Morning light slipped through the gap in the curtains, spilling across the sheets.
Asher slowly opened his eyes. His head throbbed faintly, his throat was unbearably dry. A faint trace of alcohol still lingered in the air.
He froze for a second, scanning the room—it was his own apartment.
Frowning, Asher sat up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to recall what happened last night, but his mind was a blank, as if a whole section had been cut out.
—How did he get back here?
He could only remember the burn of alcohol sliding down his throat, and the sudden, unmanageable ache in his chest. After that, everything was a blur.
Cursing under his breath, he threw off the blanket and got to his feet. The carpet caught his steps, unsteady as they were.
And yet, with every breath, memories he had buried deep began to rise again.
He had been at the company the entire week.
Crisis after crisis—contracts, funding, partners—it had nearly swallowed him whole. He worked with little to no sleep until yesterday, when things were finally stabilized, at least for now.
But when night fell, alone in his office, his thoughts had drifted—inevitably—to his father. The next thing he knew, he was at a bar. He had no idea how much he drank. He only knew that no amount of alcohol could dull the hollow ache inside.
It had been a full year.
On the day of the funeral, he'd been calm to the point of cruelty. Like an outsider watching the scene from afar. He hadn't shed a single tear. Even when all eyes had turned to him, he had simply gone through the motions, mechanical, detached.
He had believed, with certainty, that feelings would never come back to him.
So why now? Why all of a sudden?
Why?
He couldn't explain it. But somewhere inside, an instinct told him—Noah was the reason.
Asher inhaled sharply, panic rippling through his chest, an unsettling loss of control. The very feeling terrified him.
He muttered a curse, forcing the agitation down, and headed to the bathroom. Cold water splashed across his face, bringing a sliver of clarity. In the mirror, his reflection stared back at him: grim, dark circles etched under his eyes.
He stood there for a long time, only one thought in his head—
Kill it. Kill this feeling.
He changed clothes and walked out of the bedroom.
The living room was quiet, but faint sounds drifted from the kitchen—oil hissing in the pan, carrying a subtle fragrance.
Asher stopped in his tracks.
The kitchen light was on. Noah stood there with his back to him, in a loose T-shirt and pale shorts. The shirt hung oversized, slipping off his frame, exposing the clean line of his waist. When a draft lifted the hem, a long stretch of leg flashed into view.
Just that—just a single, ordinary scene—and Asher's chest tightened sharply.
He knew too well how easily Noah set him off. Unlike anyone else, Noah's mere presence could spark a reaction. And the worst part was, Noah wasn't even doing anything. Just standing there quietly, flipping eggs in the pan—yet Asher's body was already on fire.
The urge nearly drove him insane.
Asher's knuckles clenched tight, every muscle burning with the urge to throw him onto the kitchen counter and f*ck him raw.
But he dragged in a breath and forced it down.
He had work today. No matter how badly he wanted it, he couldn't afford to lose control now.
Asher pulled out a chair at the dining table, the scrape of wood against the floor sharp and grating.
Noah turned at the sound, startled.
"…You're awake?" he asked, cautiously.
Asher leaned back in the chair, silent.
Noah wiped his hands and set a glass of water in front of him. "You were really drunk last night."
Asher glanced at the glass. His throat screamed for it, but he didn't move right away. Instead, his gaze lifted, heavy, locking onto Noah.
The stare made Noah shift uneasily, eyes dropping as he mumbled, "Breakfast will be ready soon." Then he turned back to the stove.
When he finally set the eggs down on the table, he avoided Asher's gaze, speaking quietly. "Eat."
Asher lifted the glass, his eyes never leaving Noah, and drank slowly. The cold water slid down his throat, but the heat inside only grew fiercer. Setting the glass down, his gaze stayed fixed, unrelenting.
The air pulled taut between them, a silence that burned.
Noah forced himself to sit, pretending to focus on his toast. But he felt it—that stare, heavy as nails, pinning him in place until his back went rigid.
"…Why are you staring at me?" he finally asked, voice low.
Asher's fingers tapped against the table, slow, measured. His voice came rough, edged with danger. "Last night."
Noah's heart jolted violently.
He tried to steady himself. "What about last night?"
"I blacked out," Asher said. "I don't remember how I got back."
Noah's breath caught. Images of last night flashed unbidden—kisses, the warmth of arms around him. He ducked his head quickly. "Nothing happened," he said, too fast.
He forced a laugh, brittle. "You just came home and passed out."
Silence stretched. Then Asher's lips curved—not in amusement, but in something sharp and dangerous. "Nothing happened?"
Noah's throat bobbed. His fingers tightened around his fork.
A second later, Asher leaned forward, voice low and pressing: "Or did I f*ck you?"
Noah went rigid, breath stalling.
His mouth opened, words scraping out dry, broken. "Y—you're… talking nonsense…"
Heat seared his face, shame flooding his veins. The words felt like a taunt, an accusation he had no defense against. His chest seized, and he gave a shaky laugh, eyes flicking up with defiance.
"…If you had f*ck*d me," he said through clenched teeth, voice trembling but deliberate, "do you think I'd still be standing here, making you breakfast?"
The words fell like stones into silence.
Noah froze, mortified at himself. His ears burned crimson. He wanted to swallow the words back, but it was too late.
He lowered his head, cutting into his eggs too quickly. "Don't overthink it. Nothing happened."
Asher's gaze darkened, tapping his fingers against the table in a slow, steady rhythm.
"You're sure?" His voice was rough, dragging low, a thread of menace.
Noah's pulse pounded, his knife trembling in his grip. He forced his tone steady. "Of course. If it were like you said, I wouldn't even be able to get out of bed right now."
The instant the words left his mouth, shame punched through him.
The silence turned molten, thick with heat.
Asher heard it—that phrase, "wouldn't be able to get out of bed"—and the spark in his eyes snapped, fire roaring back to life. The desire he had fought down surged uncontrollably.
He couldn't hold back anymore.
The chair screeched violently as he shoved it back and rose.
In the next heartbeat, he had Noah pinned against the counter, body trapped between the cold edge of the countertop and Asher's chest. Noah's hand shot up, clutching his arm in panic, breath scattering. "Wh-what are you—"
Asher pressed in, heat radiating from him, voice dark and low against his ear.
"You really know how to provoke me," he murmured, a dangerous smile curling his lips. "Not able to get out of bed, huh?"
Noah's ears flamed, his face scarlet. He tried to push back, but the hold only tightened. "I—I didn't mean it like that, don't—"
"Don't?" Asher's fingers traced slowly along his waist, light enough to tease, lethal in its effect. Noah's body went rigid instantly. "Or maybe your mouth keeps saying no, but your body is begging me to f*ck you until you can't even get out of bed?"
Noah bit down on his lip, chest heaving, fury and shame colliding—This man is insane!
"We're not setting foot on set today," Asher breathed against his ear, every word dripping with ruthless temptation. "That means I have the whole day… to break you in, nice and slow."
Noah's breath caught, his pulse skidding.
Those hands were already sliding lower, skimming the fabric at his thigh.
—And he knew, terrifyingly, that Asher meant every word.