said.

"We…weren’t anything, Ray. Or at least that’s what I understood when you brought Luke to the bar. When I saw you with him, saw the way you talked, the way you looked at him…I got the impression you’d made up your mind. That you didn’t want to keep going with this. So yeah, I pulled away. I felt like I didn’t owe you any explanations. It was an impulsive reaction. Immature, even. But it was human too."

I knew one of our biggest issues had always been the lack of communication. Not from indifference, but because we both carried our own fears. I was older, with more experience, but that hadn’t made me wiser. I’d avoided the conversation out of jealousy, yes, but also because I didn’t know if I was ready to face something new that came from him. Something unpredictable, emotionally intense, unfamiliar.

"We’re not talking enough, Ray. We’re avoiding the real conversations. I’m sorry if I didn’t give you a safe space these past few days. But I need you to believe me: there was nothing between me and James. Alright?" I finished with a calmness that contrasted the storm I’d been carrying for days. I met his eyes, and he nodded silently—no resentment, just a sincere nod of understanding.

After a few seconds, Ray looked down and, with a trembling but honest voice, added:

"And I’m sorry for losing control. For not talking to you about my insecurities. I guess…I hoped you’d just understand on your own. But you’re not a psychologist, you’re not a mind-reader. I thought you were doing it all on purpose. I thought you wanted to hurt me. But it wasn’t you. It was me. It was my fear—fear of not being enough for you."

It moved me, hearing him say it like that—with a seriousness he rarely let show, with a vulnerability that was so difficult for him to share. I nodded, saying nothing, letting him speak.

"It’s just that…I still don’t quite understand," I finally muttered, struggling to find the right words.

And even though what I said came out with effort, I knew we were taking a real step forward. Not toward a magical fix or an empty promise, but toward something more mature, more human, more ours. Because in the end, the only thing that can truly sustain us is this: choosing each other, every day, with everything that entails.

I watched him for a few seconds, barely smiling, as if that simple gesture could disguise what still hurt beneath the surface. But the conversation wasn’t over—not entirely. It still beat wildly inside my chest, like a truth that hadn’t yet found its shape. Why had he brought Luke a few days ago? Why right after we had shared an intimate moment, sincere, even vulnerable? Sometimes I had the impression that Ray didn’t understand it, but I was drowning. His way of loving could be sensual, intoxicating even, but also exhausting. I sank into my own thoughts, unable to breathe. And though Ray had helped me through so much, sometimes it was also him who dragged me down into the abyss, as if in healing one wound he opened another, deeper one.

There was something in him that begged to be saved, as if it were my duty to carry his story, his shadow, his ruins. But I wasn’t a savior. I wasn’t a beacon or a promise of redemption. I was a man. Just that. A man who had begun to wonder if he would end up being dragged into his hell, chained to a pain that wasn’t entirely his own, becoming a captive of his need, of his fear.

I looked at him, and I knew the moment had come. I couldn’t keep staying silent out of fear of hurting him—not when his actions were hurting me too.

“Ray…why did you decide to bring Luke the other day?” I asked, bluntly but without harshness. “I’m not sure if you understand what that means… or if you only see this between us as a game. As if what we have can be broken and rebuilt again without consequence.”

Ray lifted his gaze and slowly shook his head. He looked like he wanted to say something, but it took him a while.

“I…I’m sorry. I know it was wrong. It wasn’t just that time. It happened twice. I…I found Luke that night. I paid him to come. I know,” Ray confessed, and each of his words sank in my stomach like they were digging deeper than anger: disappointment.

I stood up suddenly, staring at him in disbelief. He had paid him? Seriously?

“Ray…You shouldn’t have done that. Do you think I’m the kind of man who would just use you?” I asked, my voice cracking a little, though I didn’t want it to show. “I’m sorry, I didn’t let you speak…but it’s absurd. You know I don’t care for those games. I understand your insecurities, your pain, your emotions…but do you ever stop to think about how all of this makes me feel?”

It was hard for me to talk. I was never good at expressing what hurt; I never had been. I had learned to swallow emotions, to hide them behind logic, control, duty. But what Ray had done… that hurt. And not out of jealousy. It hurt because it revealed that he still doubted me, still believed he needed to test me—as if love were a trap that could only be exposed by paying a stranger.

Ray lowered his head, and this time his voice came out softer, weighed with a guilt that was real.

“I was a fool. I know. I did it because I wanted to know if you really loved me…It was a stupid idea, Kant. An unreal one. I regret it. I regret it so much.”

I said nothing. His words had no defense, but they weren’t lies either. I was part of the problem, too. I had been distant. Evasive. I kept him at arm’s length while all he wanted was to be close. I had refused him love so many times that now he believed he had to provoke me to get a response. And maybe that, in part, was my fault too.

I sighed and sat back down on the bed, this time with my back against the headboard, letting the weight of everything that had been said settle between us. I looked at him.

"Ray..." I whispered his name with a mix of exhaustion and tenderness, like someone who doesn’t know whether to embrace or pull away.

He looked at me with sadness, as if he already knew he'd come so close that the only thing left was to retreat. But he didn’t. And neither did I.

“I just want you to be sure of what you feel,” I said calmly, with that voice one only finds after crying too much on the inside. “I don’t like it when you do things that end up hurting me, even if that’s not your intention. And I know I failed too, Ray. I know I wasn’t clear, that my emotions were always contained, trapped under the weight of a composure that sometimes looked like indifference. I didn’t give you clear signs, and I’m sorry. But there’s one thing I do want you to remember: I love you. I love you, Ray, with all the contradictions that comes with. But you… you need to be sure of what you feel. I can’t keep saving you. Not anymore. If I’m going to be your partner, let it be in the real sense of the word. I want to be by your side, yes, in every moment. In every fall, every victory, every shadow. But don’t drag me into your abyss… because I’m not sure I’ll be able to climb back out if I fall.”

Speaking like that felt like opening a wound with bare hands. Saying it out loud exposed me. And yet, I felt more honest than ever. I had always seen other couples swear eternal love to each other while tearing themselves apart with shouting or unbearable silences. I never wanted that. Not with him. I want to be able to love him without feeling like every “I love you” costs me my balance.

Ray lowered his gaze, visibly affected. His voice trembled as he answered:

“Kant…I know I’m unstable. I’ve known it for a long time. Sometimes I’m emotional to the extreme. Sometimes I explode and I don’t know how to go back. But I swear I never want to drag you down with me. I just…I just ask you to understand me. Forgive me for needing you so much, for being this burden you don’t know how to put down. Because sometimes I feel like that—like something you love, but that exhausts you.”

I leaned in and took his face in my hands. His eyes were wet. A tear slipped from mine just as one rolled down his cheek too. There we were, two broken men trying not to break each other. I knew it wasn’t easy. I knew that without professional help this could become a cycle. That we could return to this point tomorrow, or in a week. But I also knew neither of us was “at fault.” This wasn’t about cruelty or coldness. It was an open wound neither of us quite knew how to heal.

“Ray…” I whispered, not looking away from his eyes. “I don’t want to save you. I just want to walk with you. Your need consumes me. And sometimes… I like it. It makes me feel useful. Needed. But it also makes me feel like a prisoner.”

Ray nodded, and in that gesture there was something deeply human. Pain, shame, love.

“I don’t want to lose you, Kant. I want to love you. Truly. But how do I control something I don’t know how to stop? There are moments when I feel like the only reason you’re still here is because you pity me. And even so, I cling to that. I cling to it with desperation.”

I didn’t say anything right away. I just looked at him, trying to absorb the weight of his words. I knew Ray could have difficult episodes. That harder days would come. And I also knew, deep down, he didn’t want to hurt me. He just wanted to love. In his own way, the only way he knew how. I leaned in and held him tight, with that kind of intensity born not from need, but from the decision to stay.

“Ray…I just want us to get better. Both of us. Let’s take it step by step, without demanding more than we can give. Every minute is an opportunity. Look at this moment: we’re okay. We’re here. Why waste that worrying about everything that could go wrong? We don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or even an hour from now. But right now…right now we have this. I understand you. I will. But I need you to understand me too. Don’t let me fall with you if that ever happens. I love you. But that abyss is not a place to live. We can look at each minute as if it were new. As if we were building it from scratch. Okay, love?”

Ray didn’t respond with words. He just smiled through tears and nodded. We lay down together, with no sound but the rhythm of our breaths. I took to wiping away his tears with the tips of my fingers, and he did the same for me, as if we were sealing a sacred pact with that simple gesture.

We stayed like that, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket and the honesty of our wounds. Outside, the world went on, indifferent. But inside that bed, in that night suspended in time, we had found a truce.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 💜🍇 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝟖:𝟒𝟎 𝐀𝐌 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  

∘₊✧───── ❋ 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 ❋ ─────✧₊∘  

────────────── ⋆｡°✩˚｡⋆ ──────────────

The insistent sound of multiple calls and messages abruptly yanked me out of sleep, like an invisible tug forcing me back to the world. I blinked a couple of times, confused, and turned my face toward the faint light slipping through the window. The sun’s rays had begun to timidly filter through the curtain cracks, and when I turned back, they blinded me completely with their warm, annoying brightness. Without thinking, I raised a hand to shield my eyes, still dazed by the sudden light, but something stopped me. It wasn’t just the sun. It was the soft, warm weight of a body sleeping on top of me. Ray was there, his head resting on my chest, his steady, even breathing echoing against my skin. That meant my arms were free...but it also meant something more.

Without moving too much, almost reverently, I slowly slid my hand toward his face, covering his eyes with my palm to protect him from the light that was beginning to steal away his calm. I wasn’t going to let the sun tear us from this moment. At least, not yet.

But then the phone vibrated again. And again. Insistent, almost desperate. I tensed slightly under Ray’s weight, not wanting to disturb him, and craned my neck to see the screen. James. Five missed calls. Seven messages. I frowned, and without meaning to, felt something stir inside me. I swiped to read the first message: “Are you free today? I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a bit...maybe something like a date.”

A date?

Instinctively, I looked toward Ray, who was still sound asleep, as if none of this existed beyond the warmth of our blankets. His breathing was so serene that for a moment, I felt guilty even reading messages from another man. Ray and I weren’t official, it’s true. We hadn’t had that conversation. We hadn’t put names, rules, or limits on anything. But still...I didn’t want to go out with anyone else. I didn’t want a date. I didn’t want another body, another voice, another coffee shared. Not if it wasn’t with him.

So, without overthinking it, I typed:

“Sorry, I’m with Babe right now. The truth is Ray and I are starting something...or at least, that’s what I hope.”

I sent it with a pang of nervousness—not because of James, but because admitting that—putting a name on what I felt—made me vulnerable. I was starting something. With Ray. And I wanted it. Really.

Before I could put the phone away or even process what I’d just done, a quick, half-asleep hand reached out from my chest. Ray grabbed the phone without opening his eyes, turned it off with a skillful movement, then tossed it without looking to some corner of the bed. I heard the soft thud of the phone falling among the sheets, probably lost for a good while.

“Why are you messaging someone?” Ray said in a hoarse voice, not bothering to open his eyes, just murmuring sleepily as he settled even closer against me. “Sleep the rest of the morning with me...”

His voice, deep from sleep, caressed me more than any physical touch. I stayed silent, feeling him curl up more, as if he didn’t care about what he had read or guessed, but only about the fact that I was there. With him. That I hadn’t gotten up yet.

I sighed with a smile on my lips, one of those that slips out unconsciously, full of tenderness. I slowly stroked his hair, undoing a small invisible knot in his curls.

“Ray, I have to go grocery shopping...” I murmured, more out of duty than will, as if saying it aloud would be enough to fulfill the obligation.

No verbal response came. Instead, I felt a soft kiss on my chest. So simple, so disarming. As if with that he was telling me the important thing wasn’t the supermarket or the to-do list. It was this. Us. This moment suspended between the blankets and the golden light of dawn.

“Is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?” I asked with a wide, playful smile, letting my hand rest on his back as I hugged him tighter.

“It’s a ‘shut up and let me sleep on your chest,’” Ray murmured, with that sleepy voice barely a whisper, curling even closer to me, as if wanting to merge with my body and disappear from the world.

I smiled silently, not daring to move. How could I wake this boy? How could I even bring myself to move him an inch? There was something so pure, almost childlike, in the way he surrendered to rest in my arms, in the way he trusted me to hold him even while asleep. He looked really adorable, with messy hair and a relaxed expression, as if he had finally found a place where he felt safe. And yes, that place seemed to be my chest.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fall back asleep. A part of me remained restless, as if there was something I needed to do. Maybe it was the list of errands waiting for me, maybe the guilt of having read messages so early, or maybe it was just my need to stay functional, even when my heart begged to stay a little longer under the covers.

With extreme care, as if I were holding a porcelain figure, I slipped out of bed. Ray groaned immediately, mumbling something unintelligible and frowning, but he didn’t open his eyes. I just watched him for a moment, as if I could memorize this instant before leaving. Then I looked for my towel, intending to take a quick shower.

However, something stopped me. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the invisible weight of his absence on the bed when I moved away. I looked back at him, unable to resist the need to return for a few more seconds, just to see him sleep.

But before I could take another step, Ray suddenly sat up, still half asleep, and threw himself at me like a person clinging to the last blanket in winter. He was on his tiptoes on the bed, clumsy and uncoordinated from sleep, but his hug was strong, determined. I didn’t see his smile, but I felt it in his voice, in the warmth he radiated, in the desperate way he wrapped his arms around me.

“Don’t go,” he said, squeezing me with unexpected strength, as if he feared that if I moved away, something would break.

I couldn’t help but laugh softly, caught between surprise and tenderness. I barely had time to react when he threw me back onto the bed with a clumsy but determined push. I fell onto the sheets with a low laugh, and before I could catch my breath, he was already on top of me, his eyes now more awake, fixed on mine.

“Ray…” I started to say something, anything, some rational word, but his hands quickly found mine and held them firmly, raising them above my head, pinning me down unexpectedly.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a soft or timid kiss; it was a fierce charge, filled with desire and something deeper that I couldn’t name. He kissed me with hunger, with contained rage, with need. I felt my whole body react instantly, and I let myself go, completely surrendered to the moment. There was something in his total surrender, in his raw way of showing what he wanted, that utterly disarmed me.

Ray parted his lips just for a second, breathing against my mouth, his dark eyes shining with a mix of lust and sincerity.

“Kant…I want you to make love to me. Let’s have sex now,” he said without hesitation, as if each word came from the deepest part of his chest. No fear. No shame. Only truth.

I stayed silent, feeling my breath grow heavier. His frankness surprised me, but it also thrilled me. Not because of what he asked, but because of how he asked. It wasn’t just physical desire. It was the desire to belong, to give himself, to feel wanted…loved, maybe.

I smiled to myself, while with a slight movement I took control of the situation. I gathered strength and, gently, turned his body beneath mine, without losing eye contact, without breaking that invisible thread that held us tied in the air.

“As my lord commands me…” I whispered in a joking tone, but full of promise, while my hands slowly traveled down his body, recognizing it like a map I was already beginning to know by heart, but wanted to explore a thousand more times.

Ray laughed quietly, though his breathing trembled a bit. I looked into his eyes, making sure that behind the desire there was still calm. Consent. Trust. And when I saw it there, I kissed him again. Slower this time. Deeper. As if with that kiss I could say everything we still didn’t know how to put into words.

Ray didn’t give me a second to process what was happening. He suddenly sped up the kiss, with the urgency of someone who’s been holding back too long. His tongue pushed against mine, his body pressed to mine like he needed more than just air. He grabbed me firmly by the neck, pulling me toward him without any gentleness. That gesture of control, that way he took command without asking permission, ignited me immediately. I could feel him trembling, vibrating against me, completely fired up.

I didn’t hold back. My hands climbed up his torso and without thinking, I brushed his nipples with my fingertips. Ray groaned right into my mouth, a filthy, perfect sound that made me hard on the spot. I pulled away just for a moment to breathe, but he didn’t let me go. I lifted him effortlessly, sat him on my thighs, and our bodies fit together precisely. I kissed him with hunger, with contained rage, as if I needed to erase every trace of air between us.

I took his shirt off with one hand, tearing it from his body like it was in the way. I didn’t know where I threw it and didn’t care. What mattered was his skin—hot and soft—within reach of my mouth. I moved down without asking, started devouring his nipples with my tongue and teeth. Ray’s moans grew louder this time, broken, almost shouted. I looked at him as I did it, a crooked smile on my lips.

“God, Ray…you sound like you want the whole building to hear you.”

“And if they do” he gasped, writhing beneath me, “better. Let them know you’re fucking me right.”

That phrase hit me hard. My body reacted instantly—harder, more desperate. I pushed him toward the bed, now he was mine. I pulled his shorts down quickly, without delicacy, without pause. I ripped them off and tossed them like the shirt. I wasn’t surprised to see the huge bulge in his boxers, pressing tight. I wanted him. I needed him. But I wasn’t going to give in that easily.

I ran my hand over him slowly at first. Just teasing. The moan he let out wasn’t a moan—it was a scream. One of those that make your skin crawl. My smile grew.

“You’re so hard you could tear the fabric” I said, brushing him a little harder. “That hot for me?”

“Isn’t that enough?” he gasped. “I’m about to come just from your damn fingers.”

I kept touching him, squeezing, enjoying how he arched, how he grabbed the sheets like it could save him. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted it all.

“Ray…take this off,” I said, pointing impatiently at my pants. “Now.”

He didn’t wait. Almost ripped them off me with clumsy but desperate moves. He kissed me while doing it, not letting go, like he was afraid I’d run away. He took the piece off and we were almost equal now, both just in boxers, pressed close, sweating, hot.

