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Chapter 57
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2024-12-24 10:30:36It was morning, and the soft light filtered through the kitchen window, casting a calm glow across the room. Matthew moved about the kitchen with practiced ease, his movements fluid as he cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them together with a touch of seasoning. The aroma of sizzling bacon filled the air, mingling with the warm scent of freshly brewed coffee.
At the kitchen table, Masahiro sat quietly, his gaze fixed on Matthew. His usually steady, stoic expression was softer today, eyes lingering on Matthew's every move. There was something different in his stare… a quiet admiration, the kind that spoke of more than just casual observation. Masahiro couldn’t help but notice how easy Matthew made it look, how natural it all seemed. He was starting to realize something, something he hadn't anticipated: he was beginning to like Matthew. The weight of it settled in his chest, unfamiliar but undeniable. He never liked Matthew, but this feeling? This was new.
“Payne,” Matt
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Gold & Sand Chapter 58
Masahiro stirred awake, the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. He blinked a few times, the haze of sleep clearing as his gaze settled on Matthew. The man was still asleep, his blond hair messy against the pillow, his breathing steady and even. In the soft light, Matthew’s features looked striking… sharp jawline, full lips, and the faint shadow of stubble on his chin. He looked peaceful, younger somehow, and undeniably handsome.Watching Matthew sleep felt... strange. Masahiro wasn’t sentimental… he prided himself on being practical, logical, and focused on what needed to be done. But in moments like this, all that restraint seemed to slip. There was something grounding about the stillness in the room, about the faint rise and fall of Matthew’s chest as he breathed deeply, utterly unguarded.Masahiro hated admitting it, even to himself, but he liked this… the quiet, the warmth, the way Matthew looked without the usual bravado. No smirks, no snarky comments, no sly glan
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Masahiro lounged on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, and the faint glow of the television flickering across his face. He wasn’t really watching it… just letting the noise wash over him while his thoughts wandered. The light from the screen painted his features in shades of blue and white, casting an almost ethereal glow around him.The quiet of the room was broken by Matthew’s voice echoing from the hallway. "That's funny, Lewis..."Masahiro’s brow furrowed slightly at the mention of Lewis’s name, the tone of Matthew’s voice grating on his nerves. He was laughing… softly, casually. ´Lewis, again? ´ Masahiro’s jaw tightened, but he ignored it, trying to focus on the TV. He wasn’t about to give in to the fleeting jealousy that bubbled up at the sound of Matthew's laughter. ´It’s nothing, ´ he told himself, turning the volume down just a little. But the slight discomfor
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The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of utensils against plates. The aroma of dinner filled the air, a simple meal after a long day. Both Matthew and Masahiro were seated at the table, each enjoying their food in a peaceful silence.Matthew, however, couldn't shake the thought of what he had witnessed earlier. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he broke the silence."Since when do you like Clyde?" Matthew asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity.Masahiro paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. He glanced at Matthew with a neutral expression, then shrugged before continuing to eat. "What do you think?" he replied, keeping his voice even.Matthew frowned, clearly intrigued. Masahiro wasn't one to offer explanations, especially when it came to personal matters. But this, this was different. He needed to know more.Masahiro placed his chopsticks down, his gaze drifting toward the window as he continue
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The hospital felt like a mausoleum… cold, quiet, and unnervingly sterile, as if the place had given up on the concept of warmth altogether. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow on the off-white walls, making everything look like a second-rate horror film set. Matthew walked briskly ahead, his steps purposeful, as if he were on a mission to escape this dreadful place. Behind him, Masahiro trailed, desperately trying not to look too eager to keep up, as though lagging behind would somehow validate their tortured existence together.They had been living together for nearly five months, and in that time, their relationship had twisted into something that could only be described as a twisted sitcom… complete with sarcastic barbs and forced smiles.As they reached the clinic, a nurse motioned for Masahiro to follow her alone. Matthew stayed behind in the waiting area, scrolling through his phone with the kind of indifference typically reser
