The room was unusually quiet at dawn. The curtains hadn't been drawn properly, and a thin blade of light slipped through the gap, scattering across the sheets like shards of glass.
Noah stirred awake slowly. Before he even opened his eyes, his body registered the dull ache and soreness that lingered everywhere. For a second he froze, a fleeting image flashing through his mind—warm arms around him, a steady breath at his ear, close enough to feel. The memory of being held was so vivid he couldn't tell if it had been real or only a dream.
Instinctively, he turned his head. The space beside him was empty. The pillow lay untouched, cold, without the faintest trace of warmth.
He stared at that lifeless stretch of sheets for a few seconds before letting out a short laugh, edged with irony.
"So it was just a dream… of course. As if he'd ever fall asleep holding me."
The words sounded ridiculous even to himself. Asher had never once seen him as anything more than a toy, let alone someone deserving of tenderness. That illusion of warmth from last night… maybe it had been nothing more than his exhaustion playing tricks on him, spinning a foolish dream.
He pushed himself upright, only for a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through his waist, stealing the breath from his chest. He froze, then inched upright more carefully this time, bare feet landing on the cold floor.
The bathroom light flicked on. He lifted his head to the mirror and stared. The reflection was a mess—eyes rimmed red, lips swollen, neck and collarbone covered in marks. Kiss after kiss, bite after bite, so blatant it was almost obscene.
He stood there for a long moment before letting out a hoarse, broken chuckle.
"Really went all out, didn't I…"
He twisted the tap, letting the water run cold, and stepped under the spray. A shiver wracked through him at the chill. Maybe if he stayed long enough, he could rinse away the ridiculous thoughts clinging to him. But no matter how cold the water, the ache deep in his body made sure he couldn't forget what had happened.
When he dried off, he reached for concealer and carefully painted over the marks on his skin, one by one. Every press of his fingers tugged at the hidden bruises, forcing him to breathe through the pain. When the mirror showed nothing but smooth, pale skin again, he forced a smile.
"No one will see a thing."
---
By the time he arrived on set, it was already afternoon. Luckily, he hadn't been scheduled for a morning scene; otherwise he wouldn't have made it.
The moment he stepped into the dressing room, his assistant hurried over.
"Noah, you're here! Asher showed up early this morning. He finished his scenes and left right after."
Noah faltered mid-step, then only hummed in response, handing off his bag. For a fleeting second something hollow opened in his chest, though he couldn't name what it was.
The makeup artist leaned close, frowning. "You don't look well. Did you stay up all night again?"
Noah smiled faintly, voice quiet. "Yeah. Couldn't sleep much."
He left it at that, face unreadable.
---
When the cameras rolled, he pushed through the pain. The instant the lens found him, his expression sharpened, his voice steady—every ache buried into his lines.
"Perfect," the director called, pleased. "That's the one. Cut!"
As soon as the scene ended, Noah's spine was slick with cold sweat, his fingers trembling slightly. His assistant rushed over with water, whispering, "Are you feeling sick? You're so pale."
"I'm fine." He sipped, tone flat. "Let's go."
---
It was late when filming wrapped. The night air was sharp and cool. He dragged his weary body back to the apartment, kicked his shoes off carelessly, and collapsed onto the couch.
The lights were on, the place bright and spotless. His gaze swept the dining table, the living room, the kitchen—like he half-expected someone to step out.
But the silence pressed in. The only sound was his heartbeat.
Noah leaned back, a faint smile pulling at his lips. His voice dropped, soft and self-mocking.
"As if he'd be here."
The smile faded. He pulled a cushion over his face, the sound of his laugh dissolving into quiet. The apartment was silent once again.
---
The next morning, his phone rang not long after he woke.
"Noah," his assistant said, "the director wants to focus on your scenes this week. We'll shoot as much as we can with you."
Noah blinked, voice rough. "…Just me?"
"Yeah. Asher's mother's company is apparently in trouble, so he won't be on set for now."
The call ended, leaving the room still and empty. Noah stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before letting out a slow breath.
So that was why. No wonder he hadn't seen even a shadow of him all day.
---
On set, the days were lively as ever.
The lights blazed hot overhead, crew members scurried across the floor, voices layered over one another in constant motion.
Noah sat quietly while the makeup artist brushed powder over his face. An actor nearby laughed and nudged him.
"Noah, that crying scene yesterday? Damn. You nearly had me tearing up."
He blinked, then smiled faintly. "Thanks. I just… followed the director's lead."
The group chuckled, joking back and forth, and Noah slipped easily into their chatter. The director clapped his shoulder often, praising his work.
At lunch, he sat on the ground with the others, eating boxed meals in the corner. Someone griped about the heat; Noah handed over a bottle of water. Someone else teased him for being too thin, telling him to eat more; he only smiled and nodded.
Just another rookie actor, fitting seamlessly into the crowd. On set, he never had time to think of anything else.
---
But when night fell, the emptiness returned.
Noah would step into the apartment, greeted by silence.
He'd toss his coat aside, change his shoes—then stop halfway through the living room. The couch sat there, harmless and ordinary, the lamplight glancing across its leather surface.
But in his mind, the image flared too vivid: his body bent over that same couch, legs trembling from being spread too far, every thrust pushing him closer to the edge until he broke apart in sobs. The leather groaning beneath them, his fingers clawing desperately, his voice shattering with release.
His chest tightened. He turned away quickly, like the sight had burned him, and strode into the kitchen. He downed a glass of ice water in one go, the chill cutting down his throat—but his chest still burned, his fingers trembling around the cup.
A short laugh escaped him, bitter and quiet.
How could he still remember so clearly? Worse—how could his body still react?
---
By the end of the week, his life felt split in two.
By day, he smiled, worked, bantered easily with the crew, learning lines with the other actors. From the outside, nothing seemed amiss.
But each night, when he came home to the silent apartment, the weight returned. The loneliness pressed in, dragging him back to memories he didn't want but couldn't escape.
---
One evening, fresh from the shower, he dropped onto the couch with damp hair and a loose T-shirt, a towel hanging from his hands. The TV flickered, filling the room with color and sound, but his attention wandered.
Steam curled from the mug of milk on the table. He rubbed at his hair absently, eyes drifting unfocused toward the screen.
He thought, distantly, that their time together hadn't been that long—yet he'd already grown used to it. Worse, he'd started to miss it.
He shook his head, a rueful laugh escaping. Ridiculous.
And then—
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound jolted him. The towel stilled in his hands, his chest tightening sharply.
At this hour… who could it be?
His instincts told him it couldn't be Asher. If it were him, he wouldn't knock.
He knew the code. He'd just come in.
So who was it?