Julian took a step back. The blood in his veins turned to lead, a sudden, bone-deep chill settling where the fire of his rage had just burned.

She didn't remember.

The words were a perfect execution. Because she didn't remember, she didn't feel the weight of her sins. His agony was nothing but a void to her—or worse, a story to be laughed over at the dinner table. She had effectively erased his soul. Julian had walked into this house with his heart open, hoping for a sliver of remorse, a single spark of parental love. Instead, he was met with a blank stare.

It was a killing blow. If they were warriors in a martial arts epic, Julian would have been dead before he hit the ground.

But there was no arena here. There was only the suffocating silence of the apartment. Julian turned and walked out, his anger replaced by a hollow, driving need to escape.

Tears flooded his vision, fracturing the world into shimmering, jagged pieces. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. He reached the foyer and fumbled with his sneakers, but the laces were a blur. His fingers wouldn't work. He gave up, gripping the shoes in one hand as he yanked the front door open.

Samuel

stood on the threshold.

His hand was raised toward the bell, his dark overcoat bringing a draft of the

NYC

winter into the hall. Julian froze. He vaguely remembered Samuel mentioning he would stop by for a painting today.

"You..." Samuel started, the word dying in his throat as he took in Julian's wrecked face.

Julian wiped his eyes with a frantic, messy motion. "I'll take you in."

Samuel reached into his pocket and handed him a linen handkerchief. Julian pressed it to his face. The fabric was soaked through in seconds. He led Samuel into the apartment, retrieved the painting, and moved like a ghost. He didn't look at his parents. He didn't look at the study. He walked back to the hall and headed straight for the fire exit.

Samuel followed him. His presence was a steady weight against the cold concrete of the stairwell. "Do you want to talk?"

Julian let out a sharp, hysterical laugh. Samuel. The name meant "God hears." The irony was a physical blow. The laughter spiraled, growing louder and more jagged until he was gasping for air. Then, as quickly as it had come, it shattered into a sob. Julian buried his face in his hands, tears tracking through his fingers. His shoulders shook with a violence that made his chest ache.

Samuel stood there, paralyzed. He had never seen someone break like this—so completely, so painfully. He reached for his handkerchief, then remembered Julian already had it. He raised a hand to Julian's shoulder, his own willpower fraying at the edges.

Julian turned and threw himself into Samuel's arms.

It was a hug Samuel had craved for months, a moment he had imagined in a hundred different ways. But as it finally happened, there was no lust. There was only a desperate, protective gravity.

Julian was a hot, trembling weight against his chest, seeking shelter like a wounded animal. Samuel tightened his grip, the pressure almost crushing.

Julian leaned into the suffocation. He wanted the air squeezed out of him so he wouldn't have to feel. It took him back to the corner of his bed in the countryside—the way he would wrap himself in a heavy duvet even in the peak of summer, creating a dark, airless sanctuary after a beating. He would hide there, shivering and crying, cursing his father and resenting his silent mother, until he drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Because in the dark, it didn't hurt. In the dark, he was safe.

Samuel didn't move. Julian had gone limp against him, his breathing hitching into the soft rhythm of exhaustion. He had fallen asleep. His face was still flushed, his lips slightly parted as he breathed, the grief still etched into the lines of his forehead.

Samuel wiped a stray tear from Julian's cheek and lifted him.

He walked out to the corridor, where Julian's parents were standing. They looked small, bewildered—carrying the simple, rustic honesty of people who had no idea they had just destroyed their own son.

"Who are you?" his father asked, his voice trembling. "Where are you taking him?"

Samuel, whose composure was usually a wall of iron, didn't offer them a single word. He turned and stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut on Julian's past.

Julian jolted awake, but his body remained anchored to the mattress. His eyelids were heavy, leaden, refusing to budge even as his mind surged into consciousness. He could feel the room around him—the shift of the air, the vastness of the space—but his voice was a trapped bird in his throat. An invisible weight pressed against his ribs, pinning him down, a silent hand over his mouth and nose.

It was sleep paralysis. He fought for control, clawing his way back to the surface until his breath finally hitched and broke through the suffocation.

He sat up, chest heaving. He was drained, his bones aching with a weariness that sleep hadn't touched. More importantly—where was he?

He looked around the cavernous bedroom. It was minimalist and elegant, centered by a bed that spanned nearly seven feet. There were three doors. Disoriented, Julian picked one at random. His fingers had just brushed the cool metal of the handle when a hand clamped over his from behind.

It was massive, warm, and broad enough to swallow Julian's hand and the doorknob both. Julian spun around, his lips nearly grazing the sharp, clean line of

Samuel's

jaw.

Samuel was right there, his proximity a physical wall of heat. Heat flared in Julian's cheeks, a violent red crawling up his neck. "Sorry, I..."

"The exit is that way." Samuel released his hand, gesturing toward the open door across the room.

"Right!" Julian nodded frantically. "I'll... I'm going out now."

Outside the room, he realized the space was a luxury duplex. The bedroom he had occupied was on the second floor. Downstairs, the living area was bathed in the dying light of a New York City sunset, warm amber rays flooding through 270-degree floor-to-ceiling glass. The skyline was an unobstructed, shimmering masterpiece. Julian couldn't help but stare.

"Do you want to eat by the window?" Samuel asked, appearing behind him.

Julian blinked, surprised. "Is that okay?"

"There is no reason why it wouldn't be." Samuel's tone was level. "Come help me with the plates."

Julian hurried over, following Samuel like a shadow—a "little tail" caught in the man's orbit. He did exactly what he was told, moving with a quiet, desperate obedience.

The final dish was a rack of lamb, the outer layer crackling under Samuel's expert care. Julian watched the man's steady, rhythmic movements with a sense of wonder. "I didn't know you could cook, sir."

"I learned while I was abroad," Samuel replied.

Julian stared at him, genuinely stunned. "A man like you... you actually cook for yourself?"

Samuel offered a ghost of a smile, his eyes catching the amber light from the window. "I don't know what kind of legend you've built in your head, Julian, but I'm just a man."