I pulled him back onto me again. Our bodies rubbing, both hard, both gasping. I could feel him throbbing against me, and I wanted more.

“What are you waiting for, Kant?” he said in a rough voice. “Are you going to keep teasing or fuck me already?”

“You don’t give the orders” I replied, biting his lip hard. “But I’m going to make you scream, that I promise.”

He laughed, that cocky laugh he knew how to use when he felt in control. But this time, I wasn’t giving him anything.

Ray was on top of me, his warm body, his quickened breath against my neck, and every touch between us ignited something I could no longer hold back. There was no warning, no elegant gesture—just the weight of his desire against mine, like a storm that no longer wanted to announce itself, but simply fall with all its force. I grabbed him by the waist and started moving him firmly, straightforward, with an energy bordering on wild. Every thrust from me was met with a moan from him, and in my ears, his voice was nothing but fuel. The room filled with our gasps, our voices muffled between kisses and exhales.

“Don’t stop…” he whispered through clenched teeth, lips close to mine, parted, wet, trembling. “Don’t stop, Kant…like this…”

Ray pushed hard, like the pace we set was overwhelming him. My hands traveled down his back, lower, gripping him tighter. I felt the tremble in his legs, the heat of his chest pressed to mine, his nails scratching my skin without holding back. It was madness, yes, but a delicious one.

At one point, I pulled him down, without explanation. My movements were quick, decisive. I looked him straight in the eyes—his cheeks flushed, mouth open, gasping for air. I said nothing at first. I just caught him with an intense, desperate kiss, like I could tell him everything I couldn’t put into words through it. Then my hands slid to his underwear, which came off with the same urgency I wanted to have him.

His erection was there, pointing at me, daring me. I looked at it, then at him. I didn’t care if there was some boldness in my voice when I spoke.

“Ray…I want to taste you. But I also want you on top. I’m losing damn control” I murmured, voice rough, full of held-back hunger. “You’ve got me completely crazy.”

Ray smiled with that look of his—mischievous kid and devil disguised as an angel. He leaned down, kissed me slow and deep before speaking against my lips.

“Make me yours…Make me scream your name until I run out of breath.”

That kind of plea didn’t need asking twice. I nodded silently, breathing through my mouth, trying to control the pounding in my throat. I slid my fingers along his erection, touching him slowly enough to make every muscle tense. His head fell back. The moans escaping him were addictive, and with every sound he made, I felt myself lose a little more reason.

“Do you like that?” I asked, teasing, barely increasing the pressure of my movements.

“Yes…fuck, yes” he moaned, arching his back. “Don’t stop…make it harder.”

Touching him wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I needed more. I leaned over him, letting myself go, and Ray gasped when he felt my mouth. The rhythm was steady from the start—direct, without hesitation. He didn’t take long to writhe under my hands, hips trembling, voice breaking, repeating my name like a mantra.

“Kant…God…you’re killing me” he said, his whole body trembling beneath me.

And I was enjoying it. I let myself go with the rhythm, his taste, the way his body reacted to every move I made. He was a delicious mess, a chaos of pleasure screaming for more. Ray didn’t just let it happen; he sought it, pushed, moved. It was pure desperation, and I didn’t want it to stop.

Until his body tensed. I felt him coming, knew it from his broken breath, from how his chest rose. And when he finally came, it was with a raw moan, his whole body shuddering. He breathed like he’d just escaped a fire.

I wasn’t in much better shape.

Ray barely recovered before climbing on me again, eyes shining, messy, cheeks still flushed and chest heaving.

“Now fuck me, Kant…” he said, direct, gasping. “Do it now, please…”

His words were fire. I needed nothing more.

Ray climbed on top of me with the same urgency he took my breath away. His thighs squeezed my sides, his skin burning against mine like we were both made of fire. His lips searched for mine between gasps, caught in that back-and-forth of need we no longer tried to control.

His body arched over mine with that kind of desperation that drives you crazy. I felt every part of him as if time had stopped right there—in that room, on those sheets, in that shared breath.

My hands slid down decisively to his hips, gripping them with firm control, as if I wanted to anchor them to me, make them part of my body. I pulled him slowly until I felt the heat of his skin brushing against mine, until his body was pressed completely against me, on the edge of that place where everything would begin. The wetness I felt between us was undeniable, the desire tangible, palpable, and the mix of nerves and need created an electricity impossible to ignore. I looked into his eyes, searching for a sign, a word, a gesture—something that would let me move forward without fear of crossing a line.

“Ray, you’re so wet…” my voice dropped to a low, rough whisper. “I’m going to put in two fingers, are you okay with that?”

He said nothing, just smiled—that smile full of surrender and fire that ignited me inside—and without hesitation, he clung even tighter to me, as if my touch was the only thing holding him. His hands found support on my shoulders while his body instinctively arched forward.

“Just…just fuck me, Kant, please,” his voice trembled between plea and command, with a mix of urgency that made my skin crawl.

I felt the pressure of his waiting, and with care but determination, I slid my fingers slowly, noticing his immediate reaction: his mouth opened in a muffled moan, almost silent, a broken sound that ignited my desire even more. I felt him tremble, both fearful and eager at the same time, such an intense contrast that was irresistible. His body pressed against mine, his forehead found mine, and I saw his closed eyes, lost in that moment suspended in time, as if he wanted to melt into me and stay there forever.

“Fuck,” I whispered, barely audible. “You’re so deep…so tight” my voice cracked between a mix of amazement and excitement, while my hands held him firmly, feeling the heat and softness of his skin beneath my fingers.

Ray hugged me tightly, and a low whimper escaped his lips, a pure, authentic sound, full of need and surrender.

“Am I hurting you, baby?” I asked, concerned, though I knew the answer was no.

He shook his head and looked at me, his eyes shining with untamable fire.

“Harder, Kant…” his nails scratched my back in an almost desperate act. “Harder. Give me everything.”

There was no turning back. I moved my hands away from his entrance and, without warning, thrust my cock inside with a quick but careful push, making sure not to hurt him. Ray screamed, a loud, tearing scream that ran through my skin like an electric shock.

I grabbed him by the waist without letting go, lifting him up hard and then pushing him down with power, slamming our bodies again and again with a wild, frantic rhythm. Each movement echoed in the room, every clash was a declaration of power and desire. His breathing was a constant tremor against my neck, mine a contained roar in his ear. There were no rules or limits, only absolute surrender to the moment and to each other’s bodies.

Ray screamed my name, his voice breaking with every thrust, his expression lost in raw, brutal, liberating pleasure. I watched him, seeing how he surrendered without fear, without shame, and I felt broken and rebuilt at the same time, as if every thrust was a new heartbeat keeping us alive.

“Is this what you wanted?” I murmured, panting hard, holding him even tighter. “For me to make you mine?”

“Yes…” he sobbed, with a twisted smile barely holding between moans. “And I want more.”

I couldn’t deny him anything. The tension between us was a flame burning out of control, and I was willing to burn in it as many times as necessary.

His words ignited a deeper fire in me, one that didn’t go out with the speed of our movements. I squeezed his hips harder, marking the rhythm as he gave himself completely, every thrust tearing a moan that mixed with mine in a melody of overflowing passion. I felt the heat of his body against mine, the sweat starting to slide over his skin, the tension in every muscle as we fought against ragged breaths and urgent desire.

Ray arched with every movement, biting his lower lip with intensity, trying to hold back the screams threatening to escape, and I responded to that surrender with even more greed, wanting to reach the deepest part of his pleasure, wanting to burn every corner of his body with mine. Every clash was wilder, more urgent, and even though exhaustion began to appear, neither of us wanted to stop.

“Kant…” he gasped, digging his nails into my shoulders, scratching my skin. “Don’t stop…don’t let me fall…”

I answered him with a kiss on his neck, letting my teeth bite gently while holding him firmly. His body trembled against mine, his moans becoming more desperate and sincere. I clenched my teeth, focused on not losing control, on holding him without falling apart.

Each movement, every thrust, took us closer to the edge. Breathing became erratic, bodies tangled with more urgency.

“Ray…tell me what you want,” I whispered hoarsely, squeezing harder and making him slide deeper inside me. “Do you want me to not stop? Do you want me to make you scream?”

His smile, twisted and sweaty, was a wordless answer. His nails dug into my back as his hips began moving to the pace I set—slow at first, then speeding up and hardening—making clear he was the one taking control now. I couldn’t refuse; his desire was as obvious as mine.

“Make me yours, Kant. Make me lose control,” he challenged me with that broken, desperate voice that set me on fire inside. “Don’t stop, don’t let go.”

I growled in response and grabbed his thighs, lifting him a little higher to sink deeper inside him with longer, deeper thrusts until I felt us both trembling at the edge of the abyss. His body arched, his lips parted in moans, and his hands clutched my shoulders with desperation.

“Do you want me to change positions?” I asked, panting, feeling my resistance fade. “Do you want me to have you beneath me, watch you writhe under me?”

Ray nodded with a wild spark in his eyes, like he couldn’t hold back what he felt anymore, like the fire beneath his skin burned from within. His breathing was ragged, but his pupils didn’t leave mine. There were no soft words between us that night. I lowered him slowly, guiding him until he lay against the rumpled sheets, and I, on top, like an inevitable weight.

I settled over him, my knees on each side of his body. I watched him for a moment longer, just to see him react to my touch. I took his cock firmly, moving it with measured precision, and every time he moaned, I felt his voice engrave itself directly into my veins. His back arched, his hands searching for something to hold onto—my hips, my wrists, anything to keep him anchored while I dominated him calmly, but mercilessly.

“Like that…just like that,” he gasped, biting his lower lip. “Don’t stop looking at me, Kant.”

I didn’t. My eyes devoured him as if looking away might make him vanish. Then I penetrated him with controlled force, no ceremony, no warning. Ray let out a broken moan, almost a strangled roar that vibrated between us, louder than any words. I kept him there, pressed close, giving him no respite.

My rhythm grew, increasingly impatient. Ray rested his forehead on mine, his warm, ragged breath hitting my mouth between gasps. His movements became chaotic, as if his body was begging me for something he couldn’t even explain. The friction of skin against skin, the wet sounds, the creak of the mattress beneath us—all were the raw soundtrack of a night where the only thing that mattered was consuming each other.

“Are you trembling?” I murmured in a hoarse, broken voice as I traced my fingers over his chest. “Do you like being like this for me?”

“I love it…” His voice was barely a shredded thread of pleasure. “Do whatever you want with me.”

I did. I took his wrists, pressed them against the mattress, and held him down while I moved with more force, more need. He writhed beneath me, completely surrendered, as if every inch of his body had been waiting for me forever. The physical tension was so intense it hurt. His muscles tensed and relaxed with the rhythm of my thrusts. Every time he moaned my name, I felt something inside me break a little more.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he teased me with a crooked, defiant smile despite his trembling voice. “Or are you saving the best for last?”

I answered with another deeper, rougher thrust. I heard him choke back a scream and laugh through clenched teeth.

“Thought so…” he whispered, biting his tongue. “Don’t stop, fuck. Don’t stop.”

We moved as if the world could fall apart around us and we wouldn’t care. When Ray’s body started trembling again, when my breathing was nothing more than a furious gasp, I knew we were about to overflow. We didn’t need to say it. It was felt. The bed creaked beneath us, our hands clutching each other, sweat running down our bodies, and everything was pure instinct, pure desire, without any pretenses.

Finally, I felt him tense beneath me. His head thrown back, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. I came just seconds later, unable to hold back. It was quick, violent, almost brutal. But necessary.

We collapsed like defeated bodies, exhausted and sweaty, breathing as if we’d survived a battle. I caught him in my arms, his hot, trembling torso pressed against mine.

“Still want more?” I whispered in his ear, a smile still clinging to my voice, stroking his damp back.

“Don’t tease me, Kant…” he whispered with a rough laugh. “’Cause if you give me five minutes, I’m gonna make you beg.”

Chapter Text

∘₊✧───────✧₊∘  

  🐤 𝙋𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙑𝙞𝙚𝙬: 𝑹𝒂𝒚  

       ❝ 𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙𝙚𝙧 ❞  

∘₊✧───────✧₊∘

While Kant was in the shower, I decided I wanted to do something for him. Something simple, something that would speak for me without needing words. The kitchen isn’t exactly my comfort zone. 

Actually, I don’t cook. I mean, sure, I know how to heat things up, stir with a spoon, read the instructions on an instant soup packet and hope the microwave doesn’t explode. But cooking —real cooking—that’s a whole other universe. Cooking is what Kant does when he wants to spoil me after a bad day, when he improvises something delicious with whatever's in the fridge, like magic slipping from his hands. Me? I just wanted to make a gesture. Clumsy, yes. But mine.

I started with what seemed easiest: the avocado. I’d seen a video where someone cut one open smiling, and it all looked so simple. The first attempt was a disaster—the avocado was so hard I considered using it as a weapon. The second one crumbled in my hands like an old memory you hold on to tightly, only for it to slip away. The third one…kind of worked. I cut it however I could; some pieces looked like cubes, others like abstract art. I threw them in a bowl with the energy of someone pretending to know what they’re doing.

Then came the cherry tomatoes. That cursed fruit. Tiny, slippery, and treacherous. The knife wasn’t sharp, they kept slipping, and one even fell to the floor and rolled right under the fridge. I didn’t bother retrieving it. And moved on with the rest, which somehow survived my clumsiness and ended up in the bowl with the avocado. The onion was another hell. I cut it too thick at first. Then too thin. Then I cried so much I wasn’t sure if it was because of the onion or some old sadness that found the perfect excuse. In the end, I just tossed in whatever looked edible and gave up. Visually, it didn’t look so bad anymore.

The chicken…well, the chicken was my greatest challenge. It was in the fridge. Frozen. I didn’t know it had to be defrosted ahead of time. I found out later, when I was already trying to cut it and the knife literally snapped. Like, out of sheer drama. I thought about quitting, but I clung to the idea. I tried washing it. I even used soap at first—yes, soap—until some lady in another video screamed at me, nearly offended, that no , that’s not how it’s done. I felt personally insulted by a tutorial and muttered angrily under my breath, as if she could hear me. But I kept going. Slowly, improvising, driven more by willpower than knowledge.

While Kant was still in the bathroom, probably doing things that involved looking perfect even in a robe, I somehow finished around midnight. I don’t even know how. I paused for a moment to look at what I’d done: it wasn’t a masterpiece, or a dinner worthy of applause. But it had something honest—something that held up beyond the mess. It was my way of saying I value him. That he matters to me. That I’m trying to learn—for him, for me, for what we have.

I left the bowl on the table, wiped my hands on a kitchen towel now stained with tomato and something green I’d rather not identify, and sat down, my stomach in knots. I wanted him to try it. To smile. To say something—even just, “This is awful, but thanks for trying.”

I didn’t realize Kant had already come out of the room. He was standing in the doorway, taking it all in. I looked at him, a little embarrassed, and asked:

"Not getting dressed?"

He was there, with just a towel around his waist, drops of water still sliding down his chest. He smiled softly, with that mix of tenderness and surprise that always undoes me. He didn’t say anything at first. He just walked closer, and for a moment, I wondered if he’d dare try what I made… or if we’d end up laughing, arms around each other, with barely-edible food between us.

"I decided to do laundry first…Did you…make this?" Kant asked, somewhere between surprised and hungry, a wide smile lighting up his face. "I didn’t know you had these hidden talents. What else have you been lying to me about?"

But I couldn’t think about anything except his body—how the heat from the shower or the kitchen clung to his skin like it wanted to stay there forever. He looked perfectly sculpted, like the gods of desire had enjoyed taking their time with him.

"Oh, please!" I exclaimed, dramatically collapsing into the nearest chair and placing a hand over my heart like something inside me had shattered. "I thought you were naked. What a bitter disappointment. I feel emotionally scammed."

Kant let out a deep laugh, one of those that doesn’t just fill the room—it warms it. He sat across from me with the calm of an autumn leaf falling, and his smile turned dangerously sideways. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he enjoyed it.

"And what were you planning to do if I hadn’t been wearing anything, huh?" he said, crossing his arms with a mix of mischief and sweetness that completely disarmed me. "You and your dirty thoughts..."

"I just wanted to do something nice for you today," I murmured softly, looking at him through narrowed eyes and a slight pout. Not even a second passed before he leaned in and brushed a kiss over my lips—a fleeting promise slipping between fingers.

"This looks delicious…" he said as he settled in. "How did you have time to defrost the chicken?"

"Defrost it…?" I repeated, feigning surprise. "Ah… I didn’t know you had to do that. But that’s okay—do you like it?"

Just then, Kant took a big bite of salad with the kind of energy that only comes from true hunger… and started coughing. At first, a soft sound—then a cough that spiraled out of control.

"Here, drink this!" I said, grabbing the juice like it was a magical antidote and shoving it toward his mouth.

Kant tasted it. Tried to swallow. And spit it out.

Juice and salad remnants sprayed in a scene worthy of a culinary tragedy opera. I narrowly avoided an unexpected bath. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his lips, trying to regain dignity through a sheepish smile.

"I think…the chicken…is a bit weird," he managed to say between coughs, with that expression of “I’m dying, but I still love you.”

"Did you…wash the chicken? Did you even defrost it?" he finally asked, with a look caught between suspicion and fear.

I slowly shook my head, still holding on to my apologetic pout.

"Well, I barely cut it. But of course I washed it. With soap. The lemon-scented one. It looked nice afterward. It sparkled. "

Kant stared at me in silence for an eternal second. Then he glanced down at the plates, and without saying a word, pushed them discreetly to the far edge of the table—as if moving the danger away could undo what he had already eaten.

"You did good, Ray," he said at last, with a resigned smile. "It’s just that…you have a very peculiar way of showing love. Are you planning to kill me with tenderness?"

