The room was deathly silent. Heavy curtains shut the light out completely, and the air still carried last night's damp, intimate scent.
Noah lay trapped in the bed that felt like a snare, too soft to escape. He kept his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but the sound of breathing beside him was too close, too real.
A sudden kiss landed on his lips—cool, brief, testing. The next second, the coolness was swallowed by heat as an invasive tongue slipped in, curling lightly.
Noah's whole body tensed, like he'd been jolted with electricity, instinctively trying to pull back—only to find himself caught, an arm locked firmly around him.
His lips were held, the warmth seeping deeper, edged with soft bites, as if to warn him: Stop pretending.
"...Mm." The sound escaped him before he could hold it back, a rough, broken hum that felt like a leftover note from the night before. He tried to turn over, but a hand pressed down on his shoulder, pinning him.
"Awake?" The voice was low, rough from sleep, dropping heavy into his ear.
Noah had no choice but to open his eyes—and the first thing he saw were dark irises, far too close, far too deep. There was none of last night's urgency in them now, only a detached calm that spoke of control.
He tried to push Asher away, but the hand that caught his wrist did it effortlessly. The grip wasn't even hard, yet it was impossible to break.
"You sounded incredible last night."
The tips of Noah's ears flared hot. The words were like a hook, dragging last night's images back into sharp focus—the rush of water in the shower, the breath pressed to his ear, the trembling humiliation, and the shivers he couldn't control.
He clenched his jaw, refusing to answer. But Asher's gaze had already fallen to the bare column of his throat, then followed the trail down—to the small, striking bruises scattered over his skin.
Instinctively, Noah reached for the blanket, but Asher was faster, pulling it back to reveal even more. The marks ran along his collarbones, lower, and lower still, into places that shouldn't see daylight.
"Don't hide," Asher said quietly.
Noah remembered the first time he'd seen him—on stage at an awards ceremony. Back then, he'd watched from a distance, as if looking at a beam of light. Tall, composed, flawless, the man had been the one true center of the stage.
Noah had admired him for years. Posters, magazines, performances, award nights—he'd chased every frame, collected every smile. That was the fuel that kept him training through exhaustion, through the endless demands of trainee life.
But all of that fantasy had ended on a single sheet of A4 paper—Casual Bed Partner Agreement.
The clauses were brutally clear:
Sleep together. No romance. Be available at all times.
In exchange: roles and opportunities.
Last night, he wasn't a fan. He wasn't someone loved. He was just fulfilling a clause.
The cold settled in his chest, even the air felt heavier.
Asher's fingertips traced the side of his neck, light, almost absent, yet deliberate—as if confirming that these were his marks. The touch was soft, but it carried a silent claim: You're mine.
"This afternoon, there's a workshop," Asher said, his tone as level as if he were giving a work schedule, as if last night had been nothing but a dream.
Noah kept his gaze low, saying nothing.
Without pressing, Asher rose and headed into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of running water filled the room—steady, cool, washing away every trace of warmth.
Noah stared up at the ceiling, fingers tightening in the sheets. His body still ached, each breath tugging at the reminders of last night's intrusion. He'd imagined so many times what it would be like to be with Asher—maybe a sweet confession, maybe the rush of a quickened heartbeat. But reality was this—his first time lying beside Asher had been like this.
He didn't know if he hated the contract more, or himself for signing it.
The water stopped. Asher came out, towel in hand, shirt draped loosely over his frame—clean, sharp, untouched, as though nothing had happened.
"Get ready. I'll take you back," he said. His tone was neutral, like he was dropping off a colleague after a job.
"Take you back." The words cut deep, reminding Noah this was not his home—and never would be.
When he lifted the blanket, his body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together wrong. His waist and legs ached so badly he could barely stand. He braced against the bed, but as soon as his feet touched the floor, a dull throb made him hold his breath.
Asher's gaze moved over him slowly, like inspecting a toy used the night before.
"Can't walk?" The faint curve of his lips wasn't concern—it was amusement.
Noah forced a steady breath, covering the flicker of embarrassment.
"I'm fine."
Step by step, he moved, painfully slow. Each one a reminder that the intimacy wasn't his to keep. It was Asher's desire, not affection. Carefully, he dressed, buttoning up each clasp as though building a wall around himself.
Outside, the sunlight was harsh enough to sting his eyes. But on his skin, it carried no warmth.
He glanced at Asher—still perfect, still unreachable, separated by a wall that had been there since the moment he signed the contract.
The car ride was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound.
Noah sat in the passenger seat, fingers locked on his knees, eyes fixed on the passing scenery. The summer sun was bright, but through the glass, it felt cold.
One hand on the wheel, Asher kept his eyes forward. No extra words, no morning tenderness, no trace of last night's closeness—as if none of it had happened.
Noah's throat was tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but there was no reason. Between them, even words had to be justified.
The light turned red. The car slowed to a stop.
Asher's fingers tapped twice on the steering wheel, an idle rhythm. Then he looked at Noah, voice as cool as a glass of water:
"You did well last night."
The words froze him inside. That wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. Even a meaningless "get some rest" could have been twisted into comfort. But this—this left no room for lies.
The car moved again, and minutes later stopped outside Noah's building.
Noah undid his seatbelt, ready to get out, when Asher spoke from behind him:
"Three o'clock. Don't be late."
It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.
Noah nodded, not looking back.
Only when the elevator doors slid shut did his strength drain away. He leaned against the wall, gripping the hem of his shirt like an anchor.
Every touch, every breath, every look from last night and this morning replayed in his head. They belonged not to love, but to a contract.
Inside his apartment, he collapsed onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
On the table lay the contract, black and white letters like a blade. Cold, hard proof: there was a bed between them, but no heart.
Noah picked up the sheet, fingers trembling. Thin as it was, it felt heavier than iron. He didn't dare think about what would happen when it ended.
He'd imagined countless love stories—his idol turning to look at him, their eyes meeting under the stage lights, whispered words meant for only them. But in reality, what he held was this—trading his body for opportunity.
A small laugh escaped him—quiet, sharp-edged. He was laughing at himself.
Laughing at the way he searched for warmth in a transaction.
Laughing at the way his heart still raced when Asher leaned close.
Laughing at how he didn't even have the courage to say no.
He set the contract back down, eyes locked on the lines for a long moment before standing and walking into the bathroom.
The cold water hit him like needles, making his skin ache. Eyes closed, he let it run from head to toe, as if he could wash away the last traces of heat.
But no matter how long he stayed there, the marks remained—like part of a chain, reminding him he belonged to someone.
No—not to someone. To the contract.