The cab hummed steadily as it made its way through the bustling streets of Newcastle. Arthur sat in the backseat, trying to keep his composure. The city felt different from Middlesbrough… more alive, more vibrant, but also daunting in its own way. Beside him, Masahiro sat with his usual composed expression, his gaze directed out the window.
“First time in Newcastle?” Masahiro's voice broke the silence, the sound of it calm yet commanding.
Arthur nodded, his gaze a little distracted. “Yes, sir.”
Masahiro’s eyes flicked toward him, a faint curiosity in his expression. “In your CV, it said you studied abroad. Arts, if I’m not mistaken. But then you decided to become a law enforcement officer. You mentioned you joined because of a personal matter… What was that?”
Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Masahiro’s gaze. His hands fidgeted slightly, and he felt the weight of the ques
Masahiro’s footsteps slowed as he neared the balcony.Through the glass door, he spotted Matthew leaning against the railing, the city lights framing him like some ironic painting. A lit cigarette rested between his fingers, and smoke curled lazily into the cold Newcastle night air. His chest tightened, anger and longing warring within him. `Why do you always run? he thought bitterly. And why can’t I stop chasing you?´Masahiro stepped closer, his footsteps deliberately soft, his voice low and cutting through the air. “I didn’t know you frequented Newcastle.”Matthew’s cigarette paused mid-air as he froze, the corners of his lips twitching. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.“Well, well,” Matthew drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he turned to face Masahiro. “Besides being clingy, guess you’ve graduated to full-on stalking, Detective.” He exhaled smoke dr
Arthur adjusted the earpiece, scanning the VIP section with practiced focus. The dim lighting, soft hum of jazz, and clinking glasses provided the perfect cover for secrets exchanged in hushed tones. His eyes followed their primary target… a man suspected man of having connections to Ashford or being the Ashford himself, the one suspected of leading Newcastle drug trafficking ring.Then, from the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed someone descending the stairs. The figure wore a hat pulled low and a long coat that brushed against his legs as he moved. The man had his left hand to his ear, speaking on his phone. Something about his demeanor made Arthur pause.And then, he saw it.The rose tattoo.Arthur’s blood ran cold. His pulse quickened as memories flooded back… his sister Alexandra’s lifeless body, her blood staining the floor, and a hand with that same tattoo disappearing into the shadows.It wa
Arthur adjusted his jacket as he approached Masahiro, his steps a little too quick, betraying his nerves. He found the senior detective standing by the railing of the mezzanine level, a perfect vantage point to observe the VIP section below. Masahiro’s posture was as sharp as his tailored suit… confident, calculated, and completely in control.“Cooper! You took long,” Masahiro said, not even turning his head as Arthur approached. His voice was low but carried the weight of authority, cutting through the ambient hum of conversation and soft jazz.Arthur hesitated for the briefest of moments, then forced an easy smile. “Sorry, sir. The restroom line was longer than expected.”Masahiro turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to make Arthur’s chest tighten. His piercing gaze lingered for a moment too long, and Arthur felt a bead of sweat forming at the back of his neck.“Hmm,” Masahiro murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’d ju
The Velvet Crown Casino bustled with its usual energy, the sounds of slot machines blending with the murmurs of high-stakes gamblers. For Arthur, the glitz was starting to wear off, replaced by a growing sense of purpose. Day two was critical. They had a plan, and every step counted.Masahiro was already on edge, his sharp eyes scanning the floor as they stepped inside. “Stay focused, Cooper,” he said without looking at Arthur.Arthur nodded, adjusting his tie nervously. He wasn’t sure if he was more worried about blowing his cover or disappointing Masahiro.“Knight said that the bartender named Max knows the layout and the players,” Masahiro had explained during the briefing. “If anyone can give us actionable intel, it’s him.”Arthur and Masahiro approached the bar, blending into the crowd. Masahiro leaned casually against the counter, but his tone was firm when he addressed Max.“Max, we need
“Do you plan on leaving me outside all night?”Masahiro blinked, his shock giving way to something softer, warmer. He stepped aside, holding the door open wider.Matthew stepped inside, pulling off his cap and ruffling his hair. “Nice place,” he said casually, glancing around.The door clicked shut, and before Matthew could take another step, Masahiro was behind him, his arms wrapping tightly around his waist.Matthew froze, then tilted his head with mock annoyance. “Stop being clingy, Detective.”Masahiro didn’t respond. Instead, he turned Matthew around, pinning him gently against the door. His hands cupped Matthew’s face, holding him in place as he leaned in. The kiss was firm, desperate, full of everything Masahiro couldn’t put into words.At first, Matthew resisted, his hands pressing lightly against Masahiro’s chest. But then he relaxed, his