The coffee still sat in the cup, now lukewarm, almost forgotten on the kitchen table. The morning sunlight barely managed to slip through the window, fogged up by the steam, casting a melancholic shadow across the room. Kant was there, standing in front of me, still naked, as if the intimacy of the night before could somehow stretch on, as if our bodies could hold a connection that our souls no longer could. I looked at him, hope still alive in my chest, praying that—just this once—he’d say yes. That he wouldn’t leave. That he’d finally choose to stay.

I gathered what little courage I had, swallowing my insecurity like a bitter drink, and murmured, “I’m sorry…will you stay with me today?”

I tried to smile, as if I could fool the gods of abandonment, as if my need for him wasn’t pouring out of every small gesture. But Kant just looked at me—not coldly, not harshly…just with that quiet calm of his that, sometimes, hurt more. A silent refusal that felt like a door slamming shut without a sound. He shook his head gently, like his no wasn’t a punishment, but it still stung.

“I have to get groceries, fill that fridge with your usual seven ice creams,” he said with a half-teasing smile, like that could somehow sweeten the wound. His attempt at humor didn’t even earn a smirk. My smile fell apart—not because of the joke, but because of the resignation behind his words. It was a pattern. One that repeated with the cruel precision of a routine. Every time I tried to get close, he found an excuse. The pantry, the laundry, the errands. There was always something more important. Always a way out.

“You don’t have to go alone,” I replied after a silence that felt like it lasted forever. “We could go together. And maybe... maybe we could buy you some clothes. Something you like. Something that makes you feel comfortable.”

My gaze fell briefly to his body—not out of desire, but with the tender impulse of someone who wants to take care of what he loves, even if the other doesn’t understand. Kant pressed his lips together, half amused, half defensive, and let out that phrase that always twisted something inside me:

“You’re insane. You’re not changing my style. You don’t know anything about fashion, you spoiled rich kid.”

That nickname. “Spoiled rich kid.” It used to be his way of pushing me away, of keeping me at a distance back when we didn’t know how to deal with what we felt. But now, he said it differently. There was a softness to his voice, almost tender, like it was no longer an insult, but a loving reminder of our differences. And yet, that tenderness didn’t soothe the hurt. It made it worse. Because it felt like he was playing at being close, always just one step away. Like he offered affection in halves, love in carefully measured portions.

“Besides,” he added, turning away to look for his clothes without much urgency, “I don’t think I’ll be back until tonight. It’s not a good idea for you to come with me.”

And there it was again. The rejection wrapped in soft words. The no disguised as logic. That way he had of slipping out, postponing what he didn’t want to face. What if I just wanted to be with him? What if it wasn’t about the groceries? What if I simply wanted to share a day—just one—without having to fight for his time?

I stood up, feeling something start to crack inside me. It was a mix of exhaustion, anger, and sadness…a slow suffocation, like every time I tried to love him, he reminded me I was only temporary.

I looked at him. And this time, I couldn’t keep quiet.

“So if you only want me to satisfy your sexual needs, to fuck me whenever it’s convenient for you, go find someone else, Kant.”

My voice trembled—not from insecurity, but from restraint. It was like an entire storm had been waiting too long to break free.

“What did you think? That now that you have James and me, you could use us both however the hell you want? Is that what I am to you? A fucking sex toy? Do you love him , and just use me when you need to blow off steam?”

The hit landed hard. Direct. Kant went pale, eyes wide, and his body—once so sure of itself—suddenly looked rigid, frozen by the shock. He tried to come closer, to say something, anything, but I didn’t give him the chance. I shoved him, hard, like my heart couldn’t bear to beat so close to his anymore.

Tears fell without permission—hot, angry, tainted with disappointment. The door to the apartment stayed open as I walked out without looking back. I heard his footsteps behind me, his voice calling my name with urgency, but I didn’t stop.

Kant stepped toward me, alarmed. “Ray, don’t say that!”

But I didn’t listen. Or maybe I didn’t want to. The knot in my chest had snapped, and now everything was pouring out uncontrollably, like a river overflowing its banks.

“You think this doesn’t hurt me? That I’m fine just having you in pieces? That I can settle for you fucking me at night and ignoring me in the morning? I’m sick of it, Kant! Fucking sick of always being the one you don’t choose!”

“Ray, it’s not like that. I just…I didn’t think you’d enjoy going grocery shopping, and—”

“I don’t give a damn about that!” I yelled, spinning around to face him. We were already in the hallway. Neighbors started peeking out, curious, uncomfortable. Kant was still in a towel, now covering himself with a shame that felt foreign to me. It infuriated me that he could feel embarrassed about that and not about what he was doing to me .

“Leave me alone! Just fucking leave me!” I screamed, throat raw, completely losing control of my emotions. I didn’t know if I hated him or needed him more than ever. I didn’t know if I wanted to hold him or shatter him into a thousand pieces.

Kant took a step forward. “Ray, no—”

“No. Don’t interrupt me. You think I don’t see what you do? It’s always the same. You leave me here, waiting, while you go take care of the whole fucking world. And I…I stay behind, trying to convince myself that you’re not avoiding me. That this is real. That I’m not just a distraction.”

He stopped. Finally. He stood still, breathing deeply, like he was trying to find the right words among the rubble of our argument.

But what he said was the worst thing. The one phrase I never expected. The one that left me paralyzed.

“Ray…it’s just that I’m going out with Babe.”

“You know what, Kant?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper now, but razor-sharp. “I’m done begging. No more. If you’re going out, go. I don’t need to watch you walk away again .”

And with that, I left. I left him there, standing with nothing but a towel wrapped around his body, his eyes full of a pain that no longer reached me.

Because the only thing I wanted…

was for him to choose me

 Just once.

Just me.

🍌𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ 𖥔 ༘˚ 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓁𝒶𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓮𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 ˚ ༘𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ𖥔 🌻  

         『 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓 • 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 』  

               ✧ 𝑷𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑽𝒊𝒆𝒘: 𝑲𝒂𝒏𝒕 ✧  

      ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒑 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒆 ˖ ࣪⊹

I called Ray several times, but after a few rings, I realized he had turned off his phone. Every failed attempt felt like a frustrating echo, a dull reminder that I had pushed him farther away than I thought. I stayed there for a few minutes with the phone still in my hand, as if hoping the screen would suddenly light up and show his name. It didn’t.

Not long after, I had to go pick up Babe. My brother was waiting for me at the station, and although I tried to sort through my thoughts on the way there, all I managed to do was replay the scene with Ray over and over. His face, the way he shouted at me, the way his eyes filled with tears, even the dry sound of the door closing behind him—they followed me all day like a shadow. I didn’t even try to hide it; Babe noticed right away.

He looked at me with those eyes of his that see everything, that know more than they should. He asked several times what was wrong, if something had happened, but I didn’t have the words to answer. Not because I didn’t want to talk, but because everything inside me was a mess. The emotions had no shape, no name—just a constant weight on my chest that stole my breath and filled my throat with knots. I knew I’d eventually have to explain a lot to Babe. Talk to him about Ray, about what he means to me, about how complicated all of this is.

We spent the afternoon walking around downtown, shopping, filling bags with food, vegetables, milk, cereal. Babe wanted some sweets when we passed a shop window, and even though he tried to hide it—with that shy way he looks at things like he doesn’t deserve them—I already knew how to read his eyes. I bought him three packs of his favorites and two ice creams: one vanilla, one chocolate, just like he liked when he was little.

Sometimes it surprises me how much I’ve changed since Ray came into my life. Thanks to him, I no longer have to choose between buying food or paying rent. I can afford to say yes to Babe without silently counting coins. I can see him happy and full without feeling guilty for not being there for him the way I should have been when we were kids.

I even bought him a new phone. It was something I had been planning for months, saving up whenever I could. The look on his face when he got it—that mix of awe and tenderness—was one of those moments that stay with you forever. Seeing him smile like that made me feel that, just for a moment, something was right in this broken world.

I had wanted to invite him over sooner, but I hadn’t. Not because I didn’t want to—but because the house wasn’t mine. It was Ray’s. And no matter how many times he insisted it didn’t matter, I always felt like my place there was temporary, borrowed. Still, since the two of them started getting along, I thought maybe…maybe I could let Babe into that part of my life, too.

But none of that was the real problem now.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Ray. Whether he’d eaten today. Whether he came back early after what happened. Whether he was sleeping…or just avoiding the world. It hurt not knowing. It hurt knowing I had caused this silence between us. And the worst part was knowing that, deep down, he was right.

Ray was right.

I had pushed him away without realizing it, pushed him down my list of priorities—not because I stopped caring, but because I assumed he knew. That he was supposed to understand without me having to say it. But that’s not who Ray is. Ray needs gestures, words, presence. And I got lost in my routine—in my new tattoo classes, in the responsibilities that kept piling up. Buying groceries, organizing the house, taking care of Babe…all of it became part of my everyday life. Ironically, things I learned to manage thanks to Ray.

And yet, I couldn’t explain that to him. I couldn’t sit down, look him in the eyes, and say:

“I’m not pulling away. I’m just learning how to hold myself up while also trying to hold you.”

I know all of this happened because of a misunderstanding. That his words, though harsh, came from a place of pain. That he wasn’t trying to hurt me, but to make me understand how I was making him feel. And I also know that I’m not the only one who has to take the first step. Ray is also an unstable person—emotionally vulnerable. We both carry our wounds, our imperfect ways of loving. But I’m not going to let this fall apart. I won’t let pride or fear take away something that could be real. We need to talk. We need to do it soon.

I understand that Ray needs space, and I’m giving it to him. But I also know that an honest, healthy conversation can save what’s still beating between us. Because yes, it’s still beating.

And even if it hurts, I’m willing to stay, to listen, to apologize.
To tell him I love him…

And this time, say it right.

When we got home, Babe and I dropped the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. The sound of the packages hitting the wood was the only thing that broke the silence. While he started putting things away, I—without even realizing it—began looking for Ray around the house. It wasn’t a conscious decision at first, just an automatic habit: glancing toward his bedroom, half-opening the bathroom door, scanning the living room hoping to see his silhouette lying on the couch, phone in hand, that fake-annoyed expression he always made whenever Babe talked too loudly. But nothing. 

The house was empty of him. And with each room that showed no sign of him, a dull ache started to tighten in my stomach.

I sat down next to Babe on the couch without saying a word. He flopped down beside me, too, with that long sigh he always lets out when he’s satisfied—like saying “uf” helps him release the weight of the day. For a few minutes, we didn’t speak. Only the silence and the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the air.
I felt the urge to ask him something, to start a conversation, but I didn’t know how. So many things were tangled up in my head.

How disconnected from reality would it be to trust my little brother with something so personal?

What if he did understand?

What if he judged me?

The truth was, Babe wasn’t stupid. Since he arrived, he hadn’t stopped observing everything. He’d asked about Ray several times, with that quiet curiosity he always had when something didn’t quite fit in his mind. He knew there wasn’t just “friendship” between Ray and me.

Not because I had told him—because I hadn’t—but because of the little gestures, the glances, the things I didn’t say. In his own way, he was a romantic. Still a kid, yes, but with that special kind of sensitivity that lets you notice what adults clumsily try to hide.

“Bro…” he said suddenly, springing up from the couch with renewed energy. He turned around to take in the apartment. “This place is huge. Do you really live here? It’s so nice…”

I watched him slowly walk over to the pictures. He pointed to one—a large black and white portrait Ray had hung near the staircase.

“Look at these…Is that Ray? You can definitely tell it’s his house. He’s got a ton of big pictures of himself,” he said with a curious tone, but no judgment. It was like he was trying to decode the secret language of the space, as if each frame, each object, was telling him something about who Ray was…and who I was next to him.

I ran a hand down my face, taking a deep breath. The tension I’d been holding in since the argument began to leak out through my ribs. And then, as if I needed to vent without actually admitting anything, I said:

“Babe…I’ve got a friend. And that friend just had a fight with his…boyfriend? I’m not even sure if that’s what he is, honestly. All I know is they argued.”

He turned to me, one eyebrow raised, confused. I knew him so well I could see his brain working fast, trying to connect the dots. But I kept going, wobbling somewhere between metaphor and emotional clumsiness.

“He’s not really his boyfriend. I mean…they’ve only slept together once. And he… also saw him masturbating one time.”

I spoke without looking at him, like that might make it less embarrassing. But when I glanced up, Babe was staring at me with a mix of surprise and amusement. His eyes lit up instantly.

“Come on, bro. You can talk about sex with me. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult, remember?” he said with that laugh of his that always reminded me of Mom. He settled back on the couch, more relaxed now, and added with a knowing smile, “You can be clearer about what your ‘friend’ does. I’m not that clueless.”

He put extra emphasis on the word friend , like he was playfully trying to unmask me without attacking. He knew me too well. He knew I wasn’t talking about some friend. He knew I was talking about myself, hiding behind that childish disguise to avoid naming my own fears.

I nodded. There was no point in pretending anymore.

“They have a weird relationship,” I began, speaking more honestly now. “They’re not really boyfriends, but they’ve already told each other how they feel. The problem is… one of them feels like the other isn’t taking it seriously. Like he’s not being prioritized, like he’s being left out of the other’s life…and it’s tearing him apart.”

My voice dropped at the end. And even though I was speaking in third person, everything I said was a mirror. The way Babe looked at me confirmed it—he knew. He knew I was that confused guy. He knew Ray was that boy who felt left behind. He knew this hurt me more than I was willing to admit.

Babe scooted closer and rested his head on my shoulder without saying a word. And for the first time all day, I allowed myself to close my eyes. Because in that quiet gesture, I felt something I hadn’t felt in hours: calm.
But I also knew that tomorrow—or maybe even later tonight—I would have to face what I’d been avoiding.

“You and Ray…well, sorry,” Babe corrected himself with a shy half-smile. “I mean, he and his friend or boyfriend, or whatever. They still don’t really have a clear definition of their relationship, right? And now it seems like there’s some confusion. Ray—uh, I mean the other guy—feels like his partner isn’t taking him seriously. Oh, man…relationships are so complicated.”

I stayed quiet for a few seconds. The way he said it, that effort to keep up with the metaphor game, made my chest ache with tenderness…and a bit of shame. I glanced at him sideways, knowing there was no point hiding anymore. Not now.

“Babe,” I said, my voice lower than I expected, “we don’t have to pretend I’m talking about someone else anymore. I’m talking about myself.”

He nodded gently, like he had known it from the very beginning, and let me continue. It was hard to organize the words. There were too many thoughts tangled up in my head, feelings pushing at each other, like they were all trying to come out at once— but none of them could find the right way through.

“I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling…I mean, I feel a lot , but I don’t know if it goes beyond the physical. With him…with Ray, my emotions feel clear in some moments, but other times they overflow and confuse me. It’s like my body knows something my mind hasn’t fully figured out.”

I didn’t look at him while I spoke. Admitting my confusion hurt. I felt clumsy, like all my feelings lost their legitimacy just because I couldn’t name them properly. But then I felt his hand on my shoulder. Steady. Warm. Present.

“Oh, brother…” he sighed, with a mix of tenderness and judgment. “If you want him that badly, if he really matters to you, you should make things clear. You can’t keep seeing other guys, or thinking about them—maybe not even your roommate…Ray. Not while you still haven’t figured out what you truly feel.”

He looked at me with those serious eyes he sometimes used when trying to give me “grown-up” advice. He’d always been mature in his own way, even when he still played at being a kid.

“I don’t think it’s about not knowing how I feel,” I finally said, my voice fragile but calm, like the words had been waiting for their exact moment to surface. I wasn’t speaking from anger, not even sadness. I was speaking from that deep place where understanding finally breaks the surface.

“It’s just that…I finally get it: it’s not confusion. It’s fear. Fear of expressing what I feel for Ray. Of saying it wrong. Of showing it the wrong way. Of not being enough for what he needs.”

I ran a hand over the back of my neck, restless inside even though my body stayed still.

“I didn’t show him love the way he understands it. Ray needs clear gestures, solid presence. He loves with his body, with silences that mean companionship, with small details that say I’m here with you without needing to say a word. And me…I hid behind logic. Behind restraint. I told myself that’s just how I am, that love doesn’t need to be dramatic, that feeling it was enough… but I didn’t give him what he needed. Not because I didn’t feel it, but because I didn’t know how to give it. Or worse: because I was afraid to give it.”

I looked at Babe, who still said nothing. He just nodded, with that look of his that doesn’t judge, that watches with compassion but also with the clarity of someone who’s seen the same mistake happen again and again.

“How do you fix something when you don’t even know how to show what you feel without making it all fall apart?” I asked, more to myself than to him. “How do you build something real when every attempt to open up feels like a threat to your own balance?”

I took a breath. My voice cracked slightly, but I didn’t stop.

“I love Ray. I’m not confused about that. But loving him has felt like holding an open wound with my hands: if I let go, it bleeds out…but if I squeeze too tightly, I hurt him. And I don’t want to lose him. I won’t let him go. But this…this is exhausting. Love isn’t enough. It never has been. A relationship needs responsibility. It needs mutual understanding, emotional bravery. Feeling isn’t enough—you have to know how to love. And that’s what hurts. I’m not confused. What’s happening is…I don’t know how to love him right, without breaking him. Or breaking myself in the process.”

“Ray?” I asked at last, my voice barely audible, like saying his name was also a plea for hope. I looked at Babe, needing more than advice—needing a map. A direction. A sign that it wasn’t too late.

He looked at me with a mix of tenderness and firmness. He shifted on the couch and, after a brief pause, spoke with the quiet cadence of someone who’s been there more than once.

