Dawn crept through the high-rise windows, spilling a muted glow into the living room.
The air was cool, yet faintly thick with the ghost of desire that had not quite faded.
Asher opened the door quietly. He had been gone all night—an emergency meeting had pulled him away from set until morning. He expected the apartment to be silent, empty.
Instead, his gaze caught on a shape curled up on the sofa.
Noah.
The boy lay turned on his side, clothes disheveled, shirt rucked halfway down his torso. A few faint traces lingered across his chest, shallow bruises that spoke of a night abruptly broken off. His arm dangled limply over the edge of the couch, lips parted, lashes trembling with the uneven rhythm of shallow breaths.
Fragile. And defenseless in a way that made Asher stop dead in the doorway.
He should look away. Should head straight for the bedroom, scrub himself clean of the remnants clinging to him.
But his eyes refused to move.
Why the sofa.
Why not a bed, a door, a lock.
Asher's chest rose with a muted breath, deliberately softened as if even sound might disturb him. His body moved before his mind could catch up.
The floor creaked underfoot. Noah stirred, curling tighter as though chasing warmth.
Asher crouched beside him, gaze lingering on the bare stretch of collarbone where the shirt had slipped low. The image was too easy to recall—how those lips had parted under his, how that body had arched, how the heat had built until the phone had shattered it.
…pathetic, he thought, though the word tasted nothing like disdain.
His hand reached almost on its own, fingers brushing against the throw blanket. He shook it loose, then lowered it carefully over Noah's frame. The motion was slow, deliberate, betraying itself.
The blanket slipped across skin, and Noah gave a faint sound, shifting deeper into sleep.
Something snagged sharp in Asher's chest. Heat, small but insistent, pressed beneath his ribs.
It felt foreign. Weak. He hated the softness of it, but he couldn't push it down.
He withdrew his hand reluctantly, as though the faint warmth clung to his fingertips. His gaze lingered a moment longer before he forced himself to turn away.
——
When Noah woke, it was to brightness pressing at his lashes and the stiffness of a body curled too long. He sat up sluggishly, the blanket sliding from his shoulders. His fingers caught the fabric, still faintly warm.
…Someone had covered him.
His heart lurched. Memories returned in a rush: Asher's mouth crushing against his, the heat that had wound too tight, the brutal interruption. His ears burned red.
"You're awake."
The voice was low, even. From the kitchen.
Noah's head snapped up. Asher stood by the counter, a glass of water in his hand, damp hair falling loose around his face. Fresh clothes, clean lines. Lazy, dangerous.
Noah forgot to breathe.
"…You're back." His voice was husky, tangled with sleep.
Asher hummed, set the glass on the table, and stepped closer. His eyes grazed Noah's face before sliding away again, as if it had all been nothing more than ordinary.
Unease curled through Noah. He should leave. But the warmth of the blanket burned against his skin, holding him there.
He bit his lip. "Was it you? …The blanket?"
Asher didn't answer. His gaze flickered once, steady and unreadable. His voice came rougher than intended: "Don't sleep out here again."
The words should have sounded cold. But the weight of them landed differently, heavy with something almost protective.
Noah stilled. His chest tightened, confusion pressing hard against his ribs. Last night he'd thought himself a plaything. Yet now—something else lived between the syllables, something he couldn't name.
"I—" His throat closed.
Asher didn't wait. He glanced at his watch. "Get ready. We're due at the studio."
Flat. Detached. As if nothing had lingered between them.
——
The drive was quiet.
Noah sat curled in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the blur of city passing by. His fingers dug into the fabric of his clothes. Words pressed at his lips but never escaped.
Asher's profile was sharp, every line cut with focus. He didn't speak, but once or twice, his eyes slid Noah's way—fleeting, unreadable.
The air was thick with what they didn't say.
Last night's fire. This morning's fragile warmth. They tangled together, pulling tight, threading a line between them.
The sun rose higher, streaking light across the windshield. Inside, silence pressed down, until even the soft brush of each breath felt like it reached too far into the other's space.