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. ACassidy 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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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 engine rumbled under them, steady and low as Adam turned onto the main road.The ride was quiet at first — just the muted hum of tires over wet asphalt, the occasional creak of the gearshift.Then the radio clicked to life.Low at first.Just background noise.The first drifting chords of "Crazy" by Seal sliding out of the speakers.Clark, half-dozing in the passenger seat, cracked an eye open.He smiled — that slow, rare thing, all crooked teeth and messy hair — and reached for the dial.Turned the volume up.Just a little.Then a little more.Adam cut him a sideways look.Clark didn’t notice.Or maybe he did and just didn't care.He leaned back in the seat, loose and lazy, eyes slipping closed again — mouthing the words, soft and off-key:"We're never gonna survive... unless we get a little..."Adam’s hand tightened around the wheel."You serious right now?" he muttered.Clark didn’t even open his eyes.Just pushed his glasses up with two fingers, hair falling into his forehead
The hospital hallway smelled like antiseptic and something tired.Arthur pushed open the door to Cassidy’s room without knocking — he didn’t need to.Cassidy was half-sitting up in the bed, one arm cuffed to the railing, IV line taped to the crook of his elbow. The hospital gown was loose on him, but the smirk was all intact — sharp, crooked, and stubborn as hell.Arthur didn’t even make it two steps before Cassidy snagged him by the front of his jacket and dragged him down into a kiss.Rough. Fast. All teeth and defiance.Arthur made a small sound of protest, more shock than complaint, trying not to jostle the IV. Cassidy didn’t seem to give a damn. His mouth moved against Arthur’s like they had all the time in the world and none of it to waste.Arthur pulled back first, breathless. “You’re cuffed to the bed, you lunatic.”Cassidy grinned, feral. “Doesn’t stop me.”Arthur flushed but didn’t move away. He hesitated — just a second — then reached down,
The light through the blinds was thin and grey, slicing across the bed in cold stripes.Adam woke first. Always did.Clark was draped over him like a cat that refused to admit it wanted warmth — face buried near Adam’s shoulder, one hand fisted tight in the front of Adam’s hoodie.Adam stared at the ceiling a beat, jaw tight, before peeling himself away. Clark muttered something in his sleep but didn’t wake, just curled deeper into the stolen hoodie like it was stitched from safety itself. Adam left him there. Gym first. Routine never stopped. By the time Adam came back — sweat cooling under his T-shirt, heart steady — Clark was awake. Barefoot, hair a wreck, and swimming in another one of Adam’s hoodies like he’d been born in it. He padded into the kitchen half-conscious, yawning into his wrist. “Mornin',” Adam muttered, grabbing the coffee pot. Clark just grunted and stole a mug without asking.
The apartment door clicked shut behind them.Clark dropped his coat on the entryway bench with an exaggerated sigh and muttered, “I am emotionally exhausted. And not in a sexy, Victorian-tragedy kind of way. I mean in the ‘my feet hurt and my soul’s tired’ kind of way.”Adam, already heading for the kitchen, tossed back, “Then take your heels off, sweetheart.”Clark gave him a long, dry look. “They are Italian leather Oxfords. But yes, thank you, masculine voice of reason.”Adam opened the fridge, grabbed leftover rice, and dumped it unceremoniously into a pan. A beat passed, then the stove clicked to life. Clark wandered in behind him, slower, more graceful, toeing off his shoes like someone doing a product demo.“You’re cooking,” Clark said with a soft note of surprise.“I’m heating shit up.”“For you or for both of us?”Adam didn’t look up. “Depends. You gonna whine the whole time?”Clark leaned against the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “Maybe. Depends. Are you going to be