“When my boyfriend and I argue,” he began—not in a lecturing tone, but more like someone sharing a small truth that had once saved him—“we have a rule. We never go to bed angry. No matter how hard the day’s been. No matter if we’re tired, irritated, or if it feels like nothing has a solution. We always talk. Even if it hurts. Even if we don’t have answers right away. We talk. Because having those uncomfortable conversations… it’s part of building something that won’t break every time life hits.”

I nodded in silence. I knew he was right. I’d known it even before hearing it—but I needed to hear it out loud.

“You can’t keep swallowing what you feel just because you’re afraid of how he’ll react,” he continued. “That’s not protecting the relationship, Kant. That’s denying it. That’s starving it. Ray doesn’t need you to be perfect. He needs you to be real. To show yourself. To let him see what’s behind the wall you built. And if that hurts…then it means it matters.”

I stayed still, like his words were the final piece of something I’d been trying to build blindly for so long. Maybe it wasn’t too late yet. Maybe I could still learn to love without hiding behind fear.

I ran a hand over the back of my neck, uncomfortable, overwhelmed—but also with a small spark of clarity. All day I’d been running from my thoughts, trying to distract myself with trivial things, but it was useless. Ray was in my mind constantly. His absence weighed on the house, like his voice still lingered in the empty hallways. I didn’t know if he’d eaten. I didn’t know if he was okay. And I couldn’t stand the thought that he might believe I didn’t love him, that I didn’t take him seriously, that I didn’t see him as someone who mattered.

“It’s not just about what I feel,” I murmured, almost to myself. “It’s also about what he needs. Ray is…complicated. He hides behind that indifferent attitude, like nothing can hurt him, but when I really look at him—when I see him—I realize he’s just a hurt boy. Like me. Pretending not to care so no one can hurt him again.”

Babe watched me in silence. He knew I didn’t need answers in that moment—just someone to listen without judging. And he was doing exactly that. I realized he had grown up. He wasn’t the kid I used to protect anymore. He was someone I could share my fears with without feeling smaller.

“I need to talk to him,” I said at last, with a certainty that was only just starting to form in my chest. “I can’t keep putting it off. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe when I get back from work…though I’m not even sure if I’ll see him at the bar. Ray’s unpredictable. He could disappear for days or be there waiting for me like nothing ever happened.”

I looked up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking about him. Ray had that way of playing with fire—provoking, hurting himself without meaning to, pretending his pain didn’t exist until he became someone else. But if I really wanted something with him…I had to stop watching from a distance. I had to get closer, even if it meant getting burned a little.

“I guess I need to be braver this time,” I said, more to myself than to Babe. “Talk, even if it hurts. Even if I don’t have all the answers yet.”

Babe smiled, satisfied. Like he’d been waiting for me to come to that conclusion all along.

“That’s it, brother. Let him know you care—not through a text, not through a half-hearted gesture. Face to face. With your heart.”

And there, in that quiet living room, with the grocery bags still unpacked and Ray’s presence echoing softly through the walls, I understood that I couldn’t keep running. That something inside me had already shifted. And that, for the first time in a long while, I was going to fight for what I wanted.

“Thank you,” I murmured at last, and felt the weight of everything left unsaid begin, little by little, to stir inside me.

Chapter Text

❝ 💭 𝓢𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓷'𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓷... 𝓼𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 ❞  

          ༺♡༻ 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 ༺♡༻  

✦﹒⟡﹒𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈﹒⟡﹒✦

      ･:*:･ﾟ☆ 𝓟𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓥𝓲𝓮𝔀: 𝓡𝓪𝔂 ☆･ﾟ:*:･

My mind was a storm out of control, a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts that refused to settle, that wouldn’t stop screaming inside me. I hadn’t eaten all day. I hadn’t showered either. I hadn’t even changed clothes since the night before. I felt heavy, filthy, broken. Sadness had crystallized over me, like a dry crust of salt in my eyes, like winter frost sinking into my bones. I walked aimlessly, arms hanging at my sides, throat clenched from the inside, not knowing where to go—but certain that I couldn’t be alone another second. I knew people were staring as I passed them—hunched over, face flushed from crying so hard, dragging my body as if it belonged to someone else. But I didn’t care. None of it mattered. I just wanted to disappear. Or at least… find an open door.

Within minutes, I ended up at Mew’s house. I didn’t think twice. I couldn’t. My trembling fingers knocked on the door with force, with urgency, like I was about to shatter completely if he didn’t open. I knocked once. Then again. And again. Each knock echoed like my heartbeat slamming in my chest. My anxiety was so overwhelming I felt like I might faint. It was a storm of anguish raging inside me, a wave that drowned me from within. I heard Mew’s voice, muffled through the hallway. “Oh God, who’s knocking like that? I’m coming, I’m coming!” Then a tired laugh and a “Hold on, hold on.” But I couldn’t wait. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I honestly didn’t know how to keep holding on.

And when he finally opened the door, when his figure appeared in the doorway with that mix of confusion and surprise, I walked in. Without asking. Without a word. I slipped past the threshold like a ghost and collapsed onto his couch with the same dramatic weight as someone who’s finally surrendered.

I clutched a pillow like it was the last piece of humanity I could hold onto, as if that scrap of fabric could carry what was left of my shattered soul. Mew didn’t say anything. He just looked at me—stunned. Maybe he knew from the very first second that this wasn’t the time for questions. I didn’t need explanations. I needed air. I needed silence. I needed someone who wouldn’t throw me out of their living room.

Before I even realized it, Mew came back from the kitchen with a glass of water and some food. He set everything on the coffee table without making a sound, like he was afraid he’d break something else inside me. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even think. I just cried. The tears wouldn’t stop. They ran down my cheeks like they were trying to empty me out, like they were the only language I still remembered.

The thoughts were so many, none of them could stay. Everything turned into a stutter of fragments, broken words, scattered pronouns lost between the sobs. “He… I… no… us…” and nothing else. The rest was just white noise in my mind.

But Mew still didn’t say anything. He sat beside me and gently patted my back. He offered me the water. He made me drink a little. His voice was soft, like he was trying to soothe a wounded animal. He didn’t ask. He didn’t push. He was just there. And that was enough.

Little by little, as the minutes passed, the knot in my throat began to loosen.

The tears didn’t burn like they used to. I ate a little bit of flavorless rice. Drank some more water. And the chaos inside me slowly began to shift into a kind of quiet sadness. Like I had shipwrecked and was finally floating on my back, barely breathing—but alive.

Then I spoke. My voice still broken, still soaked. “I fought with Kant…” That was all I managed to say at first. The words dropped like stones into water—heavy and cold. Mew nodded calmly. He didn’t ask for details. He didn’t say “Why?” or “What happened?” He just listened. As if he understood that there’s no pain worse than the one you inflict on yourself with the words you never say.

I clung to the glass in my hands. The water had gone lukewarm, but I held onto it anyway, like it was an anchor. I couldn’t tell if it was the drink that was cooling off—or me. Everything I felt was still there, coiled up tight in my chest like a sleeping beast, ready to strike again at any moment.

“I don’t think I can take it anymore, Mew,” I murmured. “I think I ruined everything.”

And he just looked at me. With that expression of his that never needed too many words to say everything.

“I… I never know how to say the right thing,” I murmured, my voice hoarse, cracked open from deep inside. “I think I fucked it up. Again. I think I made him feel awful—again—and still, I don’t know how to stop doing that. When I’m not his first choice… when he picks everyone but me… it just makes me feel even worse.”

I took another sip of water, avoiding Mew’s gaze. My eyes were fixed on the glass, like maybe some kind of answer might appear on its surface. The silence between us was thick, but not uncomfortable. I floated in it, overwhelmed, but cradled by someone else’s calm. My gaze wandered across the room, like I couldn’t bear to sit still inside myself. Everything around me felt colder, further away.

“Did you tell him how you feel?” Mew asked softly.

I raised my head. Looked at him. And slowly nodded. His response was a small smile that broke something in me just a bit more.

“You did well, Ray,” he said gently. “I know how hard it is for you to talk about your feelings. What else happened?”

His words hit deeper than I expected. There was no judgment in his voice. None of the impatience I usually got from Cheum or Boston. No tired phrases like “it’ll pass” or “you’re overreacting.” Mew—though often distant—was the only one I could strip down in front of like this, with all my emotions trembling, without fear. Well… after Kant.

“I told him I wanted to go to the market with him… together,” I admitted, lowering my voice like it was something shameful. “That I didn’t want to be apart from him, not right now. I just wanted to spend the day by his side. But he didn’t care. He told me he was going alone… Well, with his brother.”

The knot in my throat tightened again, and before I realized it, I stood up. The glass slipped from my hands and hit the floor. The water spilled out like a little puddle of everything I couldn’t hold in anymore. Mew quickly crouched and picked it up before it could shatter. He set it gently on the coffee table without saying a word. His eyes met mine, and in them, there was no reproach—only a kind of quiet compassion that was almost too much to bear.

It was like he wanted to understand me, but couldn’t. Like he wanted to help, but knew there was no easy way to do it.

“Ray…” he finally said, his voice slow and careful, like he was weighing every word. “You’re really in love.”

I stood still. I didn’t know whether he meant it as a statement… or a warning.

"I understand what's going on in your head," he continued, "but he also has the right to spend time with other people. Maybe he just needed a moment alone... or some time with his brother."

I opened my mouth to say something, but Mew interrupted before I could even form a syllable.

"Don’t get me wrong—I'm not saying he doesn’t want to be with you," he clarified quickly. "I know how close you two are, how much you share. You live together, see each other every night at the bar, spend mornings and afternoons... together. I know you want more. But sometimes, people need a moment to breathe on their own. And in his case, it’s not really being alone—it’s being with his brother."

His words were so logical they hurt. His tone was so calm it made me want to scream. I sank back into the couch, frustrated. My hands moved restlessly, as if trying to speak what my throat couldn’t. I nodded. Yes. He was right. Of course he was. But Mew didn’t know everything.

He didn’t know that lately, Kant and I hadn’t been spending as much time together as it seemed. He didn’t know I had barely seen him at home since he started hanging out with James. That he came back late at night when I was already asleep—or pretending to be, just to keep from crying in front of him. That our movie nights, the ones we used to spend curled up in bed laughing at everything, had vanished without warning. That I still made dinner for two... only to watch him leave again for the bar.

I’d gone to see him there more than once, pretending I just wanted to hear him sing, or just to be close to him for a while. But Kant... Kant didn’t even look at me. He was too busy with customers, laughing with others, spinning through drinks and songs. And there I was, sitting among the crowd, trying to convince myself he wasn’t ignoring me. Was this really just a me problem?

I stayed quiet, feeling smaller and smaller inside myself. Like I was being exiled from my own love story.

“Mew…” I whispered. “What if I’m fighting alone?”

He looked at me with a quiet sadness, without answers.

Because deep down… he didn’t have them either.

“What if… maybe Kant is giving a lot, but you just can’t see it?” Mew’s voice was soft, like he measured every word, but firm—like a rope that didn’t want to snap. He wasn’t speaking to hurt me, I knew that right away. He was speaking because he could see me slipping, slowly sinking into an abyss that he, from the outside, had noticed long before I did.

I looked at him. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. That careful, honest tone, the way his lips paused like he wasn’t sure whether to cross the line or stay silent a second longer. His hand rested on my shoulder, and even though it was just a small gesture, I felt like he was trying to hold me together from the inside, from that place where we stop daring to ask for help.

“I don’t fully know what your relationship is like, Ray,” he added, and his eyes didn’t leave mine for a second. “But from what you’ve told me, from the way you talk about him… Kant is giving a lot. Maybe not the way you expect him to. Maybe not in the moments when you need it most. But he is. In his own way. And that’s also love.”

I didn’t know what to say. I swallowed hard, but the words wouldn’t go down. I stayed still, staring into nothing, as if I might find some excuse there—some justification that would tell me I wasn’t wrong, that I had every right to feel this way. But all I found was that uncomfortable feeling that starts in your chest and spreads like a slow, dying fire. My teeth clenched without me realizing it. I was breathing—yes—but poorly… like I was missing something that used to belong to both of us.

“You should talk to him,” Mew added, his tone now carrying a sharper clarity. “I know you’re scared. I get that. But you can’t keep burying what you feel, Ray. Because it’s going to break you from the inside. And along the way, you’ll end up breaking him too… without meaning to.”

His words didn’t hit like a slap. They didn’t shake me. They sank into me like a knife slowly pressing in—not sharp at first, but impossible to ignore once it was inside. I nodded, eyes falling to the floor. I wasn’t sure if it was because I understood what he meant… or because I didn’t have the strength to argue anymore.

What if he was right? What if my jealousy was distorting everything? What if Kant wasn’t pushing me away, but I had simply stopped seeing what he still gave me? What if what I felt wasn’t anger… but fear? Fear of losing him. Fear that one day, he wouldn’t come back. Fear that the hug that used to save me from the void would no longer be enough. Kant had been so many things to me—my refuge, my drive, my comfort. And maybe now I was expecting him to be all of that all the time, without realizing that it… was impossible.

I ran my hands over my head and shut my eyes tightly. Something was breaking inside me, slowly—but without noise, without screams. Just that kind of quiet pain that settles in and steals your breath.

“I hate this,” I said, my voice hoarse, as if I were talking more to myself than to Mew.

He tilted his head slightly and looked at me.

“Hate what?”

I opened my eyes. My voice came out harder than I meant it to.

“This damn feeling. I hate it. I hate how it makes me feel. How it makes me believe that Kant doesn’t love me anymore. How it makes me doubt him when, deep down… I know I have no reason to. I know I don’t. Kant was never easy to deal with. He never let himself be manipulated. Not even by me. He’s always been direct, stubborn, clear about what he wants. Our relationship has been complicated from day one. And it’s always been me… the one who messes it all up.”

Mew didn’t say anything. He just looked at me. But not with pity, not with judgment. He looked at me like someone standing in front of an open wound without a bandage, yet still choosing to stay.

“And even so…” I went on, unable to meet his gaze now. “I know he loves me. I know it. Every part of me knows it. I see it in his eyes when he talks to me. I hear it in his voice when he says my name. So why won’t this anger go away? Why do I feel so fucking alone when he’s not around?”

Silence. A long one. But not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence one needs in order not to fall apart completely. The kind of silence that holds you.

And there, in the middle of that emptiness where I didn’t know whether to feel relief or guilt, I realized that what I was feeling… wasn’t just fear. It was need. That insatiable craving to be chosen by Kant every day, every moment—even when he couldn’t. It was the selfishness of someone who loves so much that he forgets to see the other person. And that thought, as painful as it was, felt like a truth. One I couldn’t keep ignoring.

“Then don’t,” Mew replied, with that calm of his that never seemed fake, only steady—like someone who’s already seen the fire and still chooses to stay and help you put it out. “Don’t force it. Stay here as long as you need.”

His words were so simple, so true, they pierced through me like a breath. I wanted to get up. To tell him it wasn’t necessary, that I could go home, that I just needed to be alone—crawl beneath my own ruins and let the world leave me in peace. But the moment I tried, Mew stepped in front of me, arms crossed. Not in anger, not with force—just with that kind of quiet firmness you can’t argue with. The kind that comes from care.

“Ray, no,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Not today. Not while you’re like this. I’m not going to let you make impulsive decisions that will break you even more than you already are.”

“But I don’t want to stay here… like a coward,” I muttered, though my voice held no weight anymore. It was barely a whisper between shame and exhaustion.

“This isn’t hiding,” he replied without hesitation, cutting me off before I could keep tearing myself down. “It’s breathing. It’s taking air before you dive back in. Stay. We still have to rehearse the presentation, remember? We can go over it. It’ll distract you. And more than anything, it’ll help bring you back. To the part of yourself you’re abandoning in the middle of this storm.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue. Not even to pretend I was staying out of politeness. I nodded, lowering my head, feeling my body surrender as if it had been at war all day. And maybe it had been. Only the battle wasn’t against Kant. It was against myself.

I didn’t know if what I was doing was giving up or, for the first time, finally resting. If I was retreating, or simply accepting that I couldn’t keep fighting blind. The only thing I knew was that Mew wasn’t asking me to pretend to be okay. He didn’t want me to smile, didn’t ask for explanations. He was just telling me, in his quiet, loyal way, that I didn’t have to drown alone this time.

And there, sitting on his living room couch, with my throat in knots and my chest full of things I didn’t know how to name, I realized something that hurt more than any anger or fear: maybe Kant wasn’t the one abandoning me. Maybe… I was the one drifting away. Maybe the noise pulling me from him wasn’t his silence—it was mine. My insecurities, my need to be loved every second, my messed-up way of sabotaging everything good in my life. Maybe I was the one who didn’t know how to stay when love wasn’t perfect.

And that thought… that single thought… hurt more than everything else.

✦﹒⟡﹒𝓟𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓥𝓲𝓮𝔀: 𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓽﹒⟡﹒✦

❝ 𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 𝓘 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷’𝓽 𝓪𝓼𝓴... 𝓫𝓾𝓽 𝓶𝔂 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓭 𝓲𝓽 𝓪𝓵𝓵 ❞

       ⋆⁺₊✧༚ 𝓑𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓪𝔃𝓮, 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓸𝓴 ༚✧₊⁺⋆  

I knew exactly what time Ray got out of university. I’d memorized it unintentionally—or maybe with too much intention—every time he casually mentioned it in passing conversations. It was 11:40 now, and I was heading straight there. I wasn’t entirely sure what I planned to do when I saw him… maybe just look at him. Maybe hug him. Or maybe yell at him that he couldn’t keep acting like nothing mattered.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I needed to see him. This silence between us was eating me alive. And no matter how proud I tried to seem, my heart was pounding like it was going to explode the moment he was near me.

