Matthew was standing by the window in Cassidy’s apartment, staring out at the city lights with a heavy heart, lost in thought. His fingers gripped the cold glass, the coolness matching the emptiness inside of him.
“Hey,” a voice broke through his reverie, cutting into the quiet. Cassidy. His steps were smooth and confident, the air around him buzzing with his presence. “You’ve been zoned out for ages, you know that?”
Matthew didn't turn to face him, his jaw tight. He forced a neutral expression onto his face, masking the turmoil that churned inside. "Just thinking," he muttered, his gaze fixed on the distant lights.
Cassidy’s tone shifted, becoming more pressing. "About what? It's been weeks. What's going on with you? You’ve been avoiding me."
Matthew didn’t respond. The truth was, he was avoiding everything… his emotions, his thoughts, his memories. Especially Cassidy.
Cassidy stepped cl
The pulsing bass of the nightclub reverberated through Masahiro’s chest as he pushed through the crowded entrance of El Paradiso. The lights flashed in chaotic bursts of color, illuminating faces twisted in joy and desperation. For a moment, the energy of the crowd enveloped him, but as he stepped further inside, it became clear that this was not where he belonged.He wasn’t here for the drinks or the music; he was here to escape. But escaping from what? The ache of Matthew’s absence? The unrelenting pursuit of justice that had consumed him? Or perhaps the shadows of betrayal that lingered in his mind like a haunting melody?Masahiro leaned against the bar, nursing a drink that had long since gone warm. He scanned the room, searching for something… or someone… to pull him from the depths of his thoughts. But as he watched people laugh and dance, he felt more alone than ever. Matthew was everywhere and nowhere… the memories wrapped
The warm spray of the shower cascaded over Matthew’s skin, the steady rhythm of the water offering a brief respite from the chaos in his mind. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, letting the stream wash away the grime of the day. Thoughts of Masahiro consumed him… their brief time together, the way Masahiro’s touch had felt like a lifeline, and how those days had been the closest thing to a dream he’d ever known.But dreams didn’t last, did they?The faint sound of footsteps reached his ears, and Matthew froze. His body tensed as his mind raced. Was it Cassidy? Had he followed him here? The thought sent a chill down his spine, but he shook it off, focusing on the present. Whatever. It was just Cassidy; he’d deal with it. He turned his attention back to the shower, keeping his ears tuned to the approaching presence.The footsteps stopped just outside the glass stall.Matthew’s instinct
Matthew's breath hitched as he watched Masahiro's eyes darken with desire. Masahiro leaned down, capturing Matthew's lips in a tender kiss, before trailing kisses down his neck, leaving a trail of wetness.With a slow, deliberate push, he entered Matthew again, eliciting a soft moan. He paused, giving Matthew a moment to adjust, before pulling out and thrusting back in, setting a slow, sensual rhythm.Matthew's hands roamed over Masahiro's back, tracing the contours of his muscles. He arched his back, pushing himself onto Masahiro's length, seeking more friction. "Yes, Masahiro… just like that," he whispered, his voice hoarse.Masahiro complied, his thrusts becoming more intense. He lifted Matthew's legs onto his shoulders, opening him up further, allowing for deeper penetration. Matthew's eyes fluttered shut as he surrendered to the pleasure, his body moving in sync with Masahiro's.Then, the piercing sound of a ringtone shattered the illusion.Ma
Arthur walked into El Paradiso, the lively hum of the nightclub filling his ears as he stepped through the door. The dim, neon-lit ambiance of the place instantly hit him, and he felt a wave of nostalgia rush over him. His attire for the night… a crisp blazer, a simple but stylish T-shirt beneath, and well-fitted trousers… was on point, just the right balance between casual and sharp. He scanned the crowded space, the vibrant beats of music reverberating around him.At one of the couches by the bar, he spotted Charles and Peter. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he noticed their affectionate position… Peter sitting comfortably on Charles’ lap, both engrossed in each other. It was a bit daring for a public spot, but that was just how they were… bold, carefree, and very much in love. Arthur made his way toward them, feeling a lightness he hadn’t experienced in a while.When he reached their table, he cleared his t
Cassidy leaned back in a plush booth of El Paradiso, the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses blending into a comforting background. But tonight, the sounds were distant… his mind was elsewhere. Frustration gnawed at him. He’d placed two calls to Matthew, but not once had the phone picked up. It was starting to eat at him.His fingers twitched as he reached for his glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid that burned down his throat. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He was supposed to be out here, in control, but tonight? Tonight, he was feeling like the man he'd tried so hard not to become… vulnerable.“Another one,” he muttered to the barman, his voice low, strained. The bartender didn’t ask questions, just nodded, sliding another glass across the polished wood.Cassidy pulled out his phone, his thumb flying over the screen as he typed a message to Matthew. `I wanna see you back until tomorrow morning, othe