The apartment door shut behind them with a soft click. Masahiro shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door with mechanical efficiency. Matthew kicked his boots off lazily and dropped his keys into the bowl by the counter, same routine as always.Masahiro passed him in the hallway, unbothered. "I’m showering."Matthew nodded, grabbed a soda from the fridge, cracked it open. Silence stretched while the water started running. When Masahiro emerged ten minutes later, hair damp and towel slung around his neck, Matthew was still at the counter, drinking slowly.“We gonna talk about it?” Matthew asked without looking up.Masahiro paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “About what.”“Yumi.” Matthew turned now. Arms folded. Voice calm, but not playful. “How she thinks I sleep in your guest room because of some old undercover job we did. And you let her think that. Still.”Masahiro dried his hands with the towel, avoiding his eyes. “It’s easier.”“Easier for who?”Masahiro didn’t answer.Matthew
The restaurant doors swung shut behind them, sealing in the scent of roasted garlic and expensive regret. The parking lot buzzed with leftover heat from the day, a few stray voices in the distance, heels clicking on pavement.Clark walked ahead with Masahiro, steps crisp, back straight, his fingers adjusting his sleeves as if court decorum extended into the streets. Masahiro matched his pace effortlessly—hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes cold and precise as always."So," Masahiro said without looking at him, "how do you see the trial ending?"Clark didn’t hesitate. "Nathaniel will walk. Probably with a statement read by a trembling clerk and a jury that wants to forget the word 'testimony' for the rest of their lives."Masahiro gave a slow nod. "You're confident.""I'm always confident," Clark replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. "The difference is whether I admit it out loud."Masahiro’s eyes flicked to him, a hint of dry amusement. "You just did."Clark adjusted his gl
Matthew didn’t wait for an invitation—just dropped into the chair across from Clark like he owned it.Masahiro sat beside him with all the enthusiasm of a man attending a funeral, pulling out his phone before the chair even touched the floor.Matthew grinned, eyes on Clark. “You two are cute. The bodyguard act? Adorable. But let’s not pretend you’re not fucking like a side plot to a very illegal soap opera.”Clark, unbothered, lifted his wineglass with practiced elegance. “And you’re talking like a man who’s only slept with criminals and delusions.”Matthew’s grin widened. “Facts.”Adam didn’t look up. Just kept eating his burger like nothing in the room concerned him.“Adam’s real quiet today,” Matthew added, leaning his chin on his palm. “All those hickeys drain your vocabulary?”Clark sliced a piece of venison with clean, silent precision. “Some of us have class. Others… wear too much cologne and overshare.”Masahiro didn’t even glance up. “Don’t e
The trial day had ended with the defense soaring and the prosecution bleeding.Masahiro, Arthur, and Matthew stood in the hallway, a loose cluster of tension and exhaustion. Arthur clutched a half-empty water bottle, his fingers still shaking from the witness stand. Masahiro stood tall and unreadable, as always.Matthew looked like he’d just come out of a concert—buzzing, amused, and entirely too observant.Clark approached with that predator-still-in-courtroom calm, suit untouched, expression cool. Adam was behind him, one step back, hands in his pockets, saying nothing—like always.“Hell of a show,” Matthew said as Clark joined them. “You made that prosecutor look like she was reciting a grocery list under threat.”Clark only lifted a brow. “She wasn’t worth more than that.”Masahiro gave a nod. “Strong performance.”Arthur murmured, “Nathaniel might actually walk…”Clark nodded slightly. “Let’s not jinx it.”They stood there for a beat.The
The door shut behind them with a soft, echoing click.Clark didn’t speak. Neither did Nathaniel.For a long moment, they just stood there in the defense room—alone, away from the murmuring gallery and the jury’s blank stares.Clark finally moved.He set his notes down on the table, reached up, and took off his glasses. Not dramatically. Just… tired.His fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose like he could squeeze the tension out through his skull.Nathaniel watched him.Still in his seat. Back straight. Calm in the way someone learns from spending time around chaos.“You didn’t have to say all that,” Nathaniel said quietly.Clark dropped his hand. Didn’t look at him yet. “Yeah, well. I did.”“You made me sound like a hero.”Clark finally glanced up. The fatigue didn’t soften his tone. “No. I made you sound like a man who didn’t fire a gun.”Nathaniel gave a small, humorless laugh. “Still a lie.”Clark sat down slowly across from