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Yumi knocked on the door of Masahiro’s apartment, and Matthew, who had been casually lounging on the couch, opened it. He greeted her with a warm smile."Yumi, good to see you again," Matthew said, his tone light and welcoming. He stepped aside to let her in."Likewise, Matthew," Yumi replied, her voice stead.She entered the apartment, and her eyes immediately found Masahiro. He was lying on the couch, looking more relaxed than she had seen him in a long time. His arm was propped up with a pillow, but he gave her a half-smile when she entered, a soft expression that immediately put her at ease."Hey, Yumi," Masahiro greeted her, his voice still a little raspy but clearly more upbeat than the last time they’d spoken.Yumi walked over, taking a seat beside him on the couch. "How’s everything? How’s your arm?" she asked, her eyes scanning him with practiced precision.Matthew, recognizing that the two needed space to ta
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A month laterThe morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, warming the room but doing little to stir its occupants. Matthew lay sprawled across Masahiro’s chest, their breaths steady in sync. The sheets draped lazily over their waists, leaving the marks of last night visible on Matthew’s skin—hickeys scattered along his neck and shoulders, paired with faint bruises where Masahiro’s grip had been firm.The shrill buzz of a phone shattered the peaceful quiet.Masahiro stirred first, his dark eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the bedside table. “Smith… your phone’s ringing.”Matthew groaned, nuzzling closer into Masahiro’s chest. “Hmm…”Masahiro’s voice carried more insistence. “Your phone.”“Too early for this…” Matthew muttered; his voice muffled against Masahiro&rs
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The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as Masahiro stood at the counter, methodically pouring the dark liquid into a ceramic mug. The quiet hum of the early morning was broken only by the faint sounds of Clyde’s paws tapping against the floor as the cat followed him around.Masahiro glanced down, raising an eyebrow at the cat’s persistent presence. “You don’t drink this,” he said dryly, gesturing to the coffee. “There’s food and water in your spot. Go.”Clyde meowed in protest but didn’t budge, his tail flicking lazily as he watched Masahiro take his mug and head toward the balcony.The morning air was crisp, a gentle breeze rustling through the city below as Masahiro leaned on the railing, the warm mug resting in his hands. He sipped his coffee slowly, his gaze wandering over the familiar urban sprawl. For a moment, everything seemed ordinary—the distant hum of traffic,
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Masahiro sat in a café a few blocks away, his coffee forgotten as his eyes lingered on the street outside. The car was still there, parked in the same spot it had occupied since morning. This time, its engine was running, a faint plume of exhaust curling into the chilly air, setting his nerves on edge.Then his eyes caught on a figure across the street. Matthew.Masahiro’s stomach churned. Matthew strolled casually, hands in his pockets, utterly unaware of the danger.Pulling out his phone, Masahiro dialed Matthew’s number. Once. Twice. No answer. The bastard wasn’t picking up.“Come on, Smith,” Masahiro growled under his breath, dialing again.The car’s headlights flicked on. The low growl of the engine grew louder as the vehicle inched forward, angling toward the crosswalk.Masahiro shot to his feet, abandoning his coffee. “Matthew!” he shouted, sprinting out of the café. His voice barely carried over the traf
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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,
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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
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The courtroom was a theater, and Clark knew it.Not the overblown, high-drama kind. Not screaming matches or grandstanding.This was colder.Sharper.This was where reputation meant leverage. Where presence was its own kind of weapon. And today, Clark stood center stage with every light on him.He adjusted his cuffs with slow precision, stepped into place before the jury, and met each face without flinching.“Good morning,” he began. Calm. Even. Clean.“This trial will present you with blood, with violence, and with the kind of fear most people are lucky to never know.”The jurors stilled.“You will hear about what Cassidy did. About what Cassidy stopped. And about the lines he crossed to do it.”He let the silence land.“I will not stand here and pretend he’s a saint. That’s not what this is.”Eyes narrowed. Attention sharpened.“But you’ll learn—very quickly—that th