Arthur took a moment to scan Cassidy up and down, the powerful presence of the man impossible to ignore. Cassidy’s demeanor was all control… his intense eyes, his smirk, the confidence in his movements. Arthur could feel the tension building between them, like an electric current in the air.“It’s your first time here?” Cassidy asked, his voice smooth, probing. “Never saw you here before.”Arthur chuckled, his gaze flicking over Cassidy before meeting his eyes. “What? You live here?”Cassidy leaned in slightly, a glimmer of amusement in his expression. “I’m in the management team.”Arthur raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Interesting. But answering your question... no, I don’t come often.”Cassidy tilted his head, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. “So, what made you come here today?” His hand reached out, gently grazing Arthur’s jaw. The
Arthur woke up slowly, the morning light seeping through the gaps in the blinds. His head felt heavy, and his body ached faintly from the night before. Blinking, he turned his head to the other side of the bed, expecting to see Cassidy still there. The space was empty. He frowned, propping himself up on an elbow.“Maybe he’s in the bathroom,” Arthur muttered, his voice rough with sleep.Pushing himself upright, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. The room was quiet, too quiet. Something felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He rubbed his face and got to his feet, his gaze landing on his trousers crumpled on the floor. His phone. He needed to check the time.Arthur crouched down, fishing through his trousers. His hand moved through the pockets, coming up empty.His brow furrowed. “Where the hell…”He stood up, scanning the floor around him. Maybe it had fallen out? He crouche
Matthew stirred, his face buried deep into the pillow, half-dreaming, half-drifting in that pleasant haze of sleep. Then came the incessant buzzing of a cellphone, shattering his peace. His eyelids twitched as he groaned softly, reluctant to wake. He opened one eye, squinting at the empty side of the bed. The faint sound of running water came from the bathroom. Of course, Cassidy was already up. His phone, however, was still ringing, loud and demanding attention. "Cassidy!” Matthew called out, his voice rough from sleep. The water stopped abruptly. A silence lingered before Cassidy’s deep, dangerous voice carried back. “Yeah?” “Your phone is ringing!” There was a pause, then the same commanding tone. “Pick it up!" Matthew frowned, stretching an arm toward the device. As he held it up, he muttered, “New phone,” before answering. “Yeah?” Nothing but silence on the other end. “Hello?”Again, there was nothin
The low hum of the television filled the living room. Adam sat sprawled on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, remote balanced loosely in his hand. Some news anchor droned on about the latest scandal, but Adam barely glanced at the screen. The sunlight filtering through the windows cast a warm glow over the space, though the tension clinging to the room remained as cold as ever.Clark stood near the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his fingers drumming impatiently against his elbow. He was still in yesterday’s clothes—the wrinkled shirt barely buttoned, the trousers creased from hours spent tangled in bed. He’d rolled up the sleeves at some point, exposing pale forearms that still bore faint impressions of Adam’s grip. Every mark, every ache, gnawed at him."I need to go home," Clark said flatly.Adam didn’t even flinch. His eyes remained on the screen, the glow of the TV reflecting faintly against his dark skin. "No."Clark's jaw clenched. "I wasn’t as
The clock crawled past noon.Clark slouched on the leather couch, whiskey in hand. The ice had melted. He didn’t care. His shirt stuck to his skin, wrinkled and loose from the night before. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t showered. The bruises on his neck were impossible to ignore. Dark splotches, some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. A goddamn masterpiece, signed in pain.Adam, though? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a cologne advertising.Shirtless. Loose sweatpants slung low. Muscles on full display, carved deep beneath dark skin. The light caught every scar, every ripple. And those hands — Clark’s gaze kept catching on them. Rough, wide-knuckled, capable of wrecking anything. He knew that better than anyone now.The worst part? Adam wasn’t even trying.He moved through the kitchen like he owned the air. Coffee in one hand, the other lazily resting on the counter. Like nothing happened. Like Clark’s body wasn’t still a battlefield."You act like n
The air between them was suffocating.Clark’s eyes flashed, his bare chest still heaving as he jerked the sheets higher, though there was little point. The bruises were already visible—dark purple splotches along his neck, across his chest, down his sides. Some shaped like teeth. Others like fingers. He felt every mark. Every ache. And the soreness that ran deeper than his skin."You—" Clark’s voice cracked, still rough from sleep, from the night before. He swallowed. "You took advantage of me."Adam stood at the edge of the bed, already tugging his sweatpants back on. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just pulled the waistband up with that same brute force that lingered in Clark’s bones."I'm just as horrified as you are," Adam muttered, his voice low, stripped of anything that resembled guilt. "I’m making breakfast.""Breakfast?" Clark's laugh was sharp. "You think I care about breakfast? You think eggs and coffee are going to make me forget that you—" His hand flew to the side of his
