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Chapter 80
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2025-01-02 20:30:19The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets and the faint hum of the city beyond the window. Matthew was already asleep, his breathing deep and steady, sprawled out on the bed like he didn’t have a care in the world. His body was relaxed, the exhaustion of the night finally taking its toll on him. Masahiro watched him for a moment, his heart a strange, tight feeling in his chest—something he couldn’t quite name, but something real nonetheless.
He gently pulled himself away, careful not to wake Matthew. Slipping into loose pants, Masahiro padded silently toward the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, the cool liquid a small, simple comfort in the quiet of the apartment. When he finished, he returned to the bedroom, water in hand.
Matthew lay on the bed, his hair spread across the pillow. Masahiro paused at the foot of the bed, watching him for a long moment. He felt a strange, almost possessive tenderness in the way Matthew look
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Gold & Sand Chapter 81
The raid on Mr. K's operation had not only dismantled a criminal empire but had also ignited a media firestorm that engulfed Cleveland. News outlets raced to cover the shocking discovery of the trafficking ring, the corruption that had seeped into the highest levels of government, and the arrest of Kenneth Hartman, the Minister of Trade and Economic Development. Headlines screamed for attention, each vying to present the latest angle on the scandal that had rocked the city.Masahiro could hardly keep up with the barrage of notifications on his phone, each ping signaling another story breaking. “Minister Arrested in Shocking Trafficking Ring,” one headline blared. “Corruption at the Highest Level: Who Else Will Fall?” Another speculated about the fallout, naming high-ranking politicians who had been seen mingling at the gala just hours before the raid.As Masahiro sat in the station, the weight of the media scrutiny settled heavily on his shoulde
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At the precinct, the atmosphere was charged with an undercurrent of tension. Officers bustled about, preparing for what many considered the most significant operation of their careers. Masahiro joined the team briefing, his mind shifting gears as he focused on the task at hand.“Listen up!” David, announced, his voice commanding attention. “Tomorrow’s transfer of Mr. K is not just another routine procedure. We’re dealing with a high-profile suspect—a government minister who has ties to organized crime. This operation must be flawless. I expect each of you to perform your duties without fail.”The room buzzed with murmurs. Masahiro exchanged glances with Lewis, who leaned closer, whispering, “It’s hard to believe a minister is a mafia baron. How does he get away with it?”“I wish I knew,” Masahiro replied quietly, his thoughts already racing ahead. “But we can’t let our guard down. Not now.”As the briefing continued, Masahiro listened to David outlining the secu
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The convoy rolled steadily along the highway, the morning enveloping the city. Masahiro sat in the driver's seat, his focus sharp, eyes scanning the road ahead. The weight of the moment pressed heavily on him; they were about to deliver one of the most dangerous criminals in recent history to a secure facility for questioning.“Everything good?” Lewis asked.“Yeah, just... keeping an eye on things,” Masahiro replied.Suddenly, the communication systems crackled, and a series of garbled sounds erupted from the radios. Masahiro frowned, flicking the switch to try to re-establish contact. “What the hell?”“David, come in. David!” The static filled the cab, but there was no response. Masahiro glanced at the rear-view mirror, where he could see the other vehicles in the convoy.“Something’s wrong,” Lewis said, his voice low but urgent. “We need to make sure everyone is okay back the
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The shrill sound of the alarm echoed through the cold, sterile halls of the maximum-security facility. The atmosphere inside shifted in an instant… what had been a meticulously controlled operation was now descending into chaos. Masahiro stood frozen, his mind racing as the man beneath the hood continued to stammer and plead. The face he’d seen moments earlier… the one he thought belonged to Mr. K… was gone, replaced with a stranger.The confusion in the room was notable. Officers exchanged uncertain glances, their previous confidence slipping away.“What the hell is going on?” Masahiro repeated, his voice steady despite the shock rising in his chest.David still hadn’t spoken. His eyes darted between Masahiro and the man in front of him, his expression unreadable.“Who is this?” Masahiro demanded, stepping forward, his gaze sharp. “Is this some kind of joke? Where’s Mr. K?”
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Masahiro unlocked the door to the apartment and stepped inside, the weight of the day pressing heavily on his shoulders. His usually calm expression was marred by frustration, his movements brisk as he kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket onto the nearest chair.From the couch, Matthew, sprawled in his usual lazy fashion with Clyde perched on his lap, glanced up with a smirk. “Rough day?” he teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You look like someone just stole your donuts.”Masahiro shot him a glare but didn’t respond immediately, heading straight for the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.Then he finally spoke, his tone clipped. “Just a lot of work. Nothing special.”Matthew raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Work, huh?” He pointed toward the muted television, where a reporter gestured animatedly outside the facility Masahiro had just left. “Saw the press conference. Something happen?”Masahiro hesitated for jus
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The soft rustle of sheets stirred Matthew awake. He groaned, his face buried into the pillow as he tried to ignore the faint light filtering through the blinds. It wasn’t the sun, though, that had disturbed him… it was the weight of a familiar hand trailing up his back, fingers lingering like they had no business being so gentle.“Morning,” Masahiro’s voice was soft, coaxing, the kind of tone Matthew had learned to mistrust.“Whatever it is, the answer’s no,” Matthew mumbled into the pillow. He turned his head just enough to glare over his shoulder, finding Masahiro propped on one elbow, his dark eyes focused entirely on him.Masahiro didn’t reply, not with words. Instead, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Matthew’s shoulder, slow and deliberate.Matthew groaned again, louder this time, but it lacked conviction. “You’re like a needy dog, you know that? Path
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Matthew lay sprawled on the bed like a defeated gladiator after a particularly brutal battle. His arms flopped to the sides, and his head lolled dramatically as he sighed, long and heavy. “I think you’ve killed me,” he declared. Masahiro, still perched on top of him, leaned down to kiss his forehead. “You’re fine,” he said, far too smug for Matthew’s taste. “I’m not fine,” Matthew shot back, his voice rising theatrically. “My body is broken. My soul is broken. If I even attempt to stand, I’ll probably collapse and die right here. Then what will you do? Huh? Do you have a plan for that?” Masahiro tilted his head, considering this while tracing lazy circles on Matthew’s chest. “I’d probably bury you in the backyard,” he said with a faint grin. “Less paperwork that way.” “You’re a monster,” Matthew deadpanned, glaring up at him. “And yet,” Masahiro whispered, his lips brushing against Matthew’s ear, “you always let me in.” Mat
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Masahiro parked the car in front of a small, cozy café, the sun barely peeking through the early morning clouds. He looked over at Matthew, who had loosened his seatbelt and settled back, sunglasses covering his eyes and arms crossed in an all-too-familiar, dramatic pose.“What do you want?” Masahiro asked, eyes on the road but curious about Matthew’s usual morning request.Matthew didn’t even bother opening his eyes, his tone lazy and mocking. “A croissant, something with berries, maybe a Danish. And a hot chocolate. Make sure it's extra thick. Not that watered-down stuff you usually get me."Masahiro smirked, already thinking about how much Matthew liked the ridiculous things he ordered for breakfast. “Alright, I’ll grab your ‘delicacies.’”He got out, leaving Matthew lounging in the passenger seat, still looking like he belonged in a movie about troubled, sunshiny mornings.Insid
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Clark stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp, glasses fogging slightly as he adjusted them with one hand. A loose t-shirt clung to his frame, baggy pajama pants hanging low on his hips, flip flops slapping lightly against the hardwood as he moved.The scent hit him before he reached the living room—rosemary, garlic, a hint of something sweet. His stomach, traitorous as ever, growled on cue.Adam was at the stove, shirtless, a tea towel slung over his shoulder. The muscles in his back shifted with each movement, smooth and effortless as he stirred something in a pan.Clark hovered at the edge of the room. “You cook like that and still act surprised people want to fuck you.”Adam didn’t turn. “You flirt like that and still wonder why you end up bruised.”Clark smirked, stepping further in. “Touché.”Adam plated without a word, setting two dishes on the table like it was routine. Like they weren’t still bruised from each other in all the wrong ways.Clark raised an eyebrow. “Settin
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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
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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
Gold & Sand Chapter 239
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
Gold & Sand Chapter 238
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
Gold & Sand Chapter 236
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,
