They ordered the "Luxury Duo" set, which came with drinks, cake, treats, and ten polaroids. The snacks were mediocre, but the cats were a different story.

The moment Julian sat down, a fluffy Ragdoll began weaving around his ankles—first its head, then the soft weight of its body, and finally a long, plume-like tail brushing against his shins.

Julian reached out to pet it, and the cat immediately launched itself into his lap. Julian froze, hands hovering in mid-air, unsure of where to put them.

"He likes you." Samuel held out a dried fish snack. "Feed him."

Julian took the treat, and the Ragdoll began to feast. The scent drew in the rest of the clowder. Within seconds, Julian was being scaled by a dozen paws.

"Samuel," Julian gasped, his voice carrying a subconscious plea. "Help me."

Samuel watched the struggle with an arched brow. "You want my help?"

Julian nodded frantically. "Yes, please."

"Beg me."

Julian's eyes went wide. He couldn't believe the man would choose now to tease him. But there were too many cats, and he was terrified they would snag the charcoal suit Samuel had bought him.

Julian glanced up, then looked away, his ears turning a vivid pink.

"P-please... sir."

Samuel chuckled and opened a bag of high-grade treats. Half the crowd followed the scent toward the other chair. Julian finished feeding his fish to the Ragdoll, watching as the cat eventually curled up to groom itself. The sudden quiet felt lonely.

"Love bought with treats fades so fast," Julian muttered.

Samuel handed him a wet wipe. "That's a cat for you. They cling when they want, and leave when they don't. They won't be controlled."

He sounded like an expert. "Have you had cats?" Julian asked.

"My grandmother has one," Samuel said, pulling up his phone to show a photo. "His name is Vermilion. He's twelve."

The screen showed a majestic, long-haired ginger cat with piercing gold eyes.

"He looks like a king," Julian said, tilting his head. "Why Vermilion? Like the pigment, or because he's... sturdy?"

Samuel smiled. "Both."

They left the cafe and passed a boutique window displaying vintage gowns. Julian stopped. Unlike the cheap polyester he bought online, these were masterpieces of silhouette and lace. They were elegant, timeless—and priced like fine art. Julian admired them through the glass for a long moment before they moved on.

Samuel glanced at the street number, his memory recording the coordinate effortlessly.

They walked for blocks until Samuel led him into an unassuming, old-fashioned tailor shop. Julian had looked this place up after their last visit. It was members-only and notoriously expensive, rivaling any luxury ready-to-wear brand.

Samuel greeted the owner like an old friend. "Measure him for a suit," Samuel commanded.

The old tailor adjusted his spectacles. "What style?"

"Two sets. One for winter, one for summer. Use the..."

They talked specs for a while until the tailor went to the back for his tools.

"Is this for Sonny?" Julian whispered.

"No," Samuel replied. "It's for you."

Julian froze. "No. Sir, I can't accept this."

Samuel didn't even look up from a swatch book. Julian tried again. "I bought you the pen to thank you. I didn't mean for you to buy me more clothes."

Samuel looked at him then. "There are a hundred ways to say thank you. Why did you choose a gift?"

Julian opened his mouth, then shut it. He couldn't explain that he wanted Samuel to wear something Julian had touched. "It's just... what people do," he stammered.

"You're my assistant," Samuel said. "You'll be accompanying me to formal events. Consider this a work uniform."

Julian wasn't buying it. "Is that really all it is?"

Samuel watched him for a beat, then reached out and physically turned Julian's head away. "Don't ask so many questions, kid."

Julian bristled. He'd spent an hour trying to flatten his hair earlier. "I'm not a kid!"

"You're twenty. What else would you be?"

"Then how old are you?" Julian challenged.

Samuel's brow twitched. "Guess."

"Forty," Julian snapped, throwing out an exaggerated number.

Samuel actually laughed. He reached out and pinched Julian's cheek. "Heartless little thing. Is that how you treat me?"

The softness of Julian's skin surprised him. He pinched again. Julian swatted his hand away. "Stop calling me that."

"Look." Samuel nudged his arm and handed over a plastic card.

Julian looked down. It was Samuel's ID.

Julian had handled Samuel's check-ins on business trips before, but he'd never had the nerve to pry. He looked at the photo first. It was a crime, really—even a jaundiced government lens couldn't dim that face.

Then he checked the age.