When I arrived, the university was a maze of long hallways and students walking around on autopilot. I didn’t know the place, didn’t know where to go or which room to look for. But Ray had that aura… that way of existing that left a trace behind. Someone had to know him. They had to.

I approached two guys talking near one of the entrances. One was holding a drink, and the other was leaning against the wall, laughing at something I didn’t catch.

“Do you happen to know Ray Pakorn?” I asked quickly, stopping in front of them. My voice came out tenser than I’d wanted. I felt like an intruder, completely out of place, with my heart pounding too hard to think clearly. I glanced at both of them, then looked around, as if afraid someone might overhear me asking about him. Ridiculous. But that’s how I felt.

The guys exchanged a look with an immediate, almost mocking smile, as if my question had been an inside joke. The one holding the drink let out a laugh that made my nerves spike, like he already knew something I didn’t—like he had stories about Ray I didn’t want to hear under any circumstance.

“Ray Pakorn? Who doesn’t know Ray in this faculty?” the guy replied, with an overly amused expression, as if I’d just asked about a celebrity. “It’s literally impossible not to notice him. That man is a walking work of art.”

His friend quickly joined in, laughing even louder and more annoyingly.

“He sings, dances, smiles, and breaks your heart without even trying,” he added, rolling his eyes theatrically. “And those eyes… damn. How could someone like that not be famous?”

Something twisted inside me. Like they had loosened a rope around my chest only to yank it back violently. I didn’t know if it was the exact words that bothered me or the tone they used. Or worse: that everything they said felt so true. I knew Ray had that glow, that natural charm that made him stand out. But hearing it like this, from someone else… as if they desired him, as if they were talking about something that belonged to them—something that belonged to me…

I had to hold back from cursing out loud.

“I don’t care about that,” I replied coldly, gritting my teeth. “Just tell me where his classroom is.”

The guy with the drink looked at me for a second with a kind of mocking pity, like he felt sorry for my ignorance.

“Ohhh, Ray’s been pretty in demand lately,” he said, with a sly little smile. “It’s getting tiring to repeat his classroom every day. But hey, if you insist… he’s in 202.”

“Pretty in demand.” What the hell did that mean? That people had been coming to find him? To flirt with him? To ask him out? I felt my brow furrow involuntarily.

“But why are you looking for him?” the other guy asked, with an annoyingly nosy curiosity. “Ray doesn’t pay attention to just anyone, you know? I tried for months. That guy needs someone who can give him a good—”

I didn’t let him finish.

“I’m his boyfriend,” I said, just like that.

The words shot out like a bullet. Cold, fast, final. Both of them went quiet instantly and stared at me, wide-eyed, like I’d just dropped a bomb in the middle of their stupid conversation. They scanned me from head to toe, like they were trying to figure out if I was telling the truth, if I was worthy , if there was any sign that Ray really belonged to me.

And without thinking too much, I snatched the drink out of the guy’s hand and took a sip. I regretted it immediately.

“What the hell is this?” I asked, caught between disgust and surprise, scrunching my face in revulsion.

“Pumpkin drink,” the other one answered, shrugging like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“That’s a thing? This is awful,” I growled, handing it back carelessly. Well—more like tossing it at him. Some of the liquid splashed onto his shirt, and the other guy got sprayed too.

They both yelled indignantly, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I looked at them with a quiet, boiling rage—the kind of stare you throw when you can’t say what you’re really dying to scream.

“Stop looking for my boyfriend,” I said, my voice low and steady, dripping with all the venom I’d held back until now.

And without waiting for a response, I turned and walked off with purpose, heading straight for classroom 202. My heart pounded in my chest, not just from the jealousy—which was real and sharp, like a splinter under my skin—but from the mix of fear, pride, and anxiety that had been building in me for days. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Ray when I saw him.

But what I did know… was that I wasn’t going to let him slip through my fingers so easily.

✦𓂃 ⋅⋆｡˚ ☽˚｡⋆ 12 o’clock ⋆｡˚☀˚｡⋆𓂃✦  

✦˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ 🥃

The classroom started to empty out little by little, like the whole university had decided to keep me in suspense a little longer. I stood in the hallway, feeling anxiety tighten around my chest like a vice. I watched several students walk out one by one, like loose pieces of a routine I had no interest in. Some glanced at me sideways, as if they could tell I didn’t quite belong there, but I stood my ground. Even Cheum passed by, with a look of genuine surprise, like he hadn’t expected to see me there.

And then, as if the universe had no shame in pushing my emotions to the edge, a group of girls from the class came out laughing, their voices too loud, their glances too obvious. One of them made a bold comment—something about me having shot her through the heart just by standing there. The laughter that followed was too intentional, too strategic, like they knew I was there for someone else.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. I didn’t care about them.

Among the group, I saw Boston rush out, but he didn’t see me. Didn’t even stop. He didn’t matter now. Because then I saw him .

Ray came out among the last, walking slowly, like he wasn’t in any hurry to leave the classroom. But there was something in his steps, in his expression, that made my heart stop for a second—he didn’t look okay. He had that way of staring at the ground he used when he didn’t want anyone to know he was feeling something. A kind of silence in motion. A gesture I knew too well.

And in that moment, the world seemed to fall silent.

The hallway, once filled with echoes, turned into absolute quiet. Just him and me. Nothing else. And I felt everything I’d been trying to tell myself these past few days crumble like sand through my fingers.

Walking toward him wasn’t a thought. It wasn’t a plan. It was my body responding to something stronger than reason. I grabbed him firmly and pinned him softly against the wall, like I needed to anchor him—like I was afraid he might vanish right in front of me. I lifted his hands gently, holding them above his head. Not with force, but with the trembling yearning that comes after too much time spent aching to touch someone you love again. He tried to pull away at first—his instinct was defense—but I shook my head, just barely, and he understood.

“Ray,” I said, my voice barely controlled, my breath brushing against his cheek, “we need to talk.”

I looked into his eyes. Those same eyes that had once taught me what it meant to desire someone tenderly, to look with hunger and devotion all at once. There was something in his gaze that shattered me and rebuilt me at the same time. A soft sadness. A held-back fear. A love that had never really left. Sometimes I thought that if he looked at me like that for just a few more seconds, my body would no longer be able to hold itself together—that I would dissolve in his hands completely.

He said nothing. Just nodded. And that gesture felt like a door opening—a door that had been locked too long. It was his way of saying, “talk, I’m here.”

And so, I did.

“How am I supposed to talk when you’re looking at me like that?” I said, feeling my voice tremble—not from insecurity, but from all the emotion I was holding back. “You’re begging me to kiss you, to want you, to worship you. And I do, Ray. God, I do. I lose myself in every part of you like you’re stripping me bare without even touching me. Like just looking at you teaches my skin how to feel again, like everything in me surrenders to your presence. You’re the only place where my soul feels safe, even when everything’s burning.”

He still didn’t move. He just stared at me. With that mix of calm, sorrow, and love that left me at the edge of the abyss. Like his silence said more than any words ever could.

And then, he smiled. Not with mockery, not with flirtation. He smiled like he had just realized how much it hurt me to love him this way.

“Kant… I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you,” he said at last, in a whisper that cut through me like fine glass.

I nodded, swallowing the knot in my throat, and leaned in with trembling tenderness. I kissed his cheek slowly, then his neck. He let out a small sound, low and private, intimate. I was grateful the hallway was empty.

I wouldn’t have been able to bear sharing that moment with anyone else.

"I'm not good at loving, Ray," I confessed, my forehead resting against his. "It's hard for me. I'm clumsy, impatient, proud. But with you... fuck, with you everything falls apart. You make me feel things that scare me. You make me want to stay."

I leaned in closer, as if my words needed to anchor themselves in his skin. My body surrendered to his, like he was the only truth I had left. And still, he remained still, his arms pinned above his head, like time itself had stopped just to watch us.

Ray was breathing slowly, lips slightly parted, not running, not resisting, not making excuses. It was just him and me. And then, without games or masks, he said:

"You're insane..."

And I smiled, eyes closed, like it was the greatest compliment he could ever give me.

Because yes. For him, I was.

I looked at him for a moment that felt endless. The way his eyes held mine, like nothing else existed, made me feel like the whole universe had collapsed into that narrow hallway. I smiled gently, the kind of smile that comes when you already know the answer to what hasn't been asked yet, and leaned in, closing the space between us with a kind of elegant, honest provocation—like our bodies had known each other long before they ever touched.

The distance between our mouths was just a held breath, a sweet tension that ached from too much waiting.

"Probably because of you," I murmured, letting my breath brush against his, with that perfect blend of irony and truth he loved so much. "And you? Still in denial or have you finally admitted you’re dying to kiss me again?"

I let go of one of his hands gently, like I was offering him the chance to run—even though I knew he wouldn't. And then, like someone unafraid to play with fire, I made a small pout with my lips and touched it with the tip of my index finger, inviting him without words to lean in. It was a small gesture, but intimate—full of history and desire.

Ray looked at me. But he didn’t move. Didn’t untie himself. His arms remained raised, still free, as if he had chosen of his own will to stay a prisoner in that moment. And in that voluntary stillness, in that silent surrender, I understood something deeper: he wasn’t waiting for me to free him… he already had.

His attention was total, almost devout. Like everything in him was screaming that he only saw me.

"Let me be your complete submission, Kant…" he said, with a voice so soft and deep it cut straight through my chest.

And then, without another word, he kissed me.

It was a kiss without control, without rules, without borders. Our lips crashed with the urgency of everything we’d repressed, of everything that had waited too long and was finally brave enough. I placed one hand on his waist, pulling him closer, while my other hand slid beneath his shirt, searching for the warmth of his skin. When my fingers brushed over his nipples, a brief, almost shy moan escaped his lips. It was a small sound, but so deliciously vulnerable that I wanted to hear it again. And again. Like a song just for me.

Our bodies began to move in a clumsy, trembling, but intense dance, as if our hips, too, had been waiting for this moment. The world blurred—everything disappeared except for him and me—lost in ragged breaths and the overwhelming feeling that we were finally becoming what we had kept silent for so long.

"Ray…" I whispered between gasps, barely able to breathe.

"Kant…" he answered, eyes shut, lost in the pleasure, as if time no longer mattered. "I don’t want to… I don’t want to lose you. I want to be emotionally mature enough to love you."

His words hit me with the weight of a promise—broken, then rebuilt. I never imagined that he—of all people, the one made of chaos and dark nights—would look at me with so much fear of losing what we were only just beginning to become. There was a truth in his voice as fragile as it was beautiful.

"I want to be your will, Ray. Let me love you," I told him, leaning in for his lips again, while my hands played gently across his body—as if love could also be spoken through touch.

And right then, in the exact moment the world seemed to hold its breath for us, a voice brought us crashing back to reality with the subtlety of a slammed door.

“Gentlemen! This is a university, not a nightclub!”

We jumped apart. Ray reacted faster, stepping in front of me as if he could shield me from judgment. I looked up and saw a man in his fifties, stern-faced, with the tone of someone who had interrupted too many teenage scenes. Oh no... That had to be Ray’s professor. Shit.

"Sorry, Professor. It was a… nonverbal communication exercise," I said with a cheeky grin, just bold enough to sound charming.

Ray looked at me then, and in his eyes was that spark I loved so much. He smiled too, and without another word, I took his hand and we ran down the hallway like kids escaping detention. We raced down the stairs, laughing nervously, our fingers laced together, hearts pounding.

"Run, before they make us do group work with the dean," Ray laughed, his voice ringing with a joy I hadn’t heard in weeks.

And I laughed with him. Laughed like I hadn’t since I realized I loved him. We ran together until we found the men’s restroom. It was empty. We closed the door. We looked at each other.

And we breathed again—as if, for once, the world had given us permission to love without interruption.

I pulled him into my arms without thinking, like my body couldn’t help but reach for his warmth. Ray clung to my neck with that blend of urgency and tenderness only he could summon, and as I lifted him up and gently set him on the sink, he wrapped his legs around my waist with a natural ease—as if destiny had rehearsed the motion for us. His kisses fell like soft rain across my face: small, sweet, playful... as if he wanted to paint every part of me with his mouth. I laughed through his touches, but I couldn’t help pulling back—just a little.

“We haven’t really talked yet, love,” I whispered with a softness that surprised even me. I kissed him again—not once or twice, but many times. The kind of kisses that don’t ignite lust, but hold on to the soul. Intimate, delicate kisses that spoke of everything we still didn’t know how to say.

Ray looked at me with those eyes that could dismantle me with a single glance. “Love… not now, just kiss me,” he said, his voice low, almost a sweet plea, his mouth brushing against mine—persistent, playful. I couldn’t help it. I smiled like a fool in love, helpless to his voice, his skin, his way of looking at me. Saying no to Ray was like trying to stop the ocean with bare hands. So I gave in—for a few seconds… or maybe it was longer. My hands roamed his slim waist, pulling him closer, like holding him tighter could somehow fuse us together.

But love isn’t built on kisses alone, and something in me pushed to confront the conversation I knew we had to have.

“But we need to talk about it, you know we do, love,” I said quietly, brushing his messy hair away from his eyes so I could really see him. See him completely.

Ray sighed, and with a smile filled with the quiet wisdom of someone who already knew, he nodded and leaned into me—as if he couldn’t stand for any space to exist between us longer than a blink.

“Mmm… I know, love,” he murmured. And then, as if desire were his language when words ran dry, he began to move slowly. His knee, teasing and deliberate, pressed softly against my groin.

I got lost quickly in that feeling—a subtle, almost innocent touch, yet intimate enough to leave me breathless.

I closed my eyes, letting myself be carried away by that restrained current of pleasure, while my moans grew clearer, more honest—rising not just from my body, but from my soul. And when I opened them, Ray was looking at me with an intensity that pierced right through me. He was smiling, that kind of smile that wasn’t just desire, but longing too. I kissed him with urgency, as if his mouth were my peace, and kept moaning against his lips.

But suddenly, something sparked in the back of my mind—a tiny flicker of reality that made me pull back just a few inches, just enough to see his face clearly.

“Ray…” I said, my voice unexpectedly serious.

“Kant…?” he asked, still smiling, but now with a hint of confusion.

I looked at him, locking my eyes on his like I was searching for something deeper than skin. “Now explain to me what this ‘you’re very popular around campus’ thing is,” I said, half-teasing, half-jealous. It wasn’t just a question—it was a need to understand what those words I'd heard earlier actually meant.

Ray stared at me, confused at first, then amused, as if he were enjoying my jealousy. “Babe? Where did you get that idea?”

“They told me when I came looking for you. ‘Ray’s been pretty popular lately’—those were the exact words,” I repeated in the same tone, recalling the guy who had said it just minutes before.

Ray was quiet for a second, then, with a disarming smile, cupped my face in his hands and began kissing me tenderly.

I tried to pull away—more out of pride than actual resistance—but he held me firmly. There was a surprising strength in his arms, not just physical, but emotional too. I gave in. I couldn’t keep fighting when his love surrounded me like that, so full of intent, so full of him .

“You're not getting off the hook with kisses…” I whispered against his lips, trying to recover some authority, even though my voice already sounded more surrendered than stern. “I forbid you from receiving visits from anyone who’s not me. Especially not from those two ugly guys…”

But I didn’t finish the sentence. Ray kissed me again, this time with a mix of challenge and tenderness that shattered any defense I had left. His lips found mine with precision, then moved to my neck, tracing paths that made me forget why I was even upset.

I gave in—without conditions—to those kisses. I closed my eyes and stopped arguing with an invisible enemy. I surrendered to him, to us , to that way we loved each other that, though imperfect, already felt like home.

Chapter Text

｡･ﾟﾟ･ Point of View: Kant ･ﾟﾟ･｡  

╰┈➤ ❝ In quiet thoughts and silent storms, he watches... ❞  

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ ⊹  

The sound of the door echoed softly, almost ceremonially, as if even the threshold of that house understood that something significant had just happened. The heavy wooden door —dark, polished, carved with an ancient craft— closed slowly behind me, sealing my entrance with a deep, heavy sigh. And then I saw him.

Before my eyes unfolded an impossible scene, a vision torn straight from a dream. A house too vast to be real, as if its architects had challenged the very notion of what a home should be, turning it into a palace. A jewel. A monument to what one can possess when armed with power, time, and silence.

Ray had brought me to his father’s house. Well... his father’s, technically. Ever since his mother left and his father drowned himself in corporate affairs, it was Ray who remained in charge during his absences. He had told me about it casually, as if it were nothing. “We could stay a few days at my old house,” he said. “It’s small, but it’s got a nice view.” I had smiled then, unaware that his “small house” was, in fact, a mansion suspended in some kind of architectural delirium.

He had returned here many times alone, when his father was away. As if the house called to him. Or maybe he needed to prove he still belonged in those silent hallways. The house of his childhood —a place that had watched him laugh, grow, and break. And now I understand: this place had witnessed far more than one could ever say out loud. Here rested his memories, both the kind and the brutal.

My steps barely echoed on the marble, polished with such devotion it resembled solid water. Everything in that house reflected: the floors, the glass, even the shadows. Overhead, a chandelier hung like a frozen deity, a constellation of crystals cascading from the towering ceiling like rainfall caught midair. Light danced through the strands, breaking into warm hues that gilded the space with a sacred glow.

And there it was, impossible to ignore —a curved staircase, all glass and metal. It looked weightless, as if it defied structure, floating of its own will. A silent invitation to ascend. To surrender to beauty so surreal it bordered on the divine.

The walls were dressed in tall panels of wood and black marble streaked with white veins, with vertical lines that tricked the eye into believing the ceilings were even higher. Hidden lights, built with cunning precision into the ceilings and walls, bathed the house in a warmth that gently contradicted the cold elegance of its design. Not a single element was out of place. Every dried flower in its vase, every minimalist piece of furniture, every shadow, every gleam —all orchestrated with almost cruel precision.