Masahiro’s gaze lingered on Matthew, his features soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Peaceful and vulnerable, Matthew looked utterly his. Masahiro allowed himself a rare moment of quiet happiness, savoring the thought that, for now, he had Matthew entirely. Then the shrill ring of Matthew’s phone shattered the calm. Masahiro’s jaw clenched as he glanced at the screen.Cassidy.He ignored it, turning his eyes back to Matthew, but the call persisted, growing more grating with each ring. Huffing out a frustrated breath, Masahiro snatched the phone and answered. “Matthew,” came a gruff, impatient voice on the other end. Masahiro’s tone was clipped, laced with mockery. “This isn’t Matthew.” There was a pause before Cassidy’s voice sharpened. “Who the hell are you? Tell Matthew his boyfriend is calling. Where is he?” Masahiro’s lips curved into a smirk. “I’m the guy who’s fucking your boyfriend. And right now, he’s sleeping soundly, thanks to me.” The silence on the other end w
Arthur knocked on the door to Masahiro’s room, shifting his weight as he waited. He glanced at his watch. `Maybe I should’ve waited till breakfast… But Masahiro didn’t seem like the type to oversleep. ´ Arthur figured he’d be up and ready to tackle the day, as always.Inside, Masahiro stirred awake, frowning at the sound of the knock. "Who is it at this hour?" he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Beside him, Matthew groaned softly, burying his face deeper into the pillow."Go back to sleep," Masahiro murmured to him. He slipped into his sleeping pants, running a hand through his messy hair as he walked to the door.When the door opened, Arthur greeted him with his usual boyish smile. "Morning, boss! I, uh, just wanted to let you know—might be late for checkout if we don’t get moving. Didn’t want you caught off guard."As he spoke, his gaze shifted to the floor, and his jaw nearly dropped. Clo
Matthew was lounging on the couch, his legs stretched out, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. The peaceful moment was interrupted by the familiar ring of his phone. Seeing Masahiro's name on the screen, Matthew smiled faintly and picked up."Hey," Masahiro’s voice came through the line, steady but warm."Hey, clingy detective," Matthew teased, his tone light. "We were together just yesterday. What's it now?"Masahiro chuckled. "I’ve been thinking...""Oh? That’s dangerous," Matthew joked. "What’s on your mind?""Next two weeks, Middlesbrough is playing Bristol," Masahiro said. "We should go."Matthew rolled his eyes. "Geez... you know I’m not into football, right?""C'mon. It’s going to be fun," Masahiro coaxed. "Good atmosphere, good food, and maybe I’ll get to see you cheer for once.""I’ll think about it," Matthew said with a mock sigh.Just then, Matthew’
The bookstore at Cypress and 18th was small, tidy, and too quiet. Adam stepped in like a loaded weapon, black coat unbuttoned, collar popped, the glint of steel just visible beneath his shirt. The bell above the door jingled. No one greeted him.He didn’t need it.He walked past shelves of overpriced novels and twee little notebooks, past a bored college girl behind the register who looked up, blinked once, and wisely said nothing.Adam turned a corner, found the owner in the back—a short, balding man with glasses and a cardigan. The kind of guy who still believed a politely worded email could fix a debt problem.“Mr. Barnes,” Adam said, voice low, flat.The man flinched. “I—I was going to call. I was just—"“Late. Twice.” Adam stepped closer. “This your idea of fuckin' subtle? You think just 'cause you sell Shakespeare you get to skip your dues?"Barnes swallowed. “I-I didn’t mean—I just needed more time. Things have been slow, and—"“So you thought
The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. Clark adjusted his glasses, rolled his neck once to the side, and exhaled sharply like he was releasing a conversation he didn’t want to carry. Daz fell into step beside him without needing a cue.The hospital corridors were sterile and humming, a low buzz of monitors and too-white lights. Clark didn’t speak as they made their way down to the lot, didn’t fumble for small talk or even sarcasm. He just walked—brisk, businesslike, jaw set.Outside, the day had sharpened. The sun was too bright for how little he’d slept, and the air held that biting edge of early morning smog. Daz opened the passenger door without a word, and Clark slid inside, gripping the folder tighter than necessary.Once on the road, the silence between them was thick but not uncomfortable. Clark leafed through the motion papers one last time, checked the hospital report again, and drummed his fingers against the leather seat.He didn’t ask Daz
Adam woke to the sharp buzz of his phone, vibrating against the hardwood floor like it was ready to start a fight.He groaned, sat up on the couch, and grabbed it.Wilson.He swiped. “Yeah.”“Cypress and 18th. You didn’t forget, did you?” Wilson’s voice was already impatient. “Nine sharp. Don’t fuckin’ be late.”Adam rubbed at his face. “Didn’t forget. Just ain't slept proper.”Click. Wilson was already gone.Adam exhaled hard, dropped the phone to the couch, and rolled his shoulders. Everything ached. He felt like a fridge someone tried to push down a staircase.Dragging himself upright, he trudged to his bedroom to a shower. The door creaked open.Clark was still there.Laid out in his bed like he belonged there. Blanket half-pulled down, shirt riding up, a sliver of hipbone peeking out. And there—barely visible in the low morning light—were the faint, blooming bruises from the night they’d crossed a line.Adam’s jaw ticked.He turne