Samuel carried himself with a gravity that suggested decades of dominance; the rumors at Apex Capital had him pegged as a man who'd climbed the mountain early, but Julian hadn't known exactly how early. 32. He was only thirty-two. In a city like NYC, where the average age for a first marriage was pushing thirty-five, Samuel was practically a youth.

"Believe me now?" Samuel asked, taking the card back. "Not forty."

Julian's face burned. He looked at the floor. "Getting there."

Samuel went quiet. "Am I that old to you, Julian?"

The wounded note in his voice made Julian's head snap up. "No! That's not what I meant. Thirty-two is young. You have more energy than I do, sir."

"It's not that young," Samuel said. "I'm twelve years your senior."

Julian's pulse quickened. He hated that Samuel was bothered by this. "I just had a birthday. I'm twenty-one. It's only an eleven-year difference."

Samuel watched him for a long beat. "So you don't think I'm old?"

Julian shook his head so hard his hair blurred. "Not at all. Please don't listen to me."

Samuel reached out, his thumb smoothing the stubborn cowlick Julian had fought with all morning. "Good boy."

Julian stared at him, his breath hitching. The heat in his cheeks wasn't just embarrassment anymore—it was a forest fire.

The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of golden light and honeyed sweetness. They had a late dinner, then caught a play. It was midnight by the time Samuel pulled the car up to Julian's building.

Julian lingered in the passenger seat, the silence of the car heavy and expectant. He unbuckled his seatbelt. "I'll head up then. Thank you for driving me, sir."

"Goodnight," Samuel said. Then, he used the name again. "Julian."

Julian froze, his hand on the door handle. "Sir?"

In the shadows of the cabin, Samuel's eyes were dark, searching. He waited ten seconds—maybe longer. "Can you manage on your own?"

Julian tilted his head. He thought of the walk to the elevator. He managed a small, brave smile. "Of course. I'm not that helpless."

Samuel didn't say anything else. He just whispered a final goodnight.

That night, the dreams returned. They were more vivid than they had ever been. When Julian woke, he stared at the damp silk of his underwear for a long time before burying his face in his hands.

Monday morning brought a new fever. He was actually excited for the office, desperate to see Samuel even if they were restricted to spreadsheets and status reports.

Living blocks away from Apex Capital meant he didn't have to fight the subway. He woke at eight, ran for thirty minutes, showered away the evidence of his dreams, and arrived at his desk "armed" with his best cologne.

By noon, Samuel hadn't appeared.

The office was a hive of activity, but Julian's engine had stalled.

"Where is Samuel?" Asher was pacing, cornering Luke near the breakroom. "He's not answering his phone. Did he forget the luncheon?"

Julian slowed his typing, his ears straining.

"I forgot to tell you," Luke said, his voice low. "Samuel is meeting Miss Foster. He sent Amanda to the luncheon in his place."

"Miss Foster?" Asher's eyebrows shot up. "Another blind date?"

Luke offered a brittle smile. "You know how the Old Boss is."

Asher let out a sharp breath. "To cancel a meeting for a date... Harold Frost must be really leaning on him."

"His health isn't great," Luke added. "Samuel's been to the hospital to see him several times this month."

"The man is as picky about his women as he is about his analysts," Asher sighed. "I hope he finally finds one he likes."

Julian sat frozen at his desk. A void opened in his chest, cold and absolute.

Samuel was getting married.

He was going to marry a "real" girl—not a man who played dress-up in the dark.

Julian finally understood the question from the night before: Can you manage on your own?

Of course. I'm not that helpless. He'd given the answer, not knowing he was agreeing to his own isolation.

He didn't let himself dwell on it. He didn't let himself cry. But when the cat cafe sent over the polaroids from their walk, Julian went silent. He'd planned to give a copy to Samuel.

Now, there was no point.

During his dinner break, Julian went back to the old tailor. He asked the manager to refund the suits Samuel had ordered for him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hale," the man said. "The suits are for you, but the contract belongs to Mr. Frost. I can't cancel it without his authorization."

Julian left the shop, his head hanging. On his way back to the office, he passed the vintage boutique. He'd intended to look at the three gowns again, but the window display had changed.

He asked the owner about the dresses.

"All three sold yesterday," the woman smiled.

Julian nodded and walked away. He felt a faint prickle of regret, but that was all. He hadn't planned on buying them anyway. It was just a dream he was waking up from.