And still, despite the perfection, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong. As if the space itself was reminding me of my place —an intruder in a setting too flawless for someone who wasn’t born among marble and silence.

At the far end of the room, almost camouflaged by the decor, he sat. Ray. Reclined on a sleek, dark sofa, his clothes blending into its curves like shadow into dusk. A glass rested in his fingers, unhurried. He looked at me with a faint, unreadable smile —tilted, suggestive. The kind of smile that invites you closer… and warns you to tread carefully.

There was no one else.

And that, precisely, changed everything.

“Nice house,” I murmured, unsure of what else to say. It was a dumb line, reduced, embarrassingly insufficient to describe the world surrounding me.

Ray didn’t answer right away. He just held my gaze —with that calm of his that sometimes felt more dangerous than any storm.

I stepped forward, cautiously, as if the floor might give way beneath my feet. I sat on the edge of the opposite sofa, facing him. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.

And then I felt it —like an underground current. That house wasn’t empty.

“There’s a pool,” Ray said, voice low, velvet-laced, as if he were wrapping a promise in silk. “I always wanted to have sex in it. Want to?”

I stared at him for a few seconds, stunned, though by now I should have been used to his disarming boldness. Just yesterday, we had finally spoken again. After days weighed down by silence, pride, and wounds that never fully closed, we’d reconciled —clumsily, yes, but genuinely. But that never slowed Ray down. Never softened him. He burned with life and desire, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never resist his fire.

Of course I’d say yes. I couldn’t go without touching that body I knew by memory, yet that always felt new. He was addiction in its purest form, and I was blissfully condemned to him.

“If I say yes… what do I get?” I asked, smirking, walking slowly toward him until there were only inches between our bodies. I knew what I was doing. I knew how to provoke him.

Ray raised an eyebrow, amused, and without a word, grabbed the front of my black shirt with one firm hand, pulling me in until all the air between us vanished. Our chests touched, and I felt his warm breath brush my lips.

“Fucking me isn’t enough, Kant?” he whispered, a wicked blend of teasing and intensity. But he didn’t let me respond —he knew how to play his game perfectly.

His fingers traced the line of my neck, his eyes dropping briefly to my mouth before meeting mine again.

“You can fuck me while staring at my pretty face, undone for you…” His words were honey laced with poison —sweet and obscene all at once. “You know you love that. You know I’m pretty. And you love what that does to you.”

He smiled. He pouted. He blinked like an innocent boy, and still managed to say the most devastatingly provocative thing anyone could say. That damned pout… He always knew how to shatter my defenses.

I didn’t need more. I bit my lower lip hard, suppressing a growl of desire, and shoved him against the marble wall with sudden force. The sound was sharp, solid —but he didn’t complain. Quite the opposite: he clung to me and kissed me.

Our mouths collided like they’d been searching for each other for centuries. There was no room for patience. It was raw. Hungry. He moaned between kisses, and I lost control with every second. My hands moved over his body like I needed to memorize every inch. He fit against me with a precision that almost hurt. His mouth tasted like dark wine —intoxicating and dangerous.

I bit his lip —just a second, pure instinct— and Ray moaned with such fragile sweetness that I had to stop and look at him.

“Kant…” he whispered, breathless, with a fractured smile, fingers touching his lips, still red.

I smiled back, brushed his hand away, placed my fingers over his mouth, forcing that damned pout again, and kissed him hard, like I could keep him between my teeth and tongue forever. Ray —as if air no longer mattered— melted into me, curled into my body, and didn’t lift a single finger to stop it. He didn’t want to.

I pulled back slightly, lips still slick with him, eyes locked with his —desire, mischief, devotion.

“Show me that pool,” I said.

Ray didn’t answer with words. He just took my hand, laced our fingers tightly, and led me through the mansion. His steps were sure but light, like he was floating. We passed through a long hallway with tall windows reflecting our figures like thirsty ghosts. Golden lights followed us like silent sentinels.

We exited through a tall door of tempered glass, and the night air wrapped around us, cool and thick. Behind the mansion, hidden like a luxurious secret, was the pool.

It was huge. Carved like a water gem between gardens trimmed with almost divine precision. The white marble edges gleamed under the amber lights. The surface reflected the sky, more liquid than water itself. Everything was obscenely beautiful —so much that for a moment, I forgot how badly I still wanted him.

Until Ray shouted:

“Lucian! Lucian!”

He called out several times.
His voice sliced through the silence like a decree.

Within seconds, a man appeared. Dressed in black. Back straight. Barely any expression. He looked like he belonged to another era—like Ray was some young prince, and he, his personal shadow.

“Bring us enough food for tonight,” Ray ordered, not even turning around. “And take the day off. I’ll be watching over the house.”

There was something in his voice that knocked the breath right out of me.

This wasn’t the Ray I knew. This was someone else—confident, commanding, with power dripping from his lips like it had always belonged there.
Lucian nodded with absolute respect, bowed ever so slightly, and left without a word.

And I… I felt a new heat rising low in my belly.

I never thought something as simple as an order could turn me on so much. But that version of Ray—the one who owned every inch of the room, who didn’t hesitate to take control, who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it—stirred something in me I didn’t even know was there.

Could he ever treat me like that in bed?
Tell me what to do… how to do it…?

Ray turned to face me, and I swear he could read every filthy thought running through my head. He smiled.

“What?” he asked, playing innocent, like he hadn’t just turned my body inside out.

I shook my head, laughing under my breath as I squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“Nothing… I just discovered a new kink. And it’s entirely your fault.”

Ray laughed—deep, low, and delicious. The kind of laugh that doesn’t fill a room but lingers between two people. Like a secret. Like a lover’s whisper.

“Oh, Kant…” Ray whispered, his voice low—the kind of low he used when desire pulsed through him stronger than words.

We walked barefoot across the marble floor, heading toward the softly lit pool, the garden lights casting a golden haze over everything. The silence between us was only broken by the murmur of the water and our increasingly ragged breathing. I felt his fingers trail down my abdomen, slow and deliberate, as he began to unbutton my shirt. He looked at me as if every piece of clothing was a gift to be unwrapped with care, and every kiss he left on my lips was a seal of quiet promises.

When the fabric slipped from my shoulders, Ray crouched down to unlace my shoes—provocative in his slowness, his hands grazing my calves with feather-light touches. Then came my pants. He slid them down without breaking eye contact, and that mischievous smile tugged at his lips when only my boxers remained. He scanned me from head to toe as if he wanted to memorize every line, every shadow of my body. He paused there, waiting. I gave him a subtle nod.

His fingers trembled—just a little—as he pulled down the final piece. The night air curled around me, cool and sharp, but his gaze was warmer than sunlight. He stared at me for a long moment, his expression mixing lust and something softer—adoration, almost—like wanting me was a form of worship.

“Well, now it’s my turn, love,” I said with a smirk, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Save that lovesick face for later.”

My hands began to undress him with equal parts hunger and reverence, like I was unveiling something sacred. I slid off his shirt and pressed a kiss to his neck, breathing him in. The shoes came off clumsily, making us laugh—a soft, shared laugh that felt secret and close. Then I knelt to lower his pants, my fingers grazing over his thighs, feeling the slight tremor beneath his skin. But when I noticed he wasn’t wearing his signature leopard-print thong, I couldn't help but tease.

“Oh? This is disappointing,” I said, raising a brow. “I thought you'd save that thong for when I fucked you.”

Ray let out a soft, amused laugh.
“Disappointed? I left it at home… Though I admit, I would’ve looked incredible in it right now,” he added, his voice drifting between sweet and sinful like only he could manage.

“Absolutely. I would’ve ripped it off with my teeth,” I murmured, tugging his boxers down with a swift, almost aggressive pull—leaving us finally, utterly bare. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.

Then I pulled him against me, grabbing his ass with both hands. I lifted him gently—just enough so our cocks brushed together—and used my free hand to pout my lips, teasing.

“I think you forgot something… My kiss,” I whispered, lifting my index finger like a spoiled request.

Ray grinned—that damn grin I both loved and cursed for the way it made me feel. Without hesitation, he kissed me. Not a peck, but a deep, hungry kiss. One that confessed how much he needed me. My tongue searched for his like it hadn’t tasted him in days. Like I needed him to breathe.

“We better get in,” I said between laughter and panting. “Unless you want your butler to witness something very… unethical.”

“Does that bother you?” he replied with a smirk, eyes gleaming.

I didn’t answer. I scooped him up like he weighed nothing and jumped with him into the water.

The splash drowned everything else, and his soaked body was somehow even more irresistible. His lips parted on a soft moan, his once-perfect hair now dripping, wild across his face. He looked beautiful. Untamed. Mine.

Lucian appeared briefly at the threshold, placed a tray of food on a nearby table, and silently disappeared, closing the doors behind him.

Finally, the house was only ours.

I swam toward Ray, cornered him gently against the side of the pool, and whispered into his ear, brushing kisses along his neck.

“Are you sure there are no cameras, Ray? Because I don’t want anyone seeing what I’m about to do to you… I want to leave you shaking, marked all over. I want to fuck you without thinking, without holding back… until you’re begging for me.”

My teeth latched onto the skin of his neck, sucking until a low, broken moan escaped his lips. His body arched into mine, craving more, needing more.

“I… I don’t know,” he breathed, voice cracking and trembling. “But does it really matter?”

"No, my love. It doesn't matter," I replied, my voice deeper than I'd imagined, laden with something dark, intimate, voracious. "It'll be much more fun."

I lifted him effortlessly, as if his body was already a part of mine, as if I had been carrying him my whole life without realizing it. I carried him to the corner of the pool, where the water embraced us warmly, and sat him on the edge, letting his legs tightly close around my waist. His skin, wet and glistening from the water, slipped under my fingers as if it were made of living silk. Ray clung to my shoulders with both hands, trembling, but not from cold, but from an anticipation that escaped him with every gasp.

I leaned in slowly, as if I had all the time in the world, and began to kiss his chest, first softly, then hungrily. I licked every drop that slid down his skin, every corner of his collarbone, every curve of his torso, and I did it with the devotion of someone praying. Tasting him was like tasting desire in its purest state. He threw his head back, letting out a hoarse sigh that made me smile against his skin.

"Look at me, Ray," I murmured in his ear, my breath ragged from the need that was already consuming me.

And when he lifted his face and our eyes met, something broke within me. It wasn't just lust I saw there. It was surrender. Total surrender. It was love, yes, but wrapped in flames. His dilated pupils seemed to swallow the night's light, and his lips, swollen from kisses, trembled as if he were on the verge of begging for something I already knew I would give him.

"I'm looking at you… Kant, I'm always looking at you… Only you," he whispered, barely, in a voice so low it was like a prayer.

I lifted him a little higher, my hands firm on his hips, and slowly slid my penis inside him, as if I were slipping into the heart of a fire. "Tonight, you are mine. Only mine."

Ray arched as if my voice were a whip of pleasure. A soft moan escaped his lips as his body clung to mine with an urgency that almost broke me. I felt him tremble in my arms, his nails digging into my back, his forehead pressed against mine, his lips seeking mine amidst desperate gasps. We kissed, not gently, but with hunger, as if we needed to devour each other to survive the intensity of that night.

His body, wet and trembling, molded to mine as if we were pieces of the same desire. Each movement was a sway of water and flesh, a moist whisper on the skin, a dance of moans barely contained by the night's echo. I gazed at him intently, holding him tightly, marking him with my hands, with my lips, with my breath. I kissed his neck as I penetrated him slowly but relentlessly, as if every inch were a pact sealed under the moon.

"Tell me you're mine," I demanded between gasps, my voice hoarse from so much contained need.

"I'm yours…" Ray responded with a sigh, and his body pressed tighter against mine, enveloping me in a warm, damp heat that made me lose my mind. "I've always been yours…"

And with those words, something wild was unleashed within me. I took him harder, my lips trailed down his neck as my hips thrust with a deep, precise rhythm that made his legs squeeze me even tighter. The pool became our altar, the water a witness to every dirty whisper, every moan that escaped his open mouth, the muffled sounds of the kisses we exchanged so as not to break the night.

I desired him as I had never desired anyone. And I loved him with the same intensity.

"I want to leave marks on every part of you," I whispered against his chest. "Let your skin remember me for days… let it ache not to have me inside you."

Ray couldn't respond with words. Only a louder, rawer moan that echoed between our wet bodies. His head rested on my shoulder as I continued to move inside him, as the water gently splashed around us, as his breath mingled with mine in a cloud of pleasure.

Without knowing exactly when it happened, Ray began to move with a certainty that stole my breath. At first, his movements were timid, almost playful, as if he were exploring the limits of his own body on mine, discovering himself in each clumsy impulse. But soon, like someone learning to dance for the first time, his movements became firmer, more fluid… more his own. He had completely mastered the rhythm of his body, as if he knew exactly how to merge with me without our bodies falling apart under the weight of so much desire. He held tightly to my waist, clinging as if he feared losing himself, as if I were the only anchor he had in the midst of that burning ocean we had both created.

I didn't hesitate. I sat up, giving him space, freedom… pleasure. I wanted him to move as he pleased, to dance on me as if his pleasure were the only language that mattered. And as the sway of our bodies accelerated, a tide of shared moans enveloped us. It was desire, but it was also surrender. It was passion, but it was also faith. Faith in him, in his way of taking me, of molding me.

It was then that Ray began to move with more force. His body vibrated over mine with a wild and trembling energy, and I, unable to stay still, held him with both hands. I helped him move, to fall and rise on me, in that ritual that had no name but had a destiny. And it wasn't just him who enjoyed it; I was also lost in that endless dance. My skin, bathed in sweat, burned under his touch. I leaned in, trembling, and began to kiss his chest, my lips seeking his nipples with a need that bordered on the devotional. Every caress was a prayer. Every kiss, an act of sacred hunger. It was as if his skin were the most exquisite fruit my lips had ever touched.

"Kant… harder… move harder… I'm not there yet…" he whispered, his voice broken, a shameless plea. He stared at me, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he knew I needed nothing more than that to lose myself. That gaze of his, deep, black, shining… so full of desire. My black moons. My perfect moons. His eyes were two wild celestial bodies that possessed me without touching me. He was a feline in full stalk, and I… I was his surrendered prey.

"Ray… tell me what to do. Teach me how. Guide me, but do it while you tell me you're only mine…" I whispered between gasps, my lips trembling, my eyes fixed on his. I felt so small in front of him, so absolutely his.

"Are you saying... that you want me to possess you and bend you however I please...?" he responded, barely catching his breath between his movements. I nodded. I didn't need words. I just wanted him to see it in my eyes, in my surrender, in my ragged breathing that was tearing itself apart for him.

Then, with a smile as dangerous as it was beautiful, Ray paused. He surprised me, froze me for an instant. He looked at me with that perfect control that disarmed me, with pure desire, without a drop of shame. He leaned into my neck and kissed it softly, as if marking his territory with his tongue and breath. "Then... you're going to do everything I say. From now on, you're mine. I will be your everything. You won't do... you will only feel. I will be your guide."

Every word was a soft chain, a golden bond that tied me to him, not with pain, but with adoration. I no longer thought clearly, only with desire.

"I want... I want to bend to you," I murmured, completely hypnotized by his gaze. I wanted to fall, sink, disappear into him. For nothing of me to remain that didn't belong to him.

Ray sat up with difficulty, as if it pained him to separate, and looked at me with a dangerous softness. "You won't touch me, unless I allow it. You won't speak unless I ask you to. You will only look at me... and obey. Can you do that for me, my love?"

"Yes... Ray, I'll do everything you ask."

He approached again, slowly, and his hand began to trace my body with the delicacy of a sharp blade, as if he could cut me with just a touch. He looked into my eyes and I... I couldn't even breathe.

"My good boy..." he murmured with a smile, giving me a fleeting kiss. "Tonight, I will decide for you. I will touch you. I will say when you bend, when you moan, when you beg. You... will only surrender."

Then, he took my jaw firmly, lifting it so I would look at him. There was nothing in the world, at that moment, more powerful than his eyes. He was a wild god who came down to the mud only to redeem me. And I... I was his.

I only whimpered, weakly, as if that sound were barely the reflection of an internal wave crashing against my chest. I closed my eyes, shamelessly surrendering to his touch, feeling vulnerable yet safe, as if my body had been made only to wait for him. Ray. My Ray. Everything in me sought him, like a river thirsty for the sea that calls to it without words. At that moment, it wasn't I who decided, it was desire that guided me to his dominion, and I belonged to him with every beat.

I nodded with my eyes closed, without thinking, letting myself be carried away by the warm sensation of his closeness. It was then that I felt the bite. A firm, controlled gesture, right where the neck becomes most sensitive. A small groan escaped me, but he quickly corrected me.

"Don't groan unless I ask you to, Kant," he said with a firm voice, almost disappointed. I opened my eyes, instinctively looking for him... but he was no longer in front of me.

It wasn't long before he returned. In his hands, he carried a piece of black cloth, which at first I thought he would use to blindfold me. But no. With cruel delicacy, he used it to cover my mouth, muffling my breath, silencing any moan that dared to escape. The control was his, every one of his gestures bound me a little more. Then his hands took hold of my neck, his mouth descended my bare back, kissing me with restrained hunger.

"Kant..." he murmured against my skin, "I need your permission to tie your hands."

His voice, deep and wet with desire, wasn't an order... it was a plea disguised as tenderness. I nodded without speaking, giving him everything that was mine. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and a daring, almost proud smile appeared on his lips.

"You're so goddamn beautiful when you surrender," he whispered, before kissing me again. "When you give yourself to me unconditionally... you are living art."