Clark stirred, blinked blearily, and smiled like a cat in sun."Oh good," he said, voice hoarse with whiskey and gall. "I was beginning to think you got lost on your way to your own kitchen.""Get out of my bed."Clark stretched like a man entirely too comfortable. "Mmm. Strong start. But could use more foreplay."Adam’s glare narrowed. "You’ve got your own room.""Do I?" Clark asked with mock surprise.Adam stepped forward. "Get. Out."Clark didn’t move. "Do you treat all your guests this warmly, or am I just special?"Adam reached down, grabbed the blanket, and yanked.Clark gave a low, protesting sound. "Easy, brute. You’ll wrinkle my shirt.""You’ll wrinkle my patience."Clark sat up, brushing his fingers through his hair like he was about to give a TED talk, not be evicted. "You’re very touchy for a man with shoulders that broad."Adam leaned in, voice low. "I swear, if you try one more line—"Clark tilted his head. "You’ll wh
Clark was on his fifth whiskey.Not a tasting flight. Not an indulgent double.Five.He sat hunched at the bar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, his glasses slightly crooked like even they were too tired to argue. His fingers drummed on the rim of his empty glass like it had personally betrayed him.Adam stood a few feet back, arms crossed, watching with the patience of a man who had once broken someone’s jaw for looking at him wrong—but currently didn’t feel like doing paperwork.“Didn’t you say you needed a drink?” Adam finally asked, voice dry.Clark didn’t look at him. Just raised a lazy hand and signaled for a sixth. “It’s called metaphor, Adam. Try it sometime.”Adam scoffed. “This ain’t metaphor. This is a cry for help in a ten-dollar glass.”“Then let me cry in peace.” Clark muttered, elbow on the bar, head in his hand.Adam stepped closer, looming just enough to annoy. “You’re done.”Clark turned his head slowly. His smile was razor-shar
One hour later, Matthew lay on his stomach, cheek pressed to a cool pillow, chest heaving like he’d just outrun a hit.Masahiro was beside him, upright, breathing only slightly harder—an infuriating show of stamina.“You’re cheating,” Matthew groaned. “No one’s this functional after round three. You’re not human.”Masahiro reached for the water on the nightstand, took a sip, then calmly replied, “Again.”Matthew turned his head so fast he nearly sprained his neck. “Excuse me?”Masahiro looked over at him. No smile. Just steady intent in those eyes. “Round four.”“Oh my God,” Matthew said, dragging a hand down his face. “You have the emotional expression of drywall and the libido of a demon.”“You kept moaning.”“Yeah, because you were trying to kill me through my pelvis.”Masahiro set the glass down. “You didn’t seem to mind.”Matthew buried his face into the pillow. “I’m going to die in this bed.”Masahiro moved closer, slipping under the
Mashiro drove in silence, one hand on the wheel, his focus laser-straight. The streetlights slid across the windshield in steady rhythm. Beside him, Matthew leaned against the window, gum in his mouth, jaw ticking with every thoughtful chew.In the backseat, Arthur sat stiffly, staring out his own window like the night sky had answers.The silence lasted a beat too long.Then Matthew spoke.“So...” he began, voice too casual to be innocent, “what exactly were you and Cassidy whispering about after we left?”Arthur blinked. “I– we weren’t— I mean—” He tripped over every syllable.Matthew grinned. “Wow. You’re really bad at lying.”Arthur sank a little in the seat.“So,” Matthew continued, stretching the word like elastic, “you two are still a thing? After all this? Adorable.”Arthur stayed quiet.Matthew glanced at Masahiro, as if expecting some reaction. None came. Of course.He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, one brow lift
Cassidy stared at the ceiling for a beat, then turned his head slightly toward Arthur, who was still sitting where everyone had left him—half in the room, half ready to run.Cassidy watched Arthur, unreadable for once.“You’re doing the thing again,” he said after a pause.Arthur glanced up. “What thing?”“The brooding. The guilt. The wide-eyed ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen’ look.”Arthur crossed his arms, defensive. “You didn’t have to go after Hudson’s ring. That wasn’t your mess to clean.”Cassidy arched a brow. “You were in it. So it was mine.”“You got arrested,” Arthur snapped. “You’re in a hospital bed.”Cassidy smirked, slow. “Still alive. Not bad for a Tuesday.”Arthur’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t a joke.”“No,” Cassidy said, more quietly. “It’s not.”Silence again.Arthur glanced at the door, then back at Cassidy. His voice lowered, less angry. “They all think we’re... something.”Cassidy gave a lazy shrug. “Are we not
Matthew trailed behind Masahiro like a shadow with better cheekbones.He wasn’t subtle.“I’m just saying,” he muttered under his breath as they moved down the hallway, “people don’t just get bruises like that unless they’re either in a fight… or a very specific kind of entanglement.”Masahiro didn’t respond.Matthew kept going anyway. “And judging by Clark’s energy? I’m betting on entanglement."“Drop it.”Matthew grinned. “Can’t. It’s too fun.”Before he could push further, the surgery doors swung open.A doctor stepped out—tall, late forties, the kind of exhausted that came from saving lives and drinking too much vending machine coffee. He peeled off his gloves and looked straight at Masahiro.“You must be Yumi’s cousin, right?”Masahiro gave a stiff nod. “I am.”The doctor sighed, tugging the mask down from his face. “He’s stable. The stab wound missed the kidney by a few millimeters. No damage to the spinal nerves or major arteries. A