Adam woke to the sound of his phone vibrating.The dull hum buzzed somewhere on the nightstand, insistent and unforgiving. He ignored it at first, the weight of exhaustion still heavy. His body ached. Not the usual ache—not from fights or workouts or even a bad mattress. This was different. Deep. Lingering. And the sheets tangled around his legs, damp with sweat and something else —something worse. Then it hit him.Clark.Barely covered. Skin marred with darkened bruises and red marks that Adam’s hands—his hands—had left behind. The bite marks at the base of Clark’s neck. The faint outline of teeth against pale skin. The way his chest rose and fell, lips parted, a mess of tangled blond hair sprawled over the pillow. He looked ruined.Adam swallowed hard.`What the fuck did I do?’The memories clawed back like a slow burn. The rough kisses. The bruising grip. Clark’s gasping, stuttering pleas. The bed creaking beneath the relentle
The second bottle was already half empty.Clark’s glass dangled loosely between his fingers, half-forgotten. The amber burn had long since softened to something gentler. Warmer. It dulled the edges, smoothed out the cracks. But the fire inside him? That wasn’t from the scotch.It was from Adam.Barefoot, loose sweatpants slung low... he sprawled across the couch, the muscles in his chest and arms carved deep beneath dark skin. The light brown of his eyes gleamed under the dim lamplight, their sharpness dulled only slightly by the alcohol. Every now and then, Adam’s hand curled lazily around his glass, swirling the drink, his fingers broad and rough. Unbothered. Unapologetically masculine.And Clark? Clark was eating him alive.He wasn’t hiding it anymore.Why should he? The flush on his cheeks wasn’t just from the alcohol. The way his eyes lingered a second too long, traced the line of Adam’s collarbone, the slope of his shoulders—none of it was subtle. And A
Clark’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating against the glass. He glanced at the screen, Masahiro flashing in bold letters.He sighed, snatching it up. “Masahiro.”“Clark.” Masahiro’s voice was clipped, but not tense. “Good. You’re alive.”“Is that disappointment I hear?” Clark’s tone was effortlessly dry. “Or were you hoping I’d leave you with one less headache?”“We went to your place. It was empty.”“Yes, I’m aware. That’s generally the goal when one isn’t home.”“We heard about the gunfire.” Masahiro ignored the jab. “You alright?”Clark adjusted his glasses with precise, deliberate finesse. “Charmed, as always.”“And where are you?”Clark hesitated. He could practically hear the judgment loading.“Adam’s.”A pause. Just long enough to register the surprise without voicing it.“Of course you are.” Masahiro’s voice was too level. “And this decision was made with the full clarity of your legal genius?”“Obviously. Nothing
Smoke still clung to Clark’s jacket like a ghost he couldn’t shake. He’d barely had time to process the ambush—just flashes of gunfire, Adam shoving him down, the brutal jolt of the car door slamming shut. Now they were speeding down a back road, the city lights thinning behind them.Clark stared out the window, heart still jackhammering under his ribs. Asphalt blurred under the tires. The direction felt wrong.“This isn’t the hotel district,” he said, adjusting his glasses with clipped precision. “Where are we going?”Adam didn’t look at him. His grip on the wheel was tight, jaw clenched. “My place.”Clark blinked. “Your what?”“My place,” Adam repeated. “We’re layin’ low.”Clark snapped his head toward him. “Since when is your house suddenly the panic room? Take me to a hotel.”Adam exhaled, sharp and irritated. “A hotel ain’t safe.”“And your place is?”“Yeah.”Clark scoffed. “That a joke? What’s next, you gonna tuck me in with a loaded Glo
The door clicked shut behind them, soft but final.Clark was the first to move, striding across the room and dropping his file folder onto the table like it had offended him. He didn’t take off his coat. Didn’t loosen his tie. Just leaned forward, both palms on the table, head low.The air felt like it hadn’t been breathed in properly for hours.Masahiro stood near the wall, arms folded, expression unreadable as always. His coat was still buttoned, not a hair out of place, voice low and clipped.“You did well,” he said.Clark didn’t lift his head. “They were the ones who did well.”“Don’t be modest. You controlled the tempo from the moment you stood up,” Masahiro added, voice firm. “Even she couldn’t shake the narrative.”Clark finally straightened. Adjusted his glasses. “She’ll try harder on monday.”“And you’ll handle it,” Masahiro replied simply. “You’re still one of the best in Middlesbrough, whether you’re spiraling or not.”From the corner,
The courtroom resumed with the same weight it had carried before the recess—but now the air felt thicker. Tighter. Every word from the judge landed heavier than before.“All rise,” the bailiff intoned.Clark didn’t bother looking at the prosecutor. He didn’t need to.He had work to do.Witness One: ArthurArthur sat rigid in the stand, hands folded tightly iin his lap. He wore a pale blue shirt that made him look even younger than usual, and his eyes kept flicking toward Cassidy—never quite meeting his gaze.Clark approached slowly, with no notes in hand. He didn’t need them.“State your name for the record.”“Arthur Cooper.”“Arthur, can you tell the court how you came to know the defendant?”Arthur hesitated. “He… he saved me.”Soft murmurs rippled through the gallery.Clark’s tone didn’t change. “Saved you from what?”“I was taken,” Arthur said, voice cracking only once. “Held in a warehouse with other victims. I don’t know how long. We were moved often. Kept in darkness.”“Did Ca