It wasn't long before I felt the pressure on my wrists. They were tied, squeezed, restricted. I let out a low gasp, a purely physical exhalation. Ray laughed softly, with a mixture of joy and triumph.

"Come to me, Kant."

I didn't hesitate. My body obeyed before my mind, moving with difficulty due to the bindings, clumsy but determined, until I was in front of him. He gazed at me with an adoration that disarmed any shame, as if in his gaze I wasn't a man reduced, but a sacred offering.

"Do you know how beautiful it is to see you like this?" he said, almost like a prayer. "Out there, so strong... but here, for me... on your knees. Docile."

His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling it with a threatening sweetness. He forced me to look up, his lips so close to mine that the air grew heavy. But he didn't kiss me. He just held me there, suspended in his power.

"Tonight, Kant, you are mine. My desire, my work, my voice. Only I decide when you'll groan, when I'll touch you, when you'll beg. And no, you won't come until I say so."

I looked at him, letting my answer travel through my submissive gaze, through the slow yet firm way I nodded. I didn’t need to say anything. My obedience spoke for me.

Ray smiled. He knew the game had only just begun.

I saw in his eyes a possessive love, burning but not violent—a desire that didn’t want to destroy me, but consume me with dark tenderness. In his gaze, there was the peace of someone who has everything… and that everything was me—disarmed, surrendered, his.

"Go to the pool," he ordered gently. "Can you get up?"

I nodded again. I stood with effort, my hands still bound. I walked obediently, guided by a force that needed no explanation. When the water touched my skin, the cold jolted me, making me gasp. I felt my body shiver, partly from the temperature, partly from anticipation.

Ray watched me from afar, as if admiring a masterpiece shaped by his own hands.

"You’re so… fucking delicious," he said, barely holding back the pleasure that surged through him. "Seeing you like this, unarmed… trembling, obeying, given over only to me… Kant, that’s perfection."

And I, submerged in the water, trembling inside and out, could only think one thing: there was no greater bliss than losing myself in his rules, no purer freedom than obeying him with love. Because there, in the night, in surrender, he didn’t break me. He molded me. He made me his. And I… I didn’t want to belong to anyone else.

His hand descended down my back with a slowness that bordered on reverence, as if every vertebra he touched was sacred, as if he were reading an ancient language etched on my skin with scars of desire. He traced the lines of my surrender with soft yet firm fingers, as if he didn’t need to ask whether I already belonged to him—because the answer already burned in my flesh.

He stopped at my hips, wrapping them with a pressure that stole my breath. He turned me slightly, just enough for me to look at him. And then I saw it. I truly saw it. That fire burning in his eyes, that insatiable hunger that didn’t seek to devour me, but to worship me. But what shook me the most—what made me feel both exposed and loved—was the tenderness hidden beneath all that power. Because Ray didn’t possess me through cruelty, but through a love that sought to dominate without destroying, that demanded surrender but returned protection.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and for a second, he wasn’t the master of my nights. He was my refuge. My Ray. The one who saved me from the void when I could no longer go on.

I nodded with my eyes closed, my lips still covered by the black cloth that silenced my moans, that kept my pleas contained. My hands remained bound, deprived of his touch, trembling for him. Ray smiled at my silent answer. A smile not of mockery, but of promise.

Then the game resumed. With calm determination, he pushed me to the edge of the pool—that limit between control and surrender. That’s where everything began again. He bit my neck, deep, marking his name into my skin without saying it. His hand slid down to my thighs, powerful and subtle, while I clung to the air. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t guide him, could do nothing but obey—be his.

His hand, which had only caressed until now, began to play. I felt it on my sex, in that center where my body begged for him, yet I stayed silent, staring at the sky as if the stars could understand what it meant to belong to him.

"You’re going to stay like this, love… like this, just for me," he whispered, with a devotion that made my whole body tremble.

And I closed my eyes. Not out of fear. Not out of shame. But out of surrender. Because in that chosen darkness, I trusted. Because I didn’t need to see to know I was his. Because my pleasure, my body, my soul—all of it bowed before him.

Ray descended—his mouth, his breath, his desire exploring my body as if it were a ruined temple only he could rebuild through pleasure. His hand returned to my sex, caressing me gently at first, then with increasing intensity. There was strength in his touch, a fury restrained by love. He turned me around abruptly, leaving me on my stomach, defenseless. One hand on my sex, the other at my entrance—exploring, demanding, worshiping.

He moved his fingers in and out with the rhythm of his own moans, thrusting them into me without mercy, while I struggled to hold back. I drowned in every thrust, my back arching, my lips trembling against the fabric.

"And every sound you want to make, every word you wish you could say… it won’t come from your mouth, but I’ll feel it," he whispered against my skin, and I felt his breath become one with my flesh.

Then, he said it.

"Moan, Kant. Moan for me."

And he freed me. He pulled the cloth back just enough. That was all I needed. A moan escaped me—not just one, but many. Choked cries that had been buried for too long. Ray quickened, more and more, until the world turned white, until my body gave in to a wave of pleasure that emptied me completely. My release came without shame, like an offering, like a promise that I no longer belonged to myself

“You look perfect like this…” Ray murmured, his voice silk over the bone of my sternum. “So… surrendered.”

The word hung in the air, as real as the restraints still binding my hands. I didn’t respond, but my fingers twitched—not from discomfort, but from longing. Because I wanted to touch him. Because I couldn’t. And because that chosen helplessness was exactly what made me burn.

Ray began to caress me as if sculpting something invisible. From my neck down to my hips, lingering over every curve, every shadow of my body. He paused in all the places he knew would make my skin respond—involuntary trembles, raw and honest, where I no longer existed except for his pleasure.

"Do you know why I love seeing you like this?” he whispered, his breath against my ear. “Because when you give yourself to me—like this… without sight, without touch, without movement… you’re telling me you trust me more than anyone. That your body and your pleasure are mine by choice. And that… that is unmatched.”

And he was right. Because in that moment, voiceless, handless, free of control… I felt more loved than ever. Because I had chosen him. And he… had chosen me. Not to own me with violence, but to worship me with power.

My hands, still tied behind my back, didn’t tremble from pain, but from desire. They longed to be freed not to escape, but to hold onto him—to Ray—like a devotee clings to the altar of their faith. This submission was new, yes, but it felt like a home that had always been waiting for me. It wasn’t weakness. It was worship. The secret hymn of someone who, on their knees, was learning to love from the abyss.

Ray turned me with a slowness that chilled the blood, until I was facing him. And I looked at him. I looked at him the way one looks at a god made flesh, eyes shining and lips parted from need. I wanted to kiss him. I leaned in with a trembling smile, a silent offering… but instead of lips, it was his teeth that met me. He bit my nipples with a sacred brutality. A moan tore from my throat—loud, wet, shameless.

He looked up at me from below, from that place of absolute power and unstoppable hunger that broke me down. “Moan, but don’t beg for mercy,” he whispered, voice barely held by breath. “You know only I can give you relief.”

In that moment, I knew there was no escape—and I didn’t want one. I kissed him with force, with the desperation of someone burning from the inside. He didn’t pull away. He received me with hunger. He yanked my hair so hard I arched back with a cry, but the pain mixed with something else… a twisted tenderness. A sense of belonging born deep in the soul.

“Ray…” I gasped against his mouth. “I am nothing but your desire. I’m made of flesh and sweat—I have no other purpose. Use me. Destroy what’s left of me. Remind me who I belong to. Who I offer this submission to… that’s no longer mine, but yours.”

Ray smiled. A cruel, perfect, satisfied smile.

“Scream my name, Kant… but only if I allow it. You are my masterpiece. My willing devotee. My temple of desire.”

I looked at him like I had never looked at anyone—full of reverence, blind devotion. And in that moment, he bit my nipples again, harder this time, claiming me with the edge of his teeth. The cry that escaped me wasn’t from pain—it was revelation. I understood. I was starting to understand what he wanted me to scream. And I liked it. I liked feeling like this—reduced and fulfilled all at once.

But then, everything changed. The intensity softened. Ray kissed down my torso, small kisses like he was honoring the wreckage of something he had broken and loved even more in ruins. His hand slid up my neck, holding me gently as I sat on the stone edge of the pool. I knelt before him, naked, surrendered, looking at him like one looks at fate.

Ray watched me silently for a few seconds. Water dripped down our bodies. The rough stone scraped my knees, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes. Lowered my head. Like a knight offering his sword. Like a lover begging for punishment. He stepped toward me with the calm of a god who knows his creation already belongs to him. He climbed onto the ledge with me, took my face in his hands, and lifted it with a tenderness that hurt. He kissed my forehead. A kiss… that wasn’t a caress. It was a mark. An altar.

“You don’t have to surrender like this, Kant… the game is over,” he said softly.

“I need it,” I whispered, trembling, my voice nearly breaking. “I need you to break me. To take me. To shape me with your hands as if I were your final creation.”

Ray didn’t reply with words. He simply smiled. He embraced me from behind, pressed his forehead to mine, and in a whisper that felt like a spell, he said:

“Then, my love… tonight, you’re no longer human. You are my worship. My submission made flesh. You are what I crave to control with hunger and mold with tenderness. Let yourself be. Let me love you until you come undone. Until I make you mine… in all the ways you don’t even know you can be.”

And that was my final surrender.

Chapter Text

🌸 ⋆｡˚ ❀༉‧₊˚⊹༺♡༻⊹˚₊‧༉❀ ˚｡⋆ 🌸  

        ❝ 𝓟𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓥𝓲𝓮𝔀: 𝓚𝓪𝓷𝓽 ❞  

🌙 ⋆｡˚✩₊‧ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒... 𓏸𓈒𓂃 ✩˚｡⋆ 🌙

After our night together, Ray and I decided to sleep in his old bed. It was huge—bigger than I remembered—and surprisingly comfortable. But that wasn’t what was keeping me awake, lying next to him while the silence hovered between us like a sleeping animal. What unsettled me was something else. Even though we had spoken with more honesty than ever before, I knew Ray’s emotions wouldn’t change overnight. I understood that love isn’t enough when wounds are still open, and that even if he wanted to change, even if he was visibly trying, real change would take time. It would be slow, imperfect.

Still, something in me—perhaps for the first time—was willing to be patient. I had noticed it the night before: after we made love, when I offered him a drink, he gently declined. It was small, almost insignificant, but it struck me as something deeply meaningful. A sign that something was beginning to grow between us—a shared desire to take things one step at a time.

We had decided to give ourselves time. To try and understand each other without rushing, without trampling over our fears. And although a part of me was still afraid that our past mistakes would repeat themselves, I wasn’t paralyzed by that fear anymore. On the contrary—I felt ready to face it. I remembered what I had told Babe: it wasn’t that I didn’t know what I felt for Ray. I knew with terrifying clarity. I loved him. What scared me was not knowing how to love him right , how to turn love into action without it feeling forced, clumsy, or not enough. I was afraid of loving the wrong way.

From the kitchen doorway, I watched him. Ray was standing barefoot, making coffee and a few slices of toast. He moved with that unconscious grace of his, that effortless sensuality he never seemed aware of. When he caught me watching, he smiled and walked over to press a soft kiss to my cheek. It was simple, but for some reason, it made me feel profoundly loved.

“I was going to come see you right after class,” he said casually, as if we were talking about the weather. “I talked to Mew. I’ve been thinking a lot about everything… I wasn’t going to leave you fighting alone. Not this time.”

I nodded in silence, feeling how his voice reached deeper than any touch. Without thinking, I got up and wrapped my arms around him from behind, resting my face against his back. I couldn’t see his smile, but I could feel its warmth.

“My love… a relationship needs more than just desire. It needs responsibility. Agreements. Commitments that don’t choke us, but that help us feel safe,” I whispered. “And I want to talk about that with you. I’ve been thinking about it for days now. I’d like you to consider going to therapy. Not as an obligation—but as a shared commitment.”

I gently turned him so I could look him in the eyes. Ray didn’t tense. He just looked at me with such softness, and instead of answering right away, he began to kiss my cheek again and again, like a child clinging to a promise he didn’t want to let go of.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he murmured. “Therapy. Really being with you. I think it’s time I take responsibility for my actions. I’m open to whatever agreements you want us to have.”

I cupped his face in my hands and nodded slowly, hearing the trembling honesty in his voice.

“I love being loved your way, Ray… but I also need to be loved my way. Just because I sometimes need space or spend time with others doesn’t mean I stop loving you. It only means I need air, solitude, moments that help me return to you without feeling drained. I don’t want that to scare you. I want you to understand.”

Ray swallowed hard and nodded, letting my words sink in. His gaze didn’t waver like it had in the past.

“I like the idea of going to therapy,” he said firmly. “Together. It’s the healthiest thing we could do. I want to talk about all the things that keep you up at night… and about my insecurities too. What are you afraid of, Ray?”

I asked softly, threading my fingers through his. Then, without warning, I lifted him with a gentle push and sat him on the counter. He wrapped his legs around my waist, and for a second, it felt like the whole world had stopped just to watch us.

“I’m afraid of hurting you again,” he whispered, his voice so fragile it almost hurt to hear it. “I’m afraid of not being enough, of you waking up one day and realizing I’m not someone you can love anymore.”

I didn’t answer right away. I ran my fingers through his hair, twirling a strand like someone clinging to a promise.

“I’m an older man, Ray…” I started.

“Yes, very old, probably ancient,” he interrupted with a teasing grin.

I gave him a playful tap on the thigh and then gently bit his arm, making him let out a short laugh.
“But that’s how you love me,” I said with a smile. “What I wanted to tell you is… if I ever feel like we can’t keep going, I’ll be the first to walk away. I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t see you fighting for this too. But you are trying. I see it. And that’s why I’m still here. You have every right to feel the way you do. I’m not going to scold you for being afraid. I won’t ask you to be strong when what you really need is tenderness.”

I leaned closer until our foreheads touched.
“I want to give you the love you deserve, Ray. And if you let me, I’ll learn to do it better. Not from fear, but from the certainty that we can build something new—something different.”

Ray didn’t answer right away. He just closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if—for the first time in a long while—he could actually believe that was possible.

“I know you said you sometimes need space…” Ray whispered, his voice trembling, as though afraid his words might shatter the fragile peace we’d built. “But I can’t help thinking you’ll leave. What happened with James… those little stunts I pulled to make you jealous… it was all fear. Fear that you’d go.”

I nodded, with a soft, almost sad smile. Not because his confession amused me, but because in that moment I understood the depth of his wounds. That fear of abandonment wasn’t just a passing thought—it was a constant shadow, clinging to every glance, every silence, every omission. Ray wasn’t just emotionally dependent—he was someone who had learned to love with the urgency of someone afraid to lose everything at any second.

“I know,” I replied gently. “And I get it, even if it hurts. But I need to ask you something, Ray. I want you to promise not to do that again. I don’t want you to hurt me just to get a reaction. Let that be our first agreement. You don’t need to test my love by provoking me. Love isn’t a game of jealousy. It’s not a contest. We can be distant and still love each other. We can breathe apart and still be us .”

Ray nodded quickly, his eyes full of bottled-up emotion. I looked at him for a moment longer before continuing, knowing there was still more I needed to say.

“Ray… don’t ever doubt that I love you. But I need you to love me with responsibility, with boundaries. This relationship can’t survive on feelings alone—it needs a solid foundation. I had no idea that what happened with James had affected you so deeply. To me, he was just a guy I shared a hobby with, nothing more. I didn’t mention him because I was hiding something, but because I thought it was just my own private thing. But now I understand—if I’m going to be your partner, I have to share those small things too. Nothing happened between us, but I was wrong to distance myself without explaining.”

Ray listened quietly, and I saw both relief and guilt in his expression. It wasn’t easy for him either—I knew that.

“I didn’t do it with bad intentions,” I continued. “But I know now that it was a mistake. I regret not thinking about how it would make you feel. I’m human, Ray. And if I want to understand you, I need you to tell me how you feel. Don’t keep it in—because what’s left unsaid rots in silence.”

I brushed my fingers gently against his cheek, and he gave me a shy half-smile. Then he took my hand and spoke softly.

“I get it. I failed at communicating too. It’s hard when your emotions are so intense they feel like they’re drowning you. Sometimes I don’t know how to manage them, so I shut down instead of talking. But you’re right—we should’ve talked about all of this sooner. It’s not just your fault, it’s a breakdown in both of us.”

I leaned in and gave him a soft, quick kiss on the lips. Then we fell into a quiet stillness, the kind that only comes when two people stop fighting each other and start fighting for what keeps them together.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” I finally said, voice steady. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix this relationship on your own. This belongs to both of us. What we need is real communication… and emotional courage.”

Ray nodded. His eyes were shining—not with sadness this time, but with something else. A new understanding.

"Emotional courage… that’s exactly it," he repeated with a sigh. "I need it. Because I’m afraid I won’t be loved. I’m afraid that one day you’ll get tired of my breakdowns, of my fears… and that you’ll leave me."

"And I’m afraid I won’t know how to love you," I admitted, looking into his eyes. "Sometimes your intensity scares me. The way you love is like a fire—it burns, it lights up, it transforms. And mine… mine is more rational, more restrained. I have a hard time letting go, expressing myself the way you expect. And I’m afraid that won’t be enough for you."

He lowered his gaze and nodded slowly.

"And I love so much, so intensely… because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll be left behind."

That was the moment everything made sense to me: we weren’t broken. We were just opposites who hadn’t yet learned how to translate each other. I was the edge, and he was the center. He was the flame, and I was the containment. And that didn’t make us incompatible—it meant we needed to learn how to love each other through our differences. We needed to talk, make agreements, walk together. Not from perfection, but from willingness.

"Ray… what does love mean to you?" I asked in a low voice, not hiding the uncertainty in my chest. "Because for me… it’s not easy. I don’t know how to love the way you do. I’m not about eternal promises or comforting touch. But when I stay… when I come back to you, despite everything… that’s love too. It’s love in my way."

I didn’t say it to excuse myself or to cover up my flaws—I said it because I needed to know if there was a meeting point between his way of feeling and mine. Maybe, if we dared to name everything honestly, we could learn to love each other better. To love each other healthily . Vulnerable, yes… but with the intention to heal and grow, together.

Ray didn’t answer right away. He looked at me as if unsure whether to open up or protect himself again. Eventually, his voice came, barely louder than a breath:

"My way of loving… it’s intense. And not because I choose it that way, but because I don’t know how to do it differently. I’m vulnerable—especially with you. There are broken parts in me I don’t know how to control. And sometimes I feel unstable. I wonder if someone like me… could even be loved."

I nodded softly, with a warm smile—not one of pity, but of recognition. I understood him. Because there were parts of me too that felt impossible to love.

"I’ll love you, Ray," I said with quiet certainty. "But like I told you, I need to understand your way of loving. What it means to you, how you experience it, what boundaries you need, what agreements we can build. I want us to create something that doesn’t rely on impulse, but on emotional courage. On responsibility. Not just saying we love each other… but sustaining it, even when it hurts."

I was about to say something else—probably one of those awkward phrases that sounds better in your head than out loud—when a sharp smell hit me. Acrid. Smoke. Something was burning.

I turned around abruptly and rushed to the kitchen: the oil in the still-hot pan had started to catch fire, with leftovers from what we’d fried earlier. I cursed under my breath and turned off the stove immediately. I heard Ray’s footsteps behind me—both of us still naked, our bodies unaware that intimacy had been interrupted. Just as I turned back, a splash of hot oil hit him.

Ray let out a short, muffled gasp, and I saw the shiny burn forming on his skin, red and angry along his side. My heart dropped.

"Love! Did it burn you? Stay here, please."

I ran to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit, bare feet hitting the cold floor. My mind was racing. It wasn’t just about the burn or the forgotten stove—it was the image of Ray in pain, so fragile and so real . On the way back, passing by the garden, I caught sight of a bush near the pool. It had small purple flowers. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled off a handful, as if that gesture could bring some comfort beyond the physical.

I came back running, the first aid kit in one hand and the flowers in the other.

There was something sacred in those small acts: to care, to listen, to hold, to share. Maybe that was love in its quietest form—the least poetic, and the most honest. Love wasn’t always about kissing in the rain or promising forever through tears. Sometimes it was turning off a forgotten burner, treating a burn gently, plucking a flower without thinking too much.

And it was from there —from that wound, between smoke, fear, and tenderness—that we understood, without grand declarations, that despite all our differences, we still kept choosing each other. Imperfect. Human. Present.

Ray looked up from the first aid kit I had just placed on the table and raised an eyebrow with feigned indignation when he saw the purple flower in my other hand.

"Stealing flowers from other people’s gardens now?" he asked in a teasing tone, but there was a soft light in his eyes, a kind of tenderness wrapped in playfulness.

"Oh, love! No, actually I stole it from your garden," I replied, laughing, as I proudly showed him the flower. "I just borrowed it to give it to a petal as lovely as you…"

Ray let out a low laugh, the kind that came from deep in his chest when something genuinely moved him. He shook his head as if trying to stay serious, though his lips had already betrayed him.

"The saying is 'a flower for another flower'," he corrected with a sideways smile. "But we’ll accept your version since it suits my sweetness."

"Well… then it’s perfect, because you and sweetness are synonyms," I said, stepping closer without remorse. "But if you keep teasing me, you don’t deserve this flower, you know?"

"And now you're stealing flowers from my own garden?" he repeated dramatically, as if starting a scene fit for the stage, though the gleam in his eyes was more laughter than complaint.

"Doesn’t matter, love," I said quickly as I tucked the flower behind his ear, adjusting it with care. "You look adorable… too adorable to argue about this."

And then, without warning, he kissed me. A soft, small kiss, full of complicity. As if he were saying "thank you" without needing words. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against mine and smiled like a boy caught mid-game.

"That pout of yours was too much," he confessed sweetly, as if he couldn’t stand seeing me pretend to be sad. "I had to kiss it… But now, love… I’m injured. I’m a wounded man."

His voice exaggerated the tragedy, as if his burn were a war wound, and yet something in me truly softened. I knelt down carefully in front of him, opened the kit, and began tending to the affected area with patience. It wasn’t serious, but that didn’t matter. In moments like these, gentleness was a sacred language.

While I treated him, I watched him from the corner of my eye. Ray had gone quiet, staring at the flower with such an absorbed expression it looked like he was holding something precious.

"It’s funny," he said suddenly, almost to himself. "When a man is truly in love… even a purple flower looks like gold. It’s amazing what you can see when you’re looking through love."

I smiled without saying anything at first. But then, with a playful glint in my eyes, I said,

"Well, if you don’t want it that badly… I’ll just keep it, no big deal," I teased, reaching toward my hair to take it out.

But Ray was quicker. He snatched it away before I could touch it and held it to his chest like a talisman.

"No. You’re a flower thief," he said with mock seriousness. "So now the flower is only mine. Fine, you win… I’m keeping it, but only because it’s mine and mine alone. You know why?"

I leaned in slightly, pretending I had no idea.

"No. Enlighten me, please…"

Ray looked at me with that expression only he could pull off—half tenderness, half mischief—and replied in a soft voice:

"Because this flower was given to me by the man I adore and love most in this world."

I stared at him, as if his words had cast a silent spell. And maybe they had. Because in that moment—surrounded by the fading smell of smoke, the bandages on his skin, and a stolen garden flower—I knew that despite all our mistakes, all the fears, and everything we still had to learn, something real was blooming between us. Something that, yes, could be called love.

"Oh? I didn’t know that… That man must love you like crazy," I murmured softly, laced with mock surprise, as I watched him play with the flower like it was a blessed charm. "But I’d be better, wouldn’t I?"

My smile was shameless, almost childlike in its irony, as if I truly believed I could compete with myself. I studied him, searching for any crack in his expression, any reaction—but Ray simply shook his head, biting his lips to keep from bursting into laughter.

"Nope, my eternal love is way better," he replied with a mischievous spark in his eyes. "Did you know his name is Kant? And his nickname is ‘the old man’?"

The teasing was precise—like one of those foam spears that don’t hurt but still hit their mark. His sarcastic tone caught me off guard for a second, and without thinking, more instinct than decision, I leaned in and bit his thigh gently—just enough to make him yelp and squirm, but without hurting him.

"That’s for calling me an old man," I snapped, pretending to be offended, though laughter was already escaping from the corners of my lips. "Old is your father… I’m a modern, cultured, stylish man, and I’m only twenty-nine. Want another bite?"

My tone was sweet, but within that sweetness floated the threat of more mischief. Ray instantly pretended to be scared, theatrical and exaggerated, as if performing for an imaginary audience that would cheer him on for his role as the charming victim. He approached me with that smile of his that always held a hint of challenge, and blinked several times with fake innocence, as if that could save him from the next bite.

"Next time… bite my nipple, maybe then I’ll actually get wet," he said without the slightest hint of shame, dropping the sentence with the casualness of someone commenting on the weather.

I stared at him, stunned for half a second, before laughing with a mix of resignation, desire, and fascination. There was something so shamelessly free about the way he spoke, that filterless confidence that didn’t aim to shock, only to share his desire. Ray was like that: an intense mix of tenderness and fire, of playfulness and surrender. He had that strange gift of turning the vulgar into something intimate, the provocative into something vulnerable.

"You’re impossible…" I whispered, shaking my head as I set the first aid kit aside and lay next to him, still naked, the night breeze drifting through the open window.

Ray turned onto his side and looked at me as if he could read something even I didn’t understand. His finger traced the line of my collarbone up to my neck, then down my chest with a reverent calm, as if touching me was his way of thinking out loud.

"You know what happens to me with you?" he said in a softer voice, as though we were now speaking from another place, deeper and without masks. "Sometimes you give me so much peace I feel like crying. And other times you awaken a desire so intense I’m afraid I won’t be able to contain it. But in both extremes… I still choose you."

His words hit me with a brutal tenderness. Because they were true. Because I, too, lived on that tightrope between comfort and wildfire. And because Ray, with all his teasing and provocation, also knew how to speak from the most honest part of his wounds. I looked at him in silence for a few seconds, then gently stroked his cheek with the back of my hand.

"Then let’s bite each other, kiss each other, say dirty and sweet things—but let’s not let go," I said. "Because I choose you too. Even when I don’t know how. Even when I don’t fully understand what it means to love."

Ray leaned even closer, as if our breaths wanted to merge into one. And before kissing me, he murmured:

"Then teach me… and I’ll teach you too. We’re not perfect, but we’re brave."

With patience and care, I finished treating the small burn, wrapping his skin in a light bandage as if, in that gesture, I could also seal the invisible cracks of our story. I smiled softly, seeing him at ease, and whispered that it was better now, that the wound would heal soon.

Then we kissed. Not with urgency or desperation, but with the stillness of those who have stopped running. It was a kiss full of pauses, of silences that spoke louder than words, as if in that moment we both understood that true love doesn’t always arrive with noise—sometimes, it simply stays.

—--

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 🍷 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝔁𝓽 𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓪𝓽 𝓨𝓸𝓵𝓸’𝓼 𝓫𝓪𝓻 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧  

╭───────༺❍༻───────╮  

│   𝓓𝓲𝓶 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼, 𝓬𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼…   │  

│   𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓶𝓸𝓴𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓯-𝓼𝓹𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓼.   │  

╰───────༺❍༻───────╯  

After spending the day at Ray’s father’s house—a peaceful day, almost suspended in a bubble far from the noise of the world—we decided to take a shower and simply talk. There was no need to say too much: we already knew each other well enough to sense one another, to read gestures, silences, and the tiny tremors in each other's voices. We shared a few words about our lives, but without the urgency to reveal secrets; more like someone gently caressing a story already written on the other's skin.
We ended up watching old movies, wrapped under the couch blanket, laughing effortlessly, feeling that kind of peace that only comes after walking through chaos.

It was in the midst of that calm when Ray, with a shyness I wasn’t used to seeing in him, confessed that he had made the decision to schedule a therapy appointment. For himself. Not for us. For him.

He said he was still afraid of moving too fast, and I understood. I didn’t push. His honesty moved me more than any promise ever could. The idea of couples therapy could wait. What mattered was that we both knew it was there, on the table. That part of growing up also meant learning to heal on our own, before trying to heal together. That day, I saw something in him that didn’t always show clearly: fear. A gentle, human fear. The fear of someone beginning to disarm himself.

Ray had changed, even if sometimes the change was hard to notice or was overshadowed by setbacks. He had stopped drinking like before: he no longer drank to drown everything, he no longer turned to alcohol as an automatic ritual. But there were still moments when his emotions crashed against reality like waves breaking on stone. And in those moments, in that overflow, drinking would reappear. I noticed it the night I picked him up from the bar, when his vulnerability exploded in jealousy, in insecurities about James, in old fears poorly buried. I wondered then if he had drunk.

He denied it, and I believed him. Not just because he said it, but because I saw in him a sober, conscious pain. That night, he spoke to me about Mew—how his presence had once been an anchor. And I understood.
Ray never needed isolation. He never did. What he always sought was company. Someone who would stay when everything else around him collapsed.

And yet, knowing that also brought me to a more complex truth: the kind of company that soothes can also become dependence. And Ray, no matter how much he loved me, no matter how much he desired me, was looking at me like his salvation. Like his lifeline, like that safe place to run to when everything else failed, We both knew it. We had talked about it. He saw me as the only rope keeping him from falling into the abyss. But I wasn’t that. I didn’t want to be. I couldn’t be. Because loving someone isn’t about rescuing them constantly—it’s about walking beside them and even so, seeing him fight, seeing him make decisions for himself, filled me with hope. I couldn’t, and shouldn’t, minimize his relapses.

I couldn’t look the other way when he started to stumble again. But I also couldn’t ignore the steps he had already taken. Because giving up drinking, rebuilding emotionally, starting over—it’s not a straight line.
It’s a long process, full of shadows. A process I committed to walking with him—as long as he kept walking too. Slowly. At his own pace. Without expectations disguised as love.

We talked about it that night. About change.
About how we often imagine healing is just a matter of willpower, when in reality, it’s also about guidance, about reflection, about outside help.
We talked about how we tend to build relationships on false ideas: the desire to be saved—or worse, the desire to save. But both are sides of the same trap. A relationship should not be a battlefield where one always carries the other. Sometimes we want to be important to someone because we don’t feel enough for ourselves. We want someone to need us, to look at us as essential, so we don’t have to face the question of whether we matter when we’re alone. The figure of the savior is addictive. Because that’s the nature of a savior—it makes you feel loved, vital, even powerful. But it also cages you. Because if the person you love no longer needs saving…
what’s left of you?

I had fallen into that place too. Even if my life now felt brighter, even if my relationship with Ray filled me with a fierce tenderness, there was still something inside me that craved being needed. Seeing him that night at the bar—sober, rational, facing his emotions without any numbing—moved me deeply. But also, in a quiet corner of my mind, it unsettled me. Because I had already taken on the role of his savior. And without that narrative, what was I to him? What was I to myself?

Recovery is slow. Love too. And both processes hurt because they force us to let go of fantasies. Fantasies of rescue, of dependence, of eternal sacrifice. But if I learned anything that night, it’s that loving also means making space for the other. To stop being the hero and start being the companion. Ray was no longer just someone who needed saving. And I no longer wanted to be the one to save him—I wanted to walk beside him, even if that meant not being indispensable.

Because sometimes, the truest love isn’t the one that saves... but the one that lets the other learn how to save himself.

Being needed by him had become a recurring thought, almost obsessive. Sometimes I caught myself imagining scenes where he would seek me out in the middle of chaos, where my name was the first thing he’d say when something inside him broke. But that night was different. I watched him from a distance, among the crowd, laughing with his friends. He was sober—not because someone told him to be, but because he had chosen it for himself. He held a glass of juice in his hand, and although the scene seemed simple, almost insignificant, to me it felt unreal. Not because it was fake, but because peace rarely feels possible when you’ve lived in the middle of the fire.

The night passed with a new kind of calm. One we weren’t used to. Not a forced calm, or one made of awkward silences—but one made of acceptance. Ray was changing. But not like someone changes masks or sheds skin—not as a gesture to please or adapt. This time the change felt deep, rooted. Something we never truly believed was possible. And yet, there it was. Happening. Holding.

I saw him walk toward me, holding that glass of juice like a silent declaration that yes, this time, he was choosing a different life. My chest filled with something close to relief and desire at once. I smiled, not just for him, but because that version of him—the one I had longed for—was there, approaching, and yet I still wanted him with the same irrational intensity as always. Being with him every day wasn’t enough. It never was when you love someone with that kind of adoration, with that absurd devotion that feels more like vertigo than peace.

“I should learn not to want you with me all the time,” I said, just as he reached me. “But I can’t… and I hate not being able to.”

I leaned into his ear and whispered with a tilted smile, almost guiltless, in that mix of tenderness and provocation that only he could draw out of me.

“I could fuck you right now if you’d let me.”

I pulled back just enough to watch his reaction. He smiled—in that way of his that slips under your skin and dismantles any attempt to keep your composure. I pouted at him like someone shamelessly demanding affection, and he didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and kissed me with that familiar urgency that never lost its fire.

I needed the world to know what we were. That Ray wasn’t just a roommate, a secret contained within our four walls. I needed it, yes. But I also loved him. And that difference, however small it seemed, changed everything.

“Then do it,” Ray said with that tilted smile I knew all too well. “Shamelessly. But… the hot bartender can’t just abandon his job for me, can he?”

His tone was light, but there was something else behind it—that challenge dressed up as innocence. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every word he spoke was laced with intention, as if the game between us never had an intermission. He was fully aware of the effect he had on me, and he used it like someone who knew he held the winning hand. And he did. Because if Ray wanted to, he could make me lose anything—my job, my composure, even control itself.

"Undoubtedly, your beautiful face is reason enough to get me fired," I replied, lowering my voice as I said it, as if that would somehow dissolve the tension between us.

I looked at him carefully. His lips, his jawline, the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his juice glass. Ray smiled like he could read every thought passing through my head.

"Then... put those hands to better use. Maybe taking off my clothes would be a good start," he murmured, glancing down at my tie. That hidden fetish he never admitted to, but always gave away whenever his fingers brushed against it.

I leaned in slightly—just enough to let my lips graze his.

"The best player always makes the first move," I whispered, my confidence barely concealing the anticipation. "Parking lot. Three minutes."

Ray raised an eyebrow, amused. He set his glass down on the bar with calculated slowness, like time itself belonged to him. Then, without a word, he loosened the knot of my tie and slid it smoothly from around my neck. He paused for a moment, his face so close his breath brushed my skin, and whispered:

"Then two minutes... if you want this back."

And without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked toward the exit. He carried my tie between his fingers like it was something deliciously perfect.

I just smiled, unable to contain the low laugh that bubbled up from my chest. I quickly straightened up the glasses, wiped down the bar like someone trying to pretend their heart wasn’t pounding in their throat.

"I guess there’s no stopping you when it comes to him," said my coworker from behind the bar. He shot me a resigned look, but there was a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Next time, though, I expect you to cover for me when a pretty girl comes looking."

I clapped him on the shoulder as I made my way toward the back door.

"If I survive this, you have my word."

And I stepped out to meet Ray, fully aware I wasn’t just going to get my tie back.