The room was quiet—too quiet. Pale morning light leaked through the edges of the blackout curtains, casting a dull glow across the messy studio apartment.
Sam swung his legs off the bed, the cool air brushing against his bare skin. The oversized shirt he wore—Eli's, borrowed and never returned—hung off one shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone. He padded across the room on silent feet, still haunted by the lingering chill of the dream.
In the mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself. Disheveled. Pale. Beautiful in that unreal way that sometimes made strangers stare too long. He hated it, most days. Being looked at. Being wanted, but not known.
His fingers slid over the curve of his throat as he swallowed, remembering the way his mother used to hum in the kitchen.... the sound oddly tangled in the shadows of his dream.
He shut his eyes, trying to separate memory from illusion, but it clung to him like static on skin.
His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand. One message. Eli. His only friend, probably checking if he remembered the shoot today. Sam was a model, but most days he didn't feel like one. Too much noise in his head, too much quiet in his life.
Meanwhile Across the city, on the 32nd floor of a high-rise wrapped in glass and steel, Aiden let the hot water from his shower cascade over his back, head tilted forward, steam rising in thick plumes around him. His hands pressed to the tile wall, jaw clenched.
After taking shower,he dried off without looking in the mirror, yanking on his fitted black shirt and trousers with practiced ease. Every movement precise. Controlled.
Back in the apartment, Sam stepped out onto his small balcony, the wind lifting the hem of his shirt just slightly. Down below, life moved in blurs. He leaned against the railing, skin warmed by sunlight, wondering if he'd ever feel fully awake again.
Neither of them knew it yet, but fate was already threading its fingers through their separate worlds—quietly, sensually, inevitably pulling them